GABRIEL TOLLIVER

Prelude

"Cephas! here is a letter for you, and it is from Shady Dale! I know you will be happy now."

For several years Sophia had listened calmly to my glowing descriptions of Shady Dale and the people there. She was patient, but I could see by the way she sometimes raised her eyebrows that she was a trifle suspicious of my judgment, and that she thought my opinions were unduly coloured by my feelings. Once she went so far as to suggest that I was all the time looking at the home people through the eyes of boyhood—eyes that do not always see accurately. She had said, moreover, that if I were to return to Shady Dale, I would find that the friends of my boyhood were in no way different from the people I meet every day. This was absurd, of course—or, rather, it would have been absurd for any one else to make the suggestion; for at that particular time, Sophia was a trifle jealous of Shady Dale and its people. Nevertheless, she was really patient. You know how exasperating a man can be when he has a hobby. Well, my hobby was Shady Dale, and I was not ashamed of it. The man or woman who cannot display as much of the homing instinct as a cat or a pigeon is a creature to be pitied or despised. Sophia herself was a tramp, as she often said. She was born in a little suburban town in New York State, but never lived there long enough to know what home was. She went to Albany, then to Canada, and finally to Georgia; so that the only real home she ever knew is the one she made herself—out of the raw material, as one might say.

Well, she came running with the letter, for she is still active, though a little past the prime of her youth. I returned the missive to her with a faint show of dignity. "The letter is for you," I said. She looked at the address more carefully, and agreed with me. "What in the world have I done," she remarked, "to receive a letter from Shady Dale?"

"Why, it is the simplest thing in the world," I replied. "You have been fortunate enough to marry me."

"Oh, I see!" she cried, dropping me a little curtsey; "and I thank you kindly!"

The letter was from an old friend of mine—a school-mate—and it was an invitation to Sophia, begging her to take a day off, as the saying is, and spend it in Shady Dale.

"Your children," the letter said, "will be glad to visit their father's old home, and I doubt not we can make it interesting for the wife." The letter closed with some prettily turned compliments which rather caught Sophia. But her suspicions were still in full play.

"I know the invitation is sent on your account, and not on mine," she said, holding the letter at arm's length.

"Well, why not? If my old friend loves me well enough to be anxious to give my wife and children pleasure, what is there wrong about that?"

"Oh, nothing," replied Sophia. "I've a great mind to go."

"If you do, my dear, you will make a number of people happy—yourself and the children, and many of my old friends."

"He declares," said Sophia, "that he writes at the request of his wife. You know how much of that to believe."

"I certainly do. Imagine me, for instance, inviting to visit us a lady whom you had never met."

Whereupon Sophia laughed. "I believe you'd endorse any proposition that came from Shady Dale," she declared.

She accepted the invitation more out of curiosity than with any expectation of enjoying herself; but she stayed longer than she had intended; and when she came back her views and feelings had undergone a complete change. "Cephas, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for not going to see those people," she declared. "Why, they are the salt of the earth. I never expected to be treated as they treated me. If it wasn't for your business, I would beg you to go back there and live. They are just like the people you read about in the books—I mean the good people, the ideal characters—the men and women you would like to meet." Here she paused and sighed. "Oh, I wouldn't have missed that visit for anything. But what amazes me, Cephas, is that you've never put in your books characters such as you find in Shady Dale."

The suggestion was a fertile one; it had in it the active principle of a germ; and it was not long before the ferment began to make itself felt. The past began to renew itself; the sun shone on the old days and gave them an illumination which they lacked when they were new. Time's perspective gave them a mellower tone, and they possessed, at least for me, that element of mystery which seems to attach to whatever is venerable. It was as if the place, the people, and the scenes had taken the shape of a huge picture, with just such a lack of harmony and unity as we find in real life.

Let those who can do so continue to import harmony and unity into their fabrications and call it art. Whether it be art or artificiality, the trick is beyond my powers. I can only deal with things as they were; on many occasions they were far from what I would have had them to be; but as I was powerless to change them, so am I powerless to twist individuals and events to suit the demands or necessities of what is called art.

Such a feat might be possible if I were to tell the simple story of Nan and Gabriel and Tasma Tid during the days when they roamed over the old Bermuda hills, and gazed, as it were, into the worlds that existed only in their dreams: for then the story would be both fine and beautiful. It would be a wonderful romance indeed, with just a touch of tragic mystery, gathered from the fragmentary history of Tasma Tid, a child-woman from the heart of Africa, who had formed a part of the cargo of the yacht Wanderer, which landed three hundred slaves on the coast of Georgia in the last months of 1858. You may find the particulars of the case of the Wanderer in the files of the Savannah newspapers, and in the records of the United States Court for that district; but the tragic history of Tasma Tid can be found neither in the newspapers nor in the court records.

But for this one touch of mystery and tragedy, this chronicle, supposing it to deal only with the childhood and early youth of Nan and Gabriel, would resolve itself into a marvellous fairy tale, made up of the innocent dreams and hopes and beliefs, and all the extraordinary inventions and imaginings of childhood. And even mystery and tragedy have their own particular forms of simplicity, so that, with Tasma Tid in the background the tale would be artless enough to satisfy the most artful. For, even if the reader, seated on the magic cloak of some competent story-teller, were transported to the heart of Africa, where the mountains, with their feet in the jungle, reach up and touch the moon, or to China, or the Islands of the Sea, the hero of the tale would be the same. His name is Dilly Bal, and he carries on his operations wherever there are stars in the sky. He is a restless and a roving creature, flitting to and fro between all points of the compass.

When King Sun crawls into his trundle bed and begins to snore, Dilly Bal creeps forth from Somewhere, or maybe from Nowhere, which is just on the other side, fetching with him a long broom, which he swishes about to such purpose that the katydids hear it and are frightened. They hide under the leaves and are heard no more that night. That is why you never hear them crying and disputing when you chance to be awake after midnight.

