“It must be Temple's son,” said one, at last. “I had thought the family at Temple Bow. What's your name, my lad?”
“David Trimble, sir,” said I.
“And what are you doing here?” he asked more sternly.
“I was left in Mr. Temple's care by my father.”
“Oho!” he cried. “And where is your father?”
“He's gone to fight the Cherokees,” I answered soberly. “To skin a man named Cameron.”
At that they were silent for an instant, and then the two broke into a laugh.
“Egad, Lowndes,” said the gentleman, “here is a fine mystery. Do you think the boy is lying?”
The other gentleman scratched his forehead.
“I'll have you know I don't lie, sir,” I said, ready to cry.
“No,” said the other gentleman. “A backwoodsman named Trimble went to Rutledge with credentials from North Carolina, and has gone off to Cherokee Ford to join McCall.”
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the first gentleman. He came up and laid his hand on my shoulder, and said:—
“Where is Mr. Temple?”
“That I don't know, sir.”
“When did he go away?”
I did not answer at once.
“That I can't tell you, sir.”
“Was there any one with him?”
“That I can't tell you, sir.”
“The devil you can't!” he cried, taking his hand away. “And why not?”
I shook my head, sorely beset.
“Come, Mathews,” cried the gentleman called Lowndes. “We'll search first, and attend to the lad after.”
And so they began going through the house, prying into every cupboard and sweeping under every bed. They even climbed to the attic; and noting the open casement in the cupola, Mr. Lowndes said:—
“Some one has been here to-day.”
“It was I, sir,” I said. “I have been here all day.”
“And what doing, pray?” he demanded.
“Watching the battle. And oh, sir,” I cried, “can you tell me whether Mister Moultrie beat the British?”
“He did so,” cried Mr. Lowndes. “He did, and soundly.”
He stared at me. I must have looked my pleasure.
“Why, David,” says he, “you are a patriot, too.”
“I am a Rebel, sir,” I cried hotly.
Both gentlemen laughed again, and the men with them.
“The lad is a character,” said Mr. Lowndes.
We made our way down into the garden, which they searched last. At the creek's side the boat was gone, and there were footsteps in the mud.
“The bird has flown, Lowndes,” said Mr. Mathews.
“And good riddance for the Committee,” answered that gentleman, heartily. “He got to the fleet in fine season to get a round shot in the middle. David,” said he, solemnly, “remember it never pays to try to be two things at once.”
“I'll warrant he stayed below water,” said Mr. Mathews. “But what shall we do with the lad?”
“I'll take him to my house for the night,” said Mr. Lowndes, “and in the morning we'll talk to him. I reckon he should be sent to Temple Bow. He is connected in some way with the Temples.”
“God help him if he goes there,” said Mr. Mathews, under his breath. But I heard him.
They locked up the house, and left one of the men to guard it, while I went with Mr. Lowndes to his residence. I remember that people were gathered in the streets as we passed, making merry, and that they greeted Mr. Lowndes with respect and good cheer. His house, too, was set in a garden and quite as fine as Mr. Temple's. It was ablaze with candles, and I caught glimpses of fine gentlemen and ladies in the rooms. But he hurried me through the hall, and into a little chamber at the rear where a writing-desk was set. He turned and faced me.
“You must be tired, David,” he said.
I nodded.
“And hungry? Boys are always hungry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You had no dinner?”
“No, sir,” I answered, off my guard.
“Mercy!” he said. “It is a long time since breakfast.”
“I had no breakfast, sir.”
“Good God!” he said, and pulled the velvet handle of a cord. A negro came.
“Is the supper for the guests ready?”
“Yes, Marsa.”
“Then bring as much as you can carry here,” said the gentleman. “And ask Mrs. Lowndes if I may speak with her.”
Mrs. Lowndes came first. And such a fine lady she was that she frightened me, this being my first experience with ladies. But when Mr. Lowndes told her my story, she ran to me impulsively and put her arms about me.
“Poor lad!” she said. “What a shame!”
I think that the tears came then, but it was small wonder. There were tears in her eyes, too.
Such a supper as I had I shall never forget. And she sat beside me for long, neglecting her guests, and talking of my life. Suddenly she turned to her husband, calling him by name.
“He is Alec Ritchie's son,” she said, “and Alec has gone against Cameron.”
Mr. Lowndes did not answer, but nodded.
“And must he go to Temple Bow?”
“My dear,” said Mr. Lowndes, “I fear it is our duty to send him there.”
Inthe morning I started for Temple Bow on horseback behind one of Mr. Lowndes' negroes. Good Mrs. Lowndes had kissed me at parting, and tucked into my pocket a parcel of sweetmeats. There had been a few grave gentlemen to see me, and to their questions I had replied what I could. But tell them of Mr. Temple I would not, save that he himself had told me nothing. And Mr. Lowndes had presently put an end to their talk.
“The lad knows nothing, gentlemen,” he had said, which was true.
“David,” said he, when he bade me farewell, “I see that your father has brought you up to fear God. Remember that all you see in this life is not to be imitated.”