But Dilly Bal knows nothing of the katydids; he has his own duties to perform, and his own affairs to attend to; and these, as you will presently see, are very pressing. It is his business, as well as his pleasure, to be the Housekeeper of the Sky, which he dusts and tidies and puts in order. It is a part of his duty to see that the stars are safely bestowed against the moment when old King Sun shall emerge from his tent, and begin his march over the world. And then, in the dusk of the evening, Dilly Bal must take each star from the bag in which he carries it, polish it bright, and put it in its proper place.

Sometimes, as you may have observed, a star will fall while Dilly Bal is handling it. This happens when he is nervous for fear that King Sun, instead of going to bed in his tent, has crept back and is watching from behind the cloud mountains. Sometimes a star falls quite by accident, as when Lucindy or Patience drops a plate in the kitchen. You will be sure to know Dilly Bal when you see him, for, in handling the stars and dusting the sky, his clothes get full of yellow cobwebs, which he never bothers himself to brush off.

But Dilly Bal's most difficult job is with the Moon. Regularly the Moon blackens her face in a vain effort to hide from King Sun. If she used smut or soot, Dilly Bal's task would not be so difficult; but she has found a lake of pitch somewhere in Africa, and in this lake she smears her face till it is so black her best friends wouldn't know her. The pitch is such sticky stuff that it is days and days before it can be rubbed off. The truth is, Dilly Bal never does succeed in getting all the pitch off. At her brightest, the Moon shows signs of it. So said Tasma Tid, and so we all firmly believed.

Yes, indeed! If this chronicle could be confined to the childhood and youth of those children, Dilly Bal would be the hero first and last. He was so real to all of us that we used to wander out to the old Bermuda fields almost every fine afternoon, and sit there until the light had faded from the sky, watching Dilly Bal hanging the stars on their pegs. The Evening Star was such a large and heavy one that Dilly Bal always replaced it before dark, so as to be sure not to drop it.

Once when we stayed out in the Bermuda fields later than usual, a big star fell from its place, and went flying across the sky, leaving a long and brilliant streamer behind it. At first, Nan thought that Dilly Bal had tried to hang the Evening Star on the wrong peg, but when she looked in the west, there was the big star winking at her and at all of us as hard as it could.

The pity of it was that Nan and Gabriel, and all their young friends, had finally to come in contact with the hard practical affairs of the world. As for Tasma Tid, contact had no special influence on her. She was to all appearance as unchangeable as the pyramids, and as mysterious as the Sphinx. But it was different with Nan and Gabriel, and, indeed, with all the rest. Their story soon ceased to be a simple one. In some directions, it appeared to be a hopeless tangle, catching a great many other persons in its loops and meshes; so that, instead of a simple, entrancing story, all aglow with the glamour of romance, they had troubles that were grievous, and their full share of dulness and tediousness, which are the essential ingredients of everyday life.

After all, it is perhaps fortunate that the marvellous dreams of Nan and Gabriel, and the quaint imaginings of Tasma Tid are not to be chronicled. The spinning of this glistening gossamer once begun would have no end, for Nan was an expert dreamer both night and day, and in the practice of this art, Gabriel was not far behind her; while Tasma Tid, who was Nan's maid and bodyguard, could frame her face in her hands, and tell you stories from sunrise to sundown and far into the night.

Tasma Tid, though she was only a child in stature and nature, was growner in years, as she said, than some of the grownest grown folks that they knew. She was a dwarf by race, and always denied bitterly, sometimes venomously, that she was a negro, declaring that in her country the people were always at war with the blacks. Her color was dark brown, light enough for the blood tints to show in her face, and her hair was straight and glossy black. From the Wanderer, she soon found herself in the slave market at Malvern, and there she fell under the eye of Dr. Randolph Dorrington, Nan's father, who bought her forthwith. He thought that a live doll would please his daughter. The dwarf said that her name was Tasma Tid in her country, and she would answer to no other.

It was a very fortunate bargain all around, especially for Nan, for in the African woman she found both a playmate and a protector. Tasma Tid was far above the average negro in intelligence, in courage and in cunning. She was as obstinate as a mule, and no matter what obstacles were thrown in her way, her own desires always prevailed in the end, a fact that will explain her early appearance in the slave market. Those of her owners who failed to understand her were not willing to see her spoil on their hands, like a barrel of potatoes or a basket of shrimps. The African was uncanny when she chose to be, outspoken, vicious, and tender-hearted, her nature being compounded of the same qualities and contradictions as those which belong to the great ladies of the earth, who, with opportunity always at their elbows, have contrived to create a great stir in the world.

When Dr. Dorrington fetched Tasma Tid home, he called out to Nan from his gig: "I have brought you a live doll, daughter; come and see how you like it."

Nan went running—she never learned how to walk until she was several years older—and regarded Tasma Tid with both surprise and sympathy. The African, seeing only the sympathy, leaped from the gig, seized Nan around the waist, lifted her from the ground, ran this way and that, and then released her with a loud and joyous laugh.

"What do you mean by that?" cried Nan, somewhat taken aback.

"She stan' fer we howdy," the African answered.

"Well, let's see you tell popsy howdy," suggested Nan, indicating her father.

"Uh-uh! he we buckra."

From that hour Tasma Tid attached herself to Nan, following her everywhere with the unquestioning fidelity of a dog. She sat on the floor of the dining-room while Nan ate her meals, and slept on a pallet by the child's bed at night. If the African was sweeping the yard, a task she sometimes consented to perform, she would fling the brushbroom away and go with Nan if the child started out at the gate. At first this constant attendance was somewhat annoying to Nan, for she was an independent lass; but presently, when she found that Tasma Tid was a most accomplished and versatile playfellow, as well as the depositary of hundreds of curious fables and quaint tales of the wildwood, Nan's irritation disappeared.