And so I went off behind his negro. He was a merry lad, and despite the great heat of the journey and my misgivings about Temple Bow, he made me laugh. I was sad at crossing the ferry over the Ashley, through thinking of my father, but I reflected that it could not be long now ere I saw him again. In the middle of the day we stopped at a tavern. And at length, in the abundant shade of evening, we came to a pair of great ornamental gates set between brick pillars capped with white balls, and turned into a drive. And presently, winding through the trees, we were in sight of a long, brick mansion trimmed with white, and a velvet lawn before it all flecked with shadows. In front of the portico was a saddled horse, craning his long neck at two panting hounds stretched on the ground. A negro boy in blue clutchedthe bridle. On the horse-block a gentleman in white reclined. He wore shiny boots, and he held his hat in his hand, and he was gazing up at a lady who stood on the steps above him.
The lady I remember as well—Lord forbid that I should forget her. And her laugh as I heard it that evening is ringing now in my ears. And yet it was not a laugh. Musical it was, yet there seemed no pleasure in it: rather irony, and a great weariness of the amusements of this world: and a note, too, from a vanity never ruffled. It stopped abruptly as the negro pulled up his horse before her, and she stared at us haughtily.
“What's this?” she said.
“Pardon, Mistis,” said the negro, “I'se got a letter from Marse Lowndes.”
“Mr. Lowndes should instruct his niggers,” she said. “There is a servants' drive.” The man was turning his horse when she cried: “Hold! Let's have it.”
He dismounted and gave her the letter, and I jumped to the ground, watching her as she broke the seal, taking her in, as a boy will, from the flowing skirt and tight-laced stays of her salmon silk to her high and powdered hair. She must have been about thirty. Her face was beautiful, but had no particle of expression in it, and was dotted here and there with little black patches of plaster. While she was reading, a sober gentleman in black silk breeches and severe coat came out of the house and stood beside her.
“Heigho, parson,” said the gentleman on the horse-block, without moving, “are you to preach against loo or lansquenet to-morrow?”
“Would it make any difference to you, Mr. Riddle?”
Before he could answer there came a great clatter behind them, and a boy of my own age appeared. With a leap he landed sprawling on the indolent gentleman's shoulders, nearly upsetting him.
“You young rascal!” exclaimed the gentleman, pitching him on the drive almost at my feet; then he fell back again to a position where he could look up at the lady.
“Harry Riddle,” cried the boy, “I'll ride steeplechases and beat you some day.”
“Hush, Nick,” cried the lady, petulantly, “I'll have no nerves left me.” She turned to the letter again, holding it very near to her eyes, and made a wry face of impatience. Then she held the sheet out to Mr. Riddle.
“A pretty piece of news,” she said languidly. “Read it, Harry.”
The gentleman seized her hand instead. The lady glanced at the clergyman, whose back was turned, and shook her head.
“How tiresome you are!” she said.
“What's happened?” asked Mr. Riddle, letting go as the parson looked around.
“Oh, they've had a battle,” said the lady, “and Moultrie and his Rebels have beat off the King's fleet.”
“The devil they have!” exclaimed Mr. Riddle, while the parson started forwards. “Anything more?”
“Yes, a little.” She hesitated. “That husband of mine has fled Charlestown. They think he went to the fleet.” And she shot a meaning look at Mr. Riddle, who in turn flushed red. I was watching them.
“What!” cried the clergyman, “John Temple has run away?”
“Why not,” said Mr. Riddle. “One can't live between wind and water long. And Charlestown's—uncomfortable in summer.”
At that the clergyman cast one look at them—such a look as I shall never forget—and went into the house.
“Mamma,” said the boy, “where has father gone? Has he run away?”
“Yes. Don't bother me, Nick.”
“I don't believe it,” cried Nick, his high voice shaking. “I'd—I'd disown him.”
At that Mr. Riddle burst into a hearty laugh.
“Come, Nick,” said he, “it isn't so bad as that. Your father's for his Majesty, like the rest of us. He's merely gone over to fight for him.” And he looked at the lady and laughed again. But I liked the boy.
As for the lady, she curled her lip. “Mr. Riddle, don't be foolish,” she said. “If we are to play, send your horse to the stables.” Suddenly her eye lighted on me. “One more brat,” she sighed. “Nick, take him to the nursery, or the stable. And both of you keep out of my sight.”
Nick strode up to me.
“Don't mind her. She's always saying, 'Keep out of my sight.'” His voice trembled. He took me by the sleeve and began pulling me around the house and into a little summer bower that stood there; for he had a masterful manner.
“What's your name?” he demanded.
“David Trimble,” I said.
“Have you seen my father in town?”
The intense earnestness of the question surprised an answer out of me.
“Yes.”
“Where?” he demanded.
“In his house. My father left me with your father.”
“Tell me about it.”
I related as much as I dared, leaving out Mr. Temple's double dealing; which, in truth, I did not understand. But the boy was relentless.
“Why,” said he, “my father was a friend of Mr. Lowndes and Mr. Mathews. I have seen them here drinking with him. And in town. And he ran away?”
“I do not know where he went,” said I, which was the truth.
He said nothing, but hid his face in his arms over the rail of the bower. At length he looked up at me fiercely.
“If you ever tell this, I will kill you,” he cried. “Do you hear?”
That made me angry.
“Yes, I hear,” I said. “But I am not afraid of you.”
He was at me in an instant, knocking me to the floor, so that the breath went out of me, and was pounding me vigorously ere I recovered from the shock and astonishment of it and began to defend myself. He was taller than I, and wiry, but not so rugged. Yet there was alook about him that was far beyond his strength. A look that meant,never say die. Curiously, even as I fought desperately I compared him with that other lad I had known, Andy Jackson. And this one, though not so powerful, frightened me the more in his relentlessness.
Perhaps we should have been fighting still had not some one pulled us apart, and when my vision cleared I saw Nick, struggling and kicking, held tightly in the hands of the clergyman. And it was all that gentleman could do to hold him. I am sure it was quite five minutes before he forced the lad, exhausted, on to the seat. And then there was a defiance about his nostrils that showed he was undefeated. The clergyman, still holding him with one hand, took out his handkerchief with the other and wiped his brow.
I expected a scolding and a sermon. To my amazement the clergyman said quietly:—
“Now what was the trouble, David?”
“I'll not be the one to tell it, sir,” I said, and trembled at my temerity.
The parson looked at me queerly.
“Then you are in the right of it,” he said. “It is as I thought; I'll not expect Nicholas to tell me.”
“I will tell you, sir,” said Nicholas. “He was in the house with my father when—when he ran away. And I said that if he ever spoke of it to any one, I would kill him.”
For a while the clergyman was silent, gazing with a strange tenderness at the lad, whose face was averted.
“And you, David?” he said presently.
“I—I never mean to tell, sir. But I was not to be frightened.”
“Quite right, my lad,” said the clergyman, so kindly that it sent a strange thrill through me. Nicholas looked up quickly.
“You won't tell?” he said.
“No,” I said.
“You can let me go now, Mr. Mason,” said he. Mr. Mason did. And he came over and sat beside me, but said nothing more.
After a while Mr. Mason cleared his throat.
“Nicholas,” said he, “when you grow older you will understand these matters better. Your father went away to join the side he believes in, the side we all believe in—the King's side.”
“Did he ever pretend to like the other side?” asked Nick, quickly.
“When you grow older you will know his motives,” answered the clergyman, gently. “Until then; you must trust him.”
“You never pretended,” cried Nick.
“Thank God I never was forced to do so,” said the clergyman, fervently.
It is wonderful that the conditions of our existence may wholly change without a seeming strangeness. After many years only vivid snatches of what I saw and heard and did at Temple Bow come back to me. I understood but little the meaning of the seigniorial life there. My chief wonder now is that its golden surface was not more troubled by the winds then brewing. It was a new life to me, one that I had not dreamed of.
After that first falling out, Nick and I became inseparable. Far slower than he in my likes and dislikes, he soon became a passion with me. Even as a boy, he did everything with a grace unsurpassed; the dash and daring of his pranks took one's breath; his generosity to those he loved was prodigal. Nor did he ever miss a chance to score those under his displeasure. At times he was reckless beyond words to describe, and again he would fall sober for a day. He could be cruel and tender in the same hour; abandoned and freezing in his dignity. He had an old negro mammy whose worship for him and his possessions was idolatry. I can hear her now calling and calling, “Marse Nick, honey, yo' supper's done got cole,” as she searched patiently among the magnolias. And suddenly there would be a shout, and Mammy's turban go flying from her woolly head, or Mammy herself would be dragged down from behind and sat upon.
We had our supper, Nick and I, at twilight, in the children's dining room. A little white room, unevenlypanelled, the silver candlesticks and yellow flames fantastically reflected in the mirrors between the deep windows, and the moths and June-bugs tilting at the lights. We sat at a little mahogany table eating porridge and cream from round blue bowls, with Mammy to wait on us. Sometimes there floated in upon us the hum of revelry from the great drawing-room where Madame had her company. Often the good Mr. Mason would come in to us (he cared little for the parties), and talk to us of our day's doings. Nick had his lessons from the clergyman in the winter time.
Mr. Mason took occasion once to question me on what I knew. Some of my answers, in especial those relating to my knowledge of the Bible, surprised him. Others made him sad.
“David,” said he, “you are an earnest lad, with a head to learn, and you will. When your father comes, I shall talk with him.” He paused—“I knew him,” said he, “I knew him ere you were born. A just man, and upright, but with a great sorrow. We must never be hasty in our judgments. But you will never be hasty, David,” he added, smiling at me. “You are a good companion for Nicholas.”
Nicholas and I slept in the same bedroom, at a corner of the long house, and far removed from his mother. She would not be disturbed by the noise he made in the mornings. I remember that he had cut in the solid shutters of that room, folded into the embrasures, “Nicholas Temple, His Mark,” and a long, flat sword. The first night in that room we slept but little, near the whole of it being occupied with tales of my adventures and of my life in the mountains. Over and over again I must tell him of the “painters” and wildcats, of deer and bear and wolf. Nor was he ever satisfied. And at length I came to speak of that land where I had often lived in fancy—the land beyond the mountains of which Daniel Boone had told. Of its forest and glade, its countless herds of elk and buffalo, its salt-licks and Indians, until we fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
“I will go there,” he cried in the morning, as he hurried into his clothes; “I will go to that land as sure as my name is Nick Temple. And you shall go with me, David.”
“Perchance I shall go before you,” I answered, though I had small hopes of persuading my father.