As for Gabriel—Gabriel Tolliver—he was almost as indispensable as the African woman. Children learn a good many things, as they grow older, and I have heard that Nan and Gabriel were thought to be queer, and that all who were much in their company were also thought to be queer. No one knows why. It was a simple statement, and simple statements are readily believed, because no one takes the trouble to inquire into them. A man who has views different from those of the majority is called eccentric; if he insists on promulgating them, he is known as a crank. In the case of Nan and Gabriel, it may be said by one who knows, that, while they were different from the majority of children, they were neither queer nor eccentric.

They, and those whom they chose as companions, were children at a time when the demoralisation of war was about to begin—when it was already casting its long shadow before it—and when their elders were discussing as hard as ever they could the questions of State rights, the true interpretation of the Constitution, squatter sovereignty, the right of secession—every question, in short, except the one at issue. In this way, and for this reason, the two children and their companions were thrown back upon themselves.

Of those who formed this merry little company, not one went to the academies that had been established in the town early enough to be its most ancient institutions. Nan was taught by her father, Randolph Dorrington, and Gabriel and I said our lessons to his grandmother, Mrs. Lucy Lumsden. Thus it happened that we were through with our school tasks before the children in the two academies had begun their morning recess.

"We would never have been such good friends," said Nan on one occasion, "if I hadn't wanted to go to your house, Gabriel, to see how your grandmother wavies her hair. I saw Cephas, and asked him to go along with me." Child as she was, Nan had her little vanities. She desired above all things that her hair should fall away from her brow in little rippling waves, like those that shone in the silver-grey hair of Gabriel's grandmother.

"Why, my grandmother doesn't wavie her hair at all," protested Gabriel.

"Of course not," replied Nan, with a toss of the hand; "I found that out for myself. And I was very sorry; I want my hair to wavie like hers and yours."

"Well, if your hair was to wavie like mine," said Gabriel, "you'd have a mighty hard time combing it in the morning."

"Don't you remember," Nan went on in a reminiscent way, "that she made you shake hands with me that day? It was funny the way you came up and held out your arm. If I had jumped at you and said Boo! I don't know what would have happened." Gabriel grew very red at this, but Nan ignored his embarrassment. "You had syrup on your fingers, you know, and then we all had some in a saucer. Yes, and we all sopped our bread in the same saucer, and Cephas here got the syrup on his face and in his hair."

It never occurred to me in those days that Nan was beautiful, or that Gabriel was handsome, but looking back in the light of experience, it is easy to remember that they had in their features all the promises that the long and slow-moving years were to fulfil. I was struck, however, by one peculiarity of Nan's face. When her countenance was at rest, it gave out a hint of melancholy, and there was an appealing look in her brown eyes; but when she smiled or laughed, the sombre face broke up into numberless dimples. Apart from her countenance, there was a charm about her which I have never been able to trace to its source, and which of course is beyond description; and this charm remained, and made itself felt whether the appearance of melancholy had its dwelling-place in her eyes, which were large, and lustrous, and full of tenderness, or whether her face was brilliant with smiles. She had a deserved reputation as a tomboy, but she carried off her tricksy whims with a daintiness that preserved them from all hint of coarseness; and if sometimes she was rude, she had a way of righting herself that none could resist.

As for Gabriel, he was always large for his age. He was strong and healthy, possessing every physical excuse for roughness and boisterousness; but association with his grandmother, who was one of the gentlest of gentlewomen, had toned him down and smoothed the rough edges. His hair was dark and curly, and his face gave promise of great strength of character—a promise which, it may be said here, was fulfilled to the letter. He was as whimsical as Nan, and, in addition, had moods to which she was a stranger.

These things did not occur to Cephas the Child, but are the fruits of his memory and experience. He only knew at that time that Nan and Gabriel were both very good to him. He was considerably younger than either of them, and he often wondered then, and has wondered since, why they were such good friends of his, and why they were constantly hunting him up if he failed to make his appearance. Perhaps because he was so full of unadulterated mischief. Gabriel, with all his gravity, was full of a quaint humour, and Nan hunted for cause for laughter in everything; and she was never more beautiful than when this same laughter had shaken her tawny hair about her face.

We had travelled widely. Nan had been to Malvern with her father, and had seen sights—railway trains, omilybuses, as she called them, a great big hotel, and "oodles" of crippled persons; yes, and besides the crippled persons, there was a blind man standing on the corner with a big card hanging from his neck; and that very day, she had eaten "reesins" until she never wanted 'em any more, as she said. Gabriel and Cephas had not gone so far; but once upon a time, they went to Halcyondale, and, among other things, had seen Major Tomlin Perdue kill sparrows with a pistol. Nan had been anxious to go with them at the time, but when she heard about the slaughter of the sparrows, she was very glad she had stayed at home, for what did a grown man as old as Major Perdue want to kill the poor little brown sparrows for? Nan's question was never answered. Gabriel and Cephas had only seen in the transaction the enviable skill of the Major; whereas Nan thought of nothing but the poor little birds that had been slain for a holiday show. "They may have been singing sparrows, or snow-birds," mourned Nan. True enough; but Gabriel and Cephas had thought of nothing but the skill of the marksman with his duelling pistols. Tasma Tid also had her point of view. "Wey you no fetcha dem lil bud home fer we supper?" She was hardly satisfied when she was told that the little birds, all put together, would have made hardly more than a mouthful.