He would often make his exit by the window, climbing down into the garden by the protruding bricks at the corner of the house; or sometimes go shouting down the long halls and through the gallery to the great stairway, a smothered oath from behind the closed bedroom doors proclaiming that he had waked a guest. And many days we spent in the wood, playing at hunting game—a poor enough amusement for me, and one that Nick soon tired of. They were thick, wet woods, unlike our woods of the mountains; and more than once we had excitement enough with the snakes that lay there.
I believe that in a week's time Nick was as conversant with my life as I myself. For he made me tell of it again and again, and of Kentucky. And always as he listened his eyes would glow and his breast heave with excitement.
“Do you think your father will take you there, David, when he comes for you?”
I hoped so, but was doubtful.
“I'll run away with you,” he declared. “There is no one here who cares for me save Mr. Mason and Mammy.”
And I believe he meant it. He saw but little of his mother, and nearly always something unpleasant was coupled with his views. Sometimes we ran across her in the garden paths walking with a gallant,—oftenest Mr. Riddle. It was a beautiful garden, with hedge-bordered walks and flowers wondrously massed in color, a high brick wall surrounding it. Frequently Mrs. Temple and Mr. Riddle would play at cards there of an afternoon, and when that musical, unbelieving laugh of hers came floating over the wall, Nick would say:—
“Mamma is winning.”
Once we heard high words between the two, andrunning into the garden found the cards scattered on the grass, and the couple gone.
Of all Nick's escapades,—and he was continually in and out of them,—I recall only a few of the more serious. As I have said, he was a wild lad, sobered by none of the things which had gone to make my life, and what he took into his head to do he generally did,—or, if balked, flew into such a rage as to make one believe he could not live. Life was always war with him, or some semblance of a struggle. Of his many wild doings I recall well the time when—fired by my tales of hunting—he went out to attack the young bull in the paddock with a bow and arrow. It made small difference to the bull that the arrow was too blunt to enter his hide. With a bellow that frightened the idle negroes at the slave quarters, he started for Master Nick. I, who had been taught by my father never to run any unnecessary risk, had taken the precaution to provide as large a stone as I could comfortably throw, and took station on the fence. As the furious animal came charging, with his head lowered, I struck him by a good fortune between the eyes, and Nicholas got over. We were standing on the far side, watching him pawing the broken bow, when, in the crowd of frightened negroes, we discovered the parson beside us.
“David,” said he, patting me with a shaking hand, “I perceive that you have a cool head. Our young friend here has a hot one. Dr. Johnson may not care for Scotch blood, and yet I think a wee bit of it is not to be despised.”
I wondered whether Dr. Johnson was staying in the house, too.
How many slaves there were at Temple Bow I know not, but we used to see them coming home at night in droves, the overseers riding beside them with whips and guns. One day a huge Congo chief, not long from Africa, nearly killed an overseer, and escaped to the swamp. As the day fell, we heard the baying of the bloodhounds hot upon his trail. More ominous still, a sound like a rising wind came from the direction of the quarters. Into ourlittle dining-room burst Mrs. Temple herself, slamming the door behind her. Mr. Mason, who was sitting with us, rose to calm her.
“The Rebels!” she cried. “The Rebels have taught them this, with their accursed notions of liberty and equality. We shall all be murdered by the blacks because of the Rebels. Oh, hell-fire is too good for them. Have the house barred and a watch set to-night. What shall we do?”
“I pray you compose yourself, Madame,” said the clergyman. “We can send for the militia.”
“The militia!” she shrieked; “the Rebel militia! They would murder us as soon as the niggers.”
“They are respectable men,” answered Mr. Mason, “and were at Fanning Hall to-day patrolling.”
“I would rather be killed by whites than blacks,” said the lady. “But who is to go for the militia?”
“I will ride for them,” said Mr. Mason. It was a dark, lowering night, and spitting rain.
“And leave me defenceless!” she cried. “You do not stir, sir.”
“It is a pity,” said Mr. Mason—he was goaded to it, I suppose—“'tis a pity Mr. Riddle did not come to-night.”
She shot at him a withering look, for even in her fear she would brook no liberties. Nick spoke up:—
“I will go,” said he; “I can get through the woods to Fanning Hall—”
“And I will go with him,” I said.
“Let the brats go,” she said, and cut short Mr. Mason's expostulations. She drew Nick to her and kissed him. He wriggled away, and without more ado we climbed out of the dining-room windows into the night. Running across the lawn, we left the lights of the great house twinkling behind us in the rain. We had to pass the long line of cabins at the quarters. Three overseers with lanterns stood guard there; the cabins were dark, the wretches within silent and cowed. Thence we felt with our feet for the path across the fields, stumbled over a sty, and took our way through the black woods. I was athome here, and Nick was not to be frightened. At intervals the mournful bay of a bloodhound came to us from a distance.
“Suppose we should meet the Congo chief,” said Nick, suddenly.
The idea had occurred to me.
“She needn't have been so frightened,” said he, in scornful remembrance of his mother's actions.
We pressed on. Nick knew the path as only a boy can. Half an hour passed. It grew brighter. The rain ceased, and a new moon shot out between the leaves. I seized his arm.
“What's that?” I whispered.
“A deer.”
But I, cradled in woodcraft, had heard plainly a man creeping through the underbrush beside us. Fear of the Congo chief and pity for the wretch tore at my heart. Suddenly there loomed in front of us, on the path, a great, naked man. We stood with useless limbs, staring at him.
Then, from the trees over our heads, came a chittering and a chattering such as I had never heard. The big man before us dropped to the earth, his head bowed, muttering. As for me, my fright increased. The chattering stopped, and Nick stepped forward and laid his hand on the negro's bare shoulder.
“We needn't be afraid of him now, Davy,” he said. “I learned that trick from a Portuguese overseer we had last year.”
“You did it!” I exclaimed, my astonishment overcoming my fear.
“It's the way the monkeys chatter in the Canaries,” he said. “Manuel had a tame one, and I heard it talk. Once before I tried it on the chief, and he fell down. He thinks I'm a god.”
It must have been a weird scene to see the great negro following two boys in the moonlight. Indeed, he came after us like a dog. At length we were in sight of the lights of Fanning Hall. The militia was there. We were challenged by the guard, and caused sufficient amazementwhen we appeared in the hall before the master, who was a bachelor of fifty.
“‘Sblood, Nick Temple!” he cried, “what are you doing here with that big Congo for a dog? The sight of him frightens me.”
The negro, indeed, was a sight to frighten one. The black mud of the swamps was caked on him, and his flesh was torn by brambles.
“He ran away,” said Nick; “and I am taking him home.”
“You—you are taking him home!” sputtered Mr. Fanning.
“Do you want to see him act?” said Nick. And without waiting for a reply he filled the hall with a dozen monkeys. Mr. Fanning leaped back into a doorway, but the chief prostrated himself on the floor. “Now do you believe I can take him home?” said Nick.
“'Swounds!” said Mr. Fanning, when he had his breath. “You beat the devil, Nicholas Temple. The next time you come to call I pray you leave your travelling show at home.”
“Mamma sent me for the militia,” said Nick.
“She did!” said Mr. Fanning, looking grim. “An insurrection is a bad thing, but there was no danger for two lads in the woods, I suppose.”
“There's no danger anyway,” said Nick. “The niggers are all scared to death.”
Mr. Fanning burst out into a loud laugh, stopped suddenly, sat down, and took Nick on his knee. It was an incongruous scene. Mr. Fanning almost cried.
“Bless your soul,” he said, “but you are a lad. Would to God I had you instead of—”
He paused abruptly.
“I must go home,” said Nick; “she will be worried.”
“Shewill be worried!” cried Mr. Fanning, in a burst of anger. Then he said: “You shall have the militia. You shall have the militia.” He rang a bell and sent his steward for the captain, a gawky country farmer, who gave a gasp when he came upon the scene in the hall.
“And mind,” said Nick to the captain, “you are to keep your men away from him, or he will kill one of them.”
The captain grinned at him curiously.
“I reckon I won't have to tell them to keep away,” said he.
Mr. Fanning started us off for the walk with pockets filled with sweetmeats, which we nibbled on the way back. We made a queer procession, Nick and I striding ahead to show the path, followed by the now servile chief, and after him the captain and his twenty men in single file. It was midnight when we saw the lights of Temple Bow through the trees. One of the tired overseers met us near the kitchen. When he perceived the Congo his face lighted up with rage, and he instinctively reached for his whip. But the chief stood before him, immovable, with arms folded, and a look on his face that meant danger.
“He will kill you, Emory,” said Nick; “he will kill you if you touch him.”
Emory dropped his hand, limply.
“He will go to work in the morning,” said Nick; “but mind you, not a lash.”
“Very good, Master Nick,” said the man; “but who's to get him in his cabin?”
“I will,” said Nick. He beckoned to the Congo, who followed him over to quarters and went in at his door without a protest.
The next morning Mrs. Temple looked out of her window and saw the militiamen on the lawn.
“Pooh!” she said, “are those butternuts the soldiers that Nick went to fetch?”
Afterthat my admiration for Nick Temple increased greatly, whether excited by his courage and presence of mind, or his ability to imitate men and women and creatures, I know not. One of our amusements, I recall, was to go to the Congo's cabin to see him fall on his face, until Mr. Mason put a stop to it. The clergyman let us know that we were encouraging idolatry, and he himself took the chief in hand.
Another incident comes to me from those bygone days. The fear of negro insurrections at the neighboring plantations being temporarily lulled, the gentry began to pluck up courage for their usual amusements. There were to be races at some place a distance away, and Nick was determined to go. Had he not determined that I should go, all would have been well. The evening before he came upon his mother in the garden. Strange to say, she was in a gracious mood and alone.
“Come and kiss me, Nick,” she said. “Now, what do you want?”
“I want to go to the races,” he said.
“You have your pony. You can follow the coach.”
“David is to ride the pony,” said Nick, generously. “May I go in the coach?”
“No,” she said, “there is no room for you.”
Nicholas flared up. “Harry Riddle is going in the coach. I don't see why you can't take me sometimes. You like him better than me.”
The lady flushed very red.
“How dare you, Nick!” she cried angrily. “What has Mr. Mason been putting into your head?”
“Nothing,” said Nick, quite as angrily. “Any one can see that you like Harry. And Iwillride in the coach.”
“You'll not,” said his mother.
I had heard nothing of this. The next morning he led out his pony from the stables for me to ride, and insisted. And, supposing he was to go in the coach, I put foot in the stirrup. The little beast would scarce stand still for me to mount.