CHAPTER ONE

Kettledrum and Fife

The serene repose of Shady Dale no doubt stood for dulness and lack of progress in that day and time. In all ages of the world, and in all places, there are men of restless but superficial minds, who mistake repose and serenity for stagnation. No doubt then, as now, the most awful sentence to be passed on a community was to say that it was not progressive. But when you examine into the matter, what is called progress is nothing more nor less than the multiplication of the resources of those who, by means of dicker and barter, are trying all the time to overreach the public and their fellows, in one way and another. This sort of thing now has a double name; it is called civilisation, as well as progress, and those who take things as they find them in their morning newspaper, without going to the trouble to reflect for themselves, are no doubt duly impressed by terms that are large enough to fill both the ear and mouth at one and the same time.

Well, whatever serene repose stands for, Shady Dale possessed it in an eminent degree, and the people there had their full share of the sorrows and troubles of this world, as Madame Awtry, or Miss Puella Gillum, or Neighbour Tomlin, or even that cheerful philosopher, Mr. Billy Sanders, could have told you; but of these Nan and Gabriel and Cephas knew nothing except in a vague, indefinite way. They heard hints of rumours, and sometimes they saw their elders shaking their heads as they gossiped together, but the youngsters lived in a world of their own, a world apart, and the vague rumours were no more interesting to them than the reports of canals on Mars are to the average person to-day. He reads in his newspaper that the markings in Mars are supposed to be canals; whereat he smiles and reflects that these canals can do him no harm. Nan and Gabriel and Cephas were as far from contemporary troubles as we are from Mars. The most serious trouble they had was not greater than that which they discovered one day on the Bermuda hill. As they were sitting on the warm grass, wondering how long before peaches would be ripe, they saw a field mouse cutting up some queer capers. Nan was not very friendly with mice, and she instinctively gathered up her skirts; but she did not run; her curiosity was ever greater than her fear. Presently we found that the troubles of Mother Mouse were very real. A tremendous black beetle had invaded her nest, and had seized one of her children, a little bit of a thing, naked and red and about the size of a half-ripe mulberry. We tried hard to rescue the mouse from the beetle, but soon found that it was quite dead. Cephas crushed the beetle, which was as venomous-looking a bug as they had ever seen. Was the beetle preparing to eat the mouse? Tasma Tid said yes, but Gabriel thought not. His idea was that the Mother Mouse had attacked the beetle, which was blindly crawling about, and had fallen in the nest accidentally. The beetle, striving to defend itself, had seized the mouse between its pinchers, and held it there until it was quite dead.

But the Bermuda fields were not the only resource of the children. There were seasons when Uncle Plato, who was Meriwether Clopton's carriage-driver, came to town with the big waggon to haul home the supplies necessary for the plantation; loads of bagging and rope; cases of brogan shoes, and hats for the negroes; and bales on bales of osnaburgs and blankets. The appearance of the Clopton waggon on the public square was hailed by these youngsters with delight. They always made a rush for it, and, in riding back and forth with Uncle Plato, they spent some of the most delightful moments of their lives.

And then in the fall season, there was the big gin running at the Clopton place, with old Beck, the blind mule, going round and round, turning the cogged and pivoted post that set the machinery in motion. But the youngsters rarely grew tired of riding back and forth with Uncle Plato. He was the one person in the world who catered most completely to their whims, who was most responsive to their budding and eager fancies, and who entered most enthusiastically into the regions created and peopled by Nan's skittish and fantastic imagination.

These children had their critics, as may well be supposed, especially Nan, who did not always conform to the rules and theories which have been set up for the guidance of girls; but Uncle Plato, along with Gabriel and Cephas, accepted her as she was, with all her faults, and took as much delight in her tricksy and capricious behaviour, as if he were responsible for it all. She and her companions furnished Uncle Plato with what all story-tellers have most desired since hairy man began to shave himself with pumice-stone, and squat around a common hearth—a faithful and believing audience. Uncle Æsop, it may be, cared less for his audience than for the opportunity of lugging in a dismal and perfunctory moral. Uncle Plato, like Uncle Remus, concealed his behind text and adventure, conveying it none the less completely on that account. Not one of his vagaries was too wild for the acceptance of his small audience, and the elusiveness of his methods was a perpetual delight to Nan, as hers was to Uncle Plato, though he sometimes shook his head, and pretended to sigh over her innocent evasions.

Once when we were all riding back and forth from the Clopton Place to Shady Dale, Nan asked Uncle Plato if he could spell.

"Tooby sho I kin, honey. What you reckon I been doin' all deze long-come-shorts ef I dunner how ter spell? How you speck I kin git 'long, haulin' an' maulin', ef I dunner how ter spell? Why, I could spell long 'fo' I know'd my own name."

"Long-come-shorts, what are they?" asked Nan.

"Rainy days an' windy nights," responded Uncle Plato, throwing his head back, and closing his eyes.

"Let's hear you spell, then," said Nan.

"Dee-o-egg, dog," was the prompt response. Nan looked at Uncle Plato to see if he was joking, but he was solemnity itself. "E-double-egg, egg!" he continued.

"Now spell John A. Murrell," said Nan. Murrell, the land pirate, was one of her favourite heroes at this time.

Uncle Plato pretended to be very much shocked. "Why, honey, dat man wuz rank pizen. En spozen he wa'nt, how you speck me ter spell sump'n er somebody which I ain't never laid eyes on? How I gwineter spell Johnny Murrell, an' him done dead dis many a long year ago?"

"Well, spell goose, then," said Nan, seeing a flock of geese marching stiffly in single file across a field near the road.

Uncle Plato looked at them carefully enough to take their measure, and then shook his head solemnly. "Deyer so many un um, honey, dey'd be monstus hard fer ter spell."

"Well, just spell one of them then," Nan suggested.

"Which un, honey?"

"Any one you choose."

Uncle Plato studied over the matter a moment, and again shook his head. "Uh-uh, honey; dat ain't nigh gwine ter do. Ef you speck me fer ter spell goose, you got ter pick out de one you want me ter spell."