“You'll not need the whip with her,” said Nick, and led her around by the side of the house, in view of the portico, and stood there at her bridle. Presently, with a great noise and clatter of hoofs, the coach rounded the drive, the powdered negro coachman pulling up the four horses with much ceremony at the door. It was a wondrous great vehicle, the bright colors of its body flashing in the morning light. I had examined it more than once, and with awe, in the coach-house. It had glass windows and a lion on a blue shield on the door, and within it was all salmon silk, save the painted design on the ceiling. Great leather straps held up this house on wheels, to take the jolts of the road. And behind it was a platform. That morning two young negroes with flowing blue coats stood on it. They leaped to the ground when the coach stopped, and stood each side of the door, waiting for my lady to enter.
She came down the steps, laughing, with Mr. Riddle, who was in his riding clothes, for he was to race that day. He handed her in, and got in after her. The coachman cracked his whip, the coach creaked off down the drive, I in the trees one side waiting for them to pass, and wondering what Nick was to do. He had let go my bridle, folded his whip in his hand, and with a shout of “Come on, Davy,” he ran for the coach, which was going slowly, caught hold of the footman's platform, and pulled himself up.
What possessed the footman I know not. Perchance fear of his mistress was greater than fear of his youngmaster; but he took the lad by the shoulders—gently, to be sure—and pushed him into the road, where he fell and rolled over. I guessed what would happen. Picking himself up, Nick was at the man like a hurricane, seizing him swiftly by the leg. The negro fell upon the platform, clutching wildly, where he lay in a sheer fright, shrieking for mercy, his cries rivalled by those of the lady within. The coachman frantically pulled his horses to a stand, the other footman jumped off, and Mr. Harry Riddle came flying out of the coach door, to behold Nicholas beating the negro with his riding-whip.
“You young devil,” cried Mr. Riddle, angrily, striding forward, “what are you doing?”
“Keep off, Harry,” said Nicholas. “I am teaching this nigger that he is not to lay hands on his betters.” With that he gave the boy one more cut, and turned from him contemptuously.
“What is it, Harry?” came in a shrill voice from within the coach.
“It's Nick's pranks,” said Mr. Riddle, grinning in spite of his anger; “he's ruined one of your footmen. You little scoundrel,” cried Mr. Riddle, advancing again, “you've frightened your mother nearly to a swoon.”
“Serves her right,” said Nick.
“What!” cried Mr. Riddle. “Come down from there instantly.”
Nick raised his whip. It was not that that stopped Mr. Riddle, but a sign about the lad's nostrils.
“Harry Riddle,” said the boy, “if it weren't for you, I'd be riding in this coach to-day with my mother. I don't want to ride with her, but I will go to the races. If you try to take me down, I'll do my best to kill you,” and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.
Mrs. Temple's beautiful face had by this time been thrust out of the door.
“For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with us. We're late enough as it is.”
Mr. Riddle turned on his heel. He tried to glare at Nick, but he broke into a laugh instead.
“Come down, Satan,” says he. “God help the woman you love and the man you fight.”
And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach. The footman picked himself up, more scared than injured, and the vehicle took its lumbering way for the race-course, I following.
I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that in the gorgeous dress of those who watched. There had been many, many more in former years, so I heard people say. This was the only sign that a war was in progress,—the scanty number of gentry present,—for all save the indifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere. I recall it dimly, as a blaze of color passing: merrymaking, jesting, feasting,—a rare contrast, I thought, to the sight I had beheld in Charlestown Bay but a while before. Yet so runs the world,—strife at one man's home, and peace and contentment at his neighbor's; sorrow here, and rejoicing not a league away.
Master Nicholas played one prank that evening that was near to costing dear. My lady Temple made up a party for Temple Bow at the course, two other coaches to come and some gentlemen riding. As Nick and I were running through the paddock we came suddenly upon Mr. Harry Riddle and a stout, swarthy gentleman standing together. The stout gentleman was counting out big gold pieces in his hand and giving them to Mr. Riddle.
“Lucky dog!” said the stout gentleman; “you'll ride back with her, and you've won all I've got.” And he dug Mr. Riddle in the ribs.
“You'll have it again when we play to-night, Darnley,” answered Mr. Riddle, crossly. “And as for the seat in the coach, you are welcome to it. That firebrand of a lad is on the front seat.”
“D—n the lad,” said the stout gentleman. “I'll take it, and you can ride my horse. He'll—he'll carry you, I reckon.” His voice had a way of cracking into a mellow laugh.
At that Mr. Riddle went off in a towering bad humor, and afterwards I heard him cursing the stout gentleman'sblack groom as he mounted his great horse. And then he cursed the horse as it reared and plunged, while the stout gentleman stood at the coach door, cackling at his discomfiture. The gentleman did ride home with Mrs. Temple, Nick going into another coach. I afterwards discovered that the gentleman had bribed him with a guinea. And Mr. Riddle more than once came near running down my pony on his big charger, and he swore at me roundly, too.
That night there was a gay supper party in the big dining room at Temple Bow. Nick and I looked on from the gallery window. It was a pretty sight. The long mahogany board reflecting the yellow flames of the candles, and spread with bright silver and shining dishes loaded with dainties, the gentlemen and ladies in brilliant dress, the hurrying servants,—all were of a new and strange world to me. And presently, after the ladies were gone, the gentlemen tossed off their wine and roared over their jokes, and followed into the drawing-room. This I noticed, that only Mr. Harry Riddle sat silent and morose, and that he had drunk more than the others.
“Come, Davy,” said Nick to me, “let's go and watch them again.”
“But how?” I asked, for the drawing-room windows were up some distance from the ground, and there was no gallery on that side.
“I'll show you,” said he, running into the garden. After searching awhile in the dark, he found a ladder the gardener had left against a tree; after much straining, we carried the ladder to the house and set it up under one of the windows of the drawing-room. Then we both clambered cautiously to the top and looked in.
The company were at cards, silent, save for a low remark now and again. The little tables were ranged along by the windows, and it chanced that Mr. Harry Riddle sat so close to us that we could touch him. On his right sat Mr. Darnley, the stout gentleman, and in the other seats two ladies. Between Mr. Riddle and Mr. Darnley was a pile of silver and gold pieces. There wasnot room for two of us in comfort at the top of the ladder, so I gave place to Nick, and sat on a lower rung. Presently I saw him raise himself, reach in, and duck quickly.
“Feel that,” he whispered to me, chuckling and holding out his hand.
It was full of money.
“But that's stealing, Nick,” I said, frightened.
“Of course I'll give it back,” he whispered indignantly.
Instantly there came loud words and the scraping of chairs within the room, and a woman's scream. I heard Mr. Riddle's voice say thickly, amid the silence that followed:—
“Mr. Darnley, you're a d—d thief, sir.”
“You shall answer for this, when you are sober, sir,” said Mr. Darnley.
Then there came more scraping of chairs, all the company talking excitedly at once. Nick and I scrambled to the ground, and we did the very worst thing we could possibly have done,—we took the ladder away.
There was little sleep for me that night. I had first of all besought Nick to go up into the drawing-room and give the money back. But some strange obstinacy in him resisted.
“'Twill serve Harry well for what he did to-day,” said he.
My next thought was to find Mr. Mason, but he was gone up the river to visit a sick parishioner. I had seen enough of the world to know that gentlemen fought for less than what had occurred in the drawing-room that evening. And though I had neither love nor admiration for Mr. Riddle, and though the stout gentleman was no friend of mine, I cared not to see either of them killed for a prank. But Nick would not listen to me, and went to sleep in the midst of my urgings.
“Davy,” said he, pinching me, “do you know what you are?”
“No,” said I.
“You're a granny,” he said. And that was the last word I could get out of him. But I lay awake a longtime, thinking. Breed had whiled away for me one hot morning in Charlestown with an account of the gentry and their doings, many of which he related in an awed whisper that I could not understand. They were wild doings indeed to me. But strangest of all seemed the duels, conducted with a decorum and ceremony as rigorous as the law.
“Did you ever see a duel, Breed?” I had asked.
“Yessah,” said Breed, dramatically, rolling the whites of his eyes.
“Where?”
“Whah? Down on de riveh bank at Temple Bow in de ea'ly mo'nin'! Dey mos' commonly fights at de dawn.”
Breed had also told me where he was in hiding at the time, and that was what troubled me. Try as I would, I could not remember. It had sounded likeClam Shell. That I recalled, and how Breed had looked out at the sword-play through the cracks of the closed shutters, agonized between fear of ghosts within and the drama without. At the first faint light that came into our window I awakened Nick.
“Listen,” I said; “do you know a place calledClam Shell?”
He turned over, but I punched him persistently until he sat up.
“What the deuce ails you, Davy?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “Have you nightmare?”
“Do you know a place calledClam Shell, down on the river bank, Nick?”
“Why,” he replied, “you must be thinking of Cram's Hell.”
“What's that?” I asked.
“It's a house that used to belong to Cram, who was an overseer. The niggers hated him, and he was killed in bed by a big black nigger chief from Africa. The niggers won't go near the place. They say it's haunted.”
“Get up,” said I; “we're going there now.”
Nick sprang out of bed and began to get into his clothes.
“Is it a game?” he asked.
“Yes.” He was always ready for a game.
We climbed out of the window, and made our way in the mist through the long, wet grass, Nick leading. He took a path through a dark forest swamp, over logs that spanned the stagnant waters, and at length, just as the mist was growing pearly in the light, we came out at a tumble-down house that stood in an open glade by the river's bank.
“What's to do now?” said Nick.
“We must get into the house,” I answered. But I confess I didn't care for the looks of it.
Nick stared at me.
“Very good, Davy,” he said; “I'll follow where you go.”
It was a Saturday morning. Why I recall this I do not know. It has no special significance.
I tried the door. With a groan and a shriek it gave way, disclosing the blackness inside. We started back involuntarily. I looked at Nick, and Nick at me. He was very pale, and so must I have been. But such was the respect we each held for the other's courage that neither dared flinch. And so I walked in, although it seemed as if my shirt was made of needle points and my hair stood on end. The crackings of the old floor were to me like the shots in Charlestown Bay. Our hearts beating wildly, we made our way into a farther room. It was like walking into the beyond.
“Is there a window here?” I asked Nick, my voice sounding like a shout.
“Yes, ahead of us.”
Groping for it, I suddenly received a shock that set me reeling. Human nature could stand no more. We both turned tail and ran out of the house as fast as we could, and stood in the wet grass, panting. Then shame came.