"Well, spell the one behind all the rest."

Again Uncle Plato shook his head. "Dat ar goose got half-grown goslin's, an' I ain't never larnt how ter spell goose wid half-grown goslin's. You ax too much, honey."

"Then spell the one next to head." Nan was inexorable.

"Dat ar ain't no goose," replied Uncle Plato, with an air of triumph; "she's a gander."

"I don't believe you know how to spell goose," said Nan, with something like scorn.

"Don't you fool yo'se'f, honey," remarked Uncle Plato in a tone of confidence. "You git me a great big fat un, not too ol', an' not too young, an' fill 'er full er stuffin', an' bake 'er brown in de big oven, an' save all de drippin's, an' put 'er on de table not fur fum whar I mought be settin' at, an' gi' me a pone er corn bread, an' don't have no talkin' an' laughin' in de game—an' ef I don't spell dat goose, I'll come mighty nigh it, I sholy will. Ef I don't spell 'er, dey won't be nuff lef' fer de nex' man ter spell. You kin 'pen' on dat, honey."

Nan suddenly called Uncle Plato's attention to the carriage horses, which were hitched to the waggon. She said she knew their names well enough when they were pulling the carriage, but now—

"Haven't you changed the horses, Uncle Plato?" she asked.

"How I gwine change um, honey?"

"I mean, haven't you changed their places?"

"No, ma'am!" he answered with considerable emphasis. "No, ma'am; ef I wuz ter put dat off hoss in de lead, you'd see some mighty high kickin'; you sho would."

"Oh, let's try it!" cried Nan, with real eagerness.

"Dem may try it what choosen ter try it," responded Uncle Plato, dryly, "but I'll ax um fer ter kindly le' me git win' er what deyer gwine ter do, an' den I'll make my 'rangerments fer ter be somers out'n sight an' hearin'."

"Well, if you haven't made the horses swap places," remarked Nan, "I'll bet you a thrip that the right-hand horse is named Waffles, and the left-hand one Battercakes."

At once Uncle Plato became very dignified. "Well-'um, I'm mighty glad fer ter hear you sesso, kaze ef dey's any one thing what I want mo' dan anudder, it's a thrip's wuff er mannyfac terbacker. Ez fer de off hoss, dat's his name—Waffles—you sho called it right. But when it comes ter de lead hoss, anybody on de plantation, er off'n it, I don't keer whar dey live at, ef dey yever so much ez hear er dat lead hoss, will be glad fer ter tell you dat he goes by de name er Muffins." He held out his hand for the thrip.

"Well, what is the difference?" said Nan, drawing back as if to prevent him from taking the thrip.

"De diffunce er what?" inquired Uncle Plato.

"And you expect me to give you money you haven't won," declared Nan. "What's the difference between Battercakes and Muffins? A muffin is a battercake if you pour three big spoonfuls in a pan and spread it out, and a battercake is a muffin if you pen it up in a tin-thing like a napkin ring. Anybody can tell you that, Uncle Plato—yes, anybody."

What reply the old negro would have made to this bit of home-made casuistry will never be known. That it would have been reasonable, if not entirely adequate, may well be supposed, but just as he had given his head a preliminary shake, the rattle of a kettle-drum was heard, and above the rattle a fife was shrilling.

The shrilling fife, and the roll and rattle of the drums! These were sounds somewhat new to Shady Dale in 1860; but presently they were to be heard all over the land.

"I can see dem niggers right now!" exclaimed Uncle Plato, as we hustled out of his waggon. "Riley playin' de fife, Green beatin' on de kittledrum, an' Ike Varner bangin' on de big drum. Ef de white folks pay much 'tention ter dem niggers, dey won't be no livin' in de same county wid um. But dey better not come struttin' 'roun' me!"

The drums were beating the signal for calling together the men whose names had been signed to the roll of a company to be called the Shady Dale Scouts, and the meeting was for the purpose of organizing and electing officers. All this was accomplished in due time; but meanwhile Nan and Gabriel and Cephas, as well as Tasma Tid and all the rest of the children in the town, went tagging after the fife and drums listening to Riley play the beautiful marching tunes that set Nan's blood to tingling. Riley was a master hand with the fife, and we had never known it, had never even suspected it! Nan thought it was very mean in Riley not to tell somebody that he could play so beautifully.

Well, in a very short time, the company was rigged out in the finest uniforms the children had even seen. All the men, even the privates, had plumes in their hats and epaulettes of gold on their shoulders; and on their coats they wore stripes of glowing red, and shiny brass buttons without number. And at least twice a week they marched through the streets and out into the Bermuda fields, where they had their drilling grounds. These were glorious days for the youngsters. Nan was so enthusiastic that she organised a company of little negroes, and insisted on being the captain. Gabriel was the first lieutenant, and Cephas was the second. When the company was ready to take the field, it was discovered that Nan would also have to be orderly sergeant and color-bearer. But she took on herself the duties and responsibilities of these positions without a murmur. She wore a paper hat of the true Napoleonic cut, and carried in one hand her famous sword-gun, and the colors in the other. The oldest private in Nan's company was nine; the youngest was four, and had as much as he could do to keep up with the rest. The uniforms of these sun-seasoned troops was the regulation plantation fatigue dress—a shirt coming to the knees. Two or three of the smaller privates had evidently fallen victims to the pot-liquor and buttermilk habits, for their bellies stuck out black and glistening from rents in their shirts.

Their accoutrements prefigured in an absurd way the resources of the Confederacy at a later date. They were armed with broomsticks, and what-not. The file-leader had an old pair of tongs, which he snapped viciously when Nan gave the word to fire. The famous sword-gun, with which Nan did such execution, had once seen service as an umbrella handle.

One afternoon, as Nan was drilling her troops, she chanced to glance down the road, and saw a waggon coming along. Deploying her company across the highway, she went forward in person to reconnoitre. She soon discovered that the waggon was driven by Uncle Plato. Running back to her veterans, she placed herself in front of them, and calmly awaited events. Slowly the fat horses dragged the waggon along, when suddenly Nan cried "Halt!" whereupon the drummer, obeying previous instructions, began to belabour his tin-pan, while Nan levelled her famous sword-gun at Uncle Plato. "Bang!" she exclaimed, and then, "Why didn't you fall off the waggon?" she cried, as Uncle Plato remained immovable. "Why, you don't know any more about real war than a baby," she said scornfully.

If the truth must be told, Uncle Plato had been dozing, and when he awoke he viewed the scene before him with astonishment. There was no need to cry "Halt!" or exclaim "Bang!" for as soon as the drummer began to beat his tin-pan, the horses stood still and craned their necks forward, with a warning snort, trying to see what this strange and unnatural proceeding meant. Uncle Plato had involuntarily tightened the reins when he was so rudely awakened, and the horses took this for a hint that they must avoid the danger, and, as the shortest way is the best way, they began to back, and had the waggon nearly turned around before Uncle Plato could tell them a different tale.

"Ef I'd 'a' fell out'n de waggon, honey, who gwine ter pick me up?" he asked, laughing.

"Why, no one is picked up in war!"

"Is dis war, honey?"

"Of course it is," Nan declared.

"Does bofe sides hafter take part in de rucus?" asked Uncle Plato, making a terrible face at the little negroes.

"Why, of course," said Nan.

Seeing the scowl, Nan's veteran troops began to edge slowly toward the nearest breach in the fence. Uncle Plato seized his whip and pretended to be clambering from the waggon. At this a panic ensued, and Nan's army dispersed in a jiffy. The seasoned troops dropped their arms and fled. The four-year-old became lost or entangled in a thick growth of jimson weed, seeing which, Uncle Plato cried out in terrible voice, "Ketch um dar! Fetch um here!"

Then and there ensued a wild scene of demoralisation and anarchy; loud shrieks and screams filled the air; the dogs barked, the hens cackled, and the neighbours began to put their heads out of the windows. Mrs. Absalom, who had charge of the Dorrington household, and who had raised Nan from a baby, came to the door—the defeat of the troops occurred right at Nan's own home—crying, "My goodness gracious! has the yeth caved in?" Then, seeing the waggon crosswise the road, and mistaking Nan's shrieks of laughter for cries of pain, she bolted from the house with a white face.

Mrs. Absalom's reactions from her daily alarms about Nan usually resulted in bringing her into open and direct war with everybody in sight or hearing, except the child; but on this occasion, her fright had been so serious that when Nan, somewhat sobered, ran to her the good woman was shaking.

"Why, Nonny!" cried Nan, hugging her, "you are all trembling."

"No wonder," said Mrs. Absalom in a subdued voice; "I saw you under them waggon wheels as plain as I ever saw anything in my life. I'm gittin' old, I reckon."

And yet there were some people who wondered how Nan could endure such a foster-mother as Mrs. Absalom.

But the complete rout of Nan's army made no change in the general complexion of affairs. The Shady Dale Scouts continued to perfect themselves in the tactics of war, and after awhile, when the great controversy began to warm up—the children paid no attention to the passage of time—the company went into camp. This was a great hour for the youngsters. Here at last was something real and tangible. The marching and the countermarching through the streets and in the old field were very well in their way, but Nan and Gabriel and the rest had grown used to these man[oe]uvres, and they longed for something new. This was furnished by the camp, with its white tents, and the grim sentinels pacing up and down with fixed bayonets. No one, not even an officer, could pass the sentinels without giving the password, or calling for the officer of the guard.

All this, from the children's point of view, was genuine war; but to the members of the company it was a veritable picnic. The citizens of the town, especially the ladies, sent out waggon loads of food every day—boiled ham, barbecued shote, chicken pies, and cake; yes, and pickles. Nan declared she didn't know there were as many pickles in the world, as she saw unloaded at the camp.

Mr. Goodlett, who was Mrs. Absalom's husband, went out to the camp, looked it over with the eye of an expert, and turned away with a groan. This citizen had served both in the Mexican and the Florida wars, and he knew that these gallant young men would have a rude awakening, when it came to the real tug of war.

"Doesn't it look like war, Mr. Ab?" Nan asked, running after the veteran.

Mr. Goodlett looked at the bright face lifted up to his, and frowned, though a smile of pity showed itself around his grizzled mouth. He was a very deliberate man, and he hesitated before he spoke. "You think that looks like war?" he asked.

"Why, of course. Isn't that the way they do when there's a war?"

"What! gormandise, an' set in the shade? Why, it ain't no more like war than sparrergrass is like jimson weed—not one ioter." With that, he sighed and went on his way.

But when did the precepts of age and experience ever succeed in chilling the enthusiasm of youth? With the children, it was "O to be a soldier boy!" and Nan and her companions continued to linger around the edges of the spectacle, taking it all in, and enjoying every moment. And the Scouts themselves continued to live like lords, eating and drilling, and dozing during the day, and at night dancing to the sweet music of Flavian Dion's violin. Nan and Gabriel thought it was fine, and, as well as can be remembered, Cephas was of the same opinion. As for Tasma Tid, she thought that the fife and drums, and the general glare and glitter of the affair were simply grand, very much nicer than war in her country, where the Arab slave-traders crept up in the night and seized all who failed to escape in the forest, killing right and left for the mere love of killing. Compared with the jungle war, this pageant was something to be admired.

And many of the older citizens held views not very different from those of the children, for enthusiasm ran high. The Shady Dale Scouts went away arrayed in their holiday uniforms. Many of them never returned to their homes again, but those that did were arrayed in rags and tatters. Their gallantry was such that the Shady Dale Scouts, disguised as Company B, were always at the head of their regiment when trouble was on hand. But all this is to anticipate.

CHAPTER TWO

A Town with a History

Before, during, and after the war, Shady Dale presented always the same aspect of serene repose. It was, as you may say, a town with a history. Then, as now, there were towns all about that had no such fortunate appendage behind them to explain their origin. No one could tell what they were begun for; no one could say whether they had for their nucleus an old field or a cross-roads grocery, or whether a party of immigrants pitched their tents there because the grass was fine and the water abundant. There is one city in Georgia, and it is the most prosperous of all, that was built on the idea that the cattle-paths and the old government roads afford the most convenient and picturesque contours for the streets; and to this day, the thoroughfares of that city afford a most interesting study to those who are interested in either topography or human nature; for it is possible to go to that city, and, with half an eye, discover the places where the waggons and other vehicles turned aside nearly a hundred years ago to avoid the mudholes, the fallen trees, and other temporary obstructions. They have been preserved in the conformation of the streets.

Shady Dale is no city, and it may be that its public-spirited citizens stretch the meaning of the term when they call it a town. Nevertheless, the community has a well-defined history. When Raleigh Clopton, shortly after the signing of the treaty of peace between the United States and Great Britain, crossed the Oconee, and settled on the lands of the hostile Creeks, his friends declared that he was tempting Providence; and so it seemed; but the event proved that from first to last, his adventure was under the direct guidance of Providence. He demonstrated anew the truth of two ancient maxims: he who risks nothing, gains nothing; heaven helps those who help themselves. Raleigh Clopton risked everything and gained the most beautiful domain in all the land. He had, indeed, one stormy interview with General McGillivray, the great Creek chief and statesman, but after that all was peace and prosperity.

General McGillivray was one of the most remarkable men of his time, and his time was during an era of remarkable men. He possessed a genius that enabled him to cope successfully with the ablest statesmen of his day. He drew Washington into a secret treaty with the Creek Nation, and when McGillivray died, the Father of his country referred to him as "my friend," and deplored his taking off. Courageous and adventurous himself, McGillivray was no doubt attracted by the attitude and personality of the fearless Virginian. He became the warm friend of Raleigh Clopton, and marked that friendship by deeding to the first white settler two thousand acres of land lying between the Little River hills on one side, and the meadows of Murder Creek on the other. Moreover, he named the estate Shady Dale, and aided Raleigh Clopton to establish a trading-post where the court-house of the town now stands; and on a pine near by, he caused to be made the semblance of a broken arrow, a token that between the Creeks and the Master of Shady Dale a lasting peace had been established.

This was the beginning. When the multifarious and long-disputed treaties between the United States and the Creek Nation had been signed, and a general peace was assured, Raleigh Clopton communicated with his friends in Wilkes, Burke, Columbia and Richmond counties—the choice spirits who had fought by his side in the bloodiest battles of the War for Independence—informed them of his good fortune, and invited them to share it. The response was all that he could have desired. His old friends and comrades lost no time in joining him—the Dorringtons, the Tomlins, the Gaithers, the Awtrys, the Terrells, the Odoms, the Lumsdens, and, later, the friends and relatives of these. For the most part they were men of substance and character.

Well, perhaps not all. There are black sheep in every flock, and wherever the nature of Adam survives, there we may behold wisdom and folly dancing to the same tune, and sin and repentance occupying the same couch. So it has been from the first, and so it will be to the end. But, take them all in all, making due allowance for the tendencies of human nature, the men and women who responded to the invitation of Raleigh Clopton may be described as the salt of the earth. They had all, women and men, been subjected to the trials and hardships of a war in which no quarter was asked or given; and their experiences had given them a strength of character, and a versatility in dealing with unexpected events, that could hardly be matched elsewhere. To each of those who responded to his invitation, Raleigh Clopton gave a part of his domain, and laid out their settlement for them.

This was the origin of Shady Dale. But to set forth its origin is not to describe its beauty, which is of a character that refuses to submit to description. You go down to the old town from the city, and you say to yourself and your friends that you are enjoying the delights of the country. You visit it from the plantations, and you feel that you are breathing the kind of atmosphere that should be found in the social life of a large, refined and perfectly homogeneous community. But whether you go there from the city, or from the plantations, you are inevitably impressed with a sense of the attractiveness of the place; you fall under the spell of the old town—it was old even in the old times of the sixties. And yet if you were called upon to define the nature of the spell, what could you say? What name could you give to the tremulous beauty that hovers about and around the place, when the fresh green leaves of the great trees are fluttering in the cool wind, and everything is touched and illumined by the tender colours of spring? Under what heading in the catalogue of things would you place the vivid richness which animates the town and the landscape all around when the summer is at its height? And how could you describe the harmony that time has brought about between the fine old houses and the setting in which they are grouped?

All these things are elusive; they make themselves keenly felt, but they do not lend themselves to analysis.

It is a pity that those who are interested in traditions that are truer than history could not have all the facts in regard to Shady Dale from the lips of Mr. Obadiah Tutwiler, who had constituted himself the oral historian of the community. Mr. Tutwiler was alive as late as 1869, and had at his fingers'-ends all the essential facts relating to the origin and growth of the town, and he related the story with a fluency, an accuracy, and a relish quite surprising in so old a man.

As was fitting, the old court-house, the temple of justice, had been reared in the centre of the town, and the square that surrounds it took the shape of a park of considerable dimensions. On two sides were some of the more pretentious dwellings; the tavern, with a few of the more modest houses took up a third side; while the fourth side was taken up by the shops and stores; and so careful had the early settlers been with the trees, that it was possible to stand in a certain upper window of the court-house, and look out upon the town with not a house in sight.

Naturally, the most interesting feature of Shady Dale was the Clopton Place. It had been the home of the First Settler, and in 1860, when Nan and Gabriel were enjoying their happiest days, it was owned and occupied by the son, Meriwether Clopton.

From the time of the First Settler, the Clopton Place had been dedicated and set apart to the uses of hospitality. The deed in which General McGillivray, in the name of the Creek Nation, conveyed the domain to Raleigh Clopton, distinctly sets forth the condition that the Clopton Place was to be an asylum and a place of refuge for the unfortunate and for those who needed succour. During the long and bloody contests between the white settlers and the Creeks, it was the pleasure of the Creek chief to pay out of his own private fortune, which was a large one for those days, the ransoms which, under the rules of the tribal organisations, each Indian town demanded for the prisoners captured by its warriors. Such was the poverty of the whites in general that only occasionally was General McGillivray reimbursed for his expenditures in this direction.

But no matter by whom the ransoms were paid, the prisoners were one and all forwarded to the Clopton Place, where they were cared for until such time as they could be transferred to the white settlements. In this way hospitality became a habit at the Place, and in the years that followed, no wayfarer was ever turned away from those wide doors.

In the pleasant weather, it was a familiar spectacle to see Meriwether Clopton sitting on the wide lawn, reading Virgil and Horace, two volumes of which he never tired. His favourite seat was in the shade of a silver maple, through the branches of which a grapevine had been trained. This silver maple, with the vine running through it, and the seat in the shade, were a realisation, he once told Gabriel and Cephas, of one of the most beautiful poems in one of the volumes, but whether Virgil or Horace, the aforesaid Cephas is unable to remember.

There were days long to be remembered when the Master of Clopton Place read aloud to the children, translating as he went along, and smacking his lips over the choice of words as though he were tasting a fine quality of wine. And the children felt the charm of these ancient verses; and they soon came to understand why words written down centuries ago, had power to take possession of the mind. They were charged with the qualities that brought them home to the modern hour; and for all that was foreign in them, they might have been composed at Shady Dale. It is no wonder that the common people in the Middle Ages clothed Virgil with the gift and power of a prophet or a magician.

Something of the charm that dwelt all about the place had its origin and centre in Meriwether Clopton himself. His years sat lightly upon him. He had led an active and a temperate life, and a hale and hearty old age was the fruit thereof. He had had his flings, and something more, perhaps, for there were traditions of some very serious troubles in which he had been engaged shortly after reaching his majority. But Gabriel's grandmother, who knew—none better—declared that these troubles were not of Meriwether Clopton's seeking. They were the results of a legacy of feuds which Raleigh Clopton, through no desire of his own, had left to his son. It was said of Raleigh Clopton that his sense of justice was as strong as his temper, which was a stormy one. He espoused the cause of young Eli Whitney, who had been despoiled of his rights in the cotton-gin in Georgia, and this led him into a series of difficulties without parallel in the history of the State. Raleigh Clopton's attitude in this contest brought him in conflict with some of the most powerful men and interests in the commonwealth. It was a contest in which knavery, fraud and corruption, the courts, and considerable private capital, were all combined against Whitney, who appeared to be without a strong friend until Raleigh Clopton became his champion.

The collusion of the courts with this high-handed robbery was so ill-concealed that Raleigh Clopton soon discovered the fact, and his indignation rose to such a white heat that it drove him to excesses. He dragged one judge from a buggy, and plied him with a rawhide, he slapped the face of another in a public house, and posted a dozen prominent men as thieves and corruptionists, with the result that the State fairly swarmed with his enemies, men who were able to keep him busy in the way of troubles and difficulties. It was the day of private feuds, and it was not surprising that some of these enemies should attack the father through the son. Thus it fell out that Meriwether Clopton's experience for half a score of years after he came of age was anything but peaceful. But he came out of all these difficulties with head erect, clean hands and a clear conscience. He was neither hardened nor embittered by the violence with which he had to deal. On the contrary, his character was strengthened and his temper sweetened; so that when the lads who listened to his mellifluous translations from the Latin poets, were old enough to appreciate the qualities that go to make up a good man and an influential citizen, the fact dawned upon their minds that Meriwether Clopton was the finest gentleman they had ever seen.

CHAPTER THREE

The Return of Two Warriors

When the great contest began, Nan was close to thirteen, and Gabriel was fourteen. Cephas was younger; he had lived hardly as many months as he had freckles on his face, otherwise he would have been an aged citizen. They wandered about together, always accompanied by Tasma Tid, all of them being children in every sense of the word. Occasionally they were joined by some of the other boys and girls; but they were always happier when they were left to themselves.

In the late afternoons they could always be found in the Bermuda fields, but at other times, especially on a warm day, their favourite playground was under the wide-spreading elms in front of the post-office. Amusing themselves there in the fine weather, they could see the people come and go, many of them looking for letters that never came. When the conflict at the front became warm and serious, and when the very newspapers, as Mrs. Absalom said, smelt of blood, there was always a large crowd of men, old and young, gathered at the post-office when the mail-coach came from Malvern. As few of the people subscribed for a daily newspaper, Judge Odom (he was Judge of the Inferior Court, now called the Court of Ordinary) took upon himself to mount a chair or a dry-goods box, and read aloud the despatches printed in the Malvern Recorder. This enterprising journal had a number of volunteer correspondents at the front who made it a point to send with their letters the lists of the killed and wounded in the various Georgia regiments; and these lists grew ominously long as the days went by.

And then, in the course of time, came the collapse of the Confederacy, an event that blew away with a breath, as it were, the hopes and dreams of those who had undertaken to build a new government in the South; and