“Let's open the window first,” I suggested. So we walked around the house and pried the solid shutter from its fastenings. Then, gathering our courage, we went in again at the door. In the dim light let into the fartherroom we saw a four-poster bed, old and cheap, with ragged curtains. It was this that I had struck in my groping.
“The chief killed Cram there,” said Nick, in an awed voice, “in that bed. What do you want to do here, Davy?”
“Wait,” I said, though I had as little mind to wait as ever in my life. “Stand here by the window.”
We waited there. The mist rose. The sun peeped over the bank of dense green forest and spread rainbow colors on the still waters of the river. Now and again a fish broke, or a great bird swooped down and slit the surface. A far-off snatch of melody came to our ears,—the slaves were going to work. Nothing more. And little by little grave misgivings gnawed at my soul of the wisdom of coming to this place. Doubtless there were many other spots.
“Davy,” said Nick, at last, “I'm sorry I took that money. What are we here for?”
“Hush!” I whispered; “do you hear anything?”
I did, and distinctly. For I had been brought up in the forest.
“I hear voices,” he said presently, “coming this way.”
They were very clear to me by then. Emerging from the forest path were five gentlemen. The leader, more plainly dressed than the others, carried a leather case. Behind him was the stout figure of Mr. Darnley, his face solemn; and last of all came Mr. Harry Riddle, very pale, but cutting the tops of the long grass with a switch. Nick seized my arm.
“They are going to fight,” said he.
“Yes,” I replied, “and we are here to stop them, now.”
“No, not now,” he said, holding me still. “We'll have some more fun out of this yet.”
“Fun?” I echoed.
“Yes,” he said excitedly. “Leave it to me. I shan't let them fight.”
And that instant we changed generals, David giving place to Nicholas.
Mr. Riddle retired with one gentleman to a side of the little patch of grass, and Mr. Darnley and a friend to another. The fifth gentleman took a position halfway between the two, and, opening the leather case, laid it down on the grass, where its contents glistened.
“That's Dr. Ball,” whispered Nick. And his voice shook with excitement.
Mr. Riddle stripped off his coat and waistcoat and ruffles, and his sword-belt, and Mr. Darnley did the same. Both gentlemen drew their swords and advanced to the middle of the lawn, and stood opposite one another, with flowing linen shirts open at the throat, and bared heads. They were indeed a contrast. Mr. Riddle, tall and white, with closed lips, glared at his opponent. Mr. Darnley cut a merrier figure,—rotund and flushed, with fat calves and short arms, though his countenance was sober enough. All at once the two were circling their swords in the air, and then Nick had flung open the shutter and leaped through the window, and was running and shouting towards the astonished gentlemen, all of whom wheeled to face him. He jingled as he ran.
“What in the devil's name now?” cried Mr. Riddle, angrily. “Here's this imp again.”
Nicholas stopped in front of him, and, thrusting his hand in his breeches pocket, fished out a handful of gold and silver, which he held out to the confounded Mr. Riddle.
“Harry,” said he, “here's something of yours I found last night.”
“You found?” echoed Mr. Riddle, in a strange voice, amidst a dead silence. “You found where?”
“On the table beside you.”
“And where the deuce were you?” Mr. Riddle demanded.
“In the window behind you,” said Nick, calmly.
This piece of information, to Mr. Riddle's plain discomfiture, was greeted with a roar of laughter, Mr. Darnley himself laughing loudest. Nor were these gentlemen satisfied with that. They crowded around Mr. Riddle and slapped him on the back, Mr. Darnley joining in with therest. And presently Mr. Riddle flung away his sword, and laughed, too, giving his hand to Mr. Darnley.
At length Mr. Darnley turned to Nick, who had stood all this while behind them, unmoved.
“My friend,” said he, seriously, “such is your regard for human life, you will probably one day be a pirate or an outlaw. This time we've had a laugh. The next time somebody will be weeping. I wish I were your father.”
“I wish you were,” said Nick.
This took Mr. Darnley's breath. He glanced at the other gentlemen, who returned his look significantly. He laid his hand kindly on the lad's head.
“Nick,” said he, “I wish to God I were your father.”
After that they all went home, very merry, to breakfast, Nick and I coming after them. Nick was silent until we reached the house.
“Davy,” said he, then, “how old are you?”
“Ten,” I answered. “How old did you believe me?”
“Eighty,” said he.
The next day, being Sunday, we all gathered in the little church to hear Mr. Mason preach. Nick and I sat in the high box pew of the family with Mrs. Temple, who paid not the least attention to the sermon. As for me, the rhythm of it held me in fascination. Mr. Mason had written it out and that afternoon read over this part of it to Nick. The quotation I recall, having since read it many times, and the gist of it was in this wise:—
“And he said unto him, ‘What thou wilt have thou wilt have, despite the sin of it. Blessed are the stolid, and thrice cursed he who hath imagination,—for that imagination shall devour him. And in thy life a sin shall be presented unto thee with a great longing. God, who is in heaven, gird thee for that struggle, my son, for it will surely come. That it may be said of you, ‘Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver, I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.’ Seven days shalt thou wrestle with thy soul; seven nights shall evil haunt thee, and how thou shalt come forth from that struggle no man may know.’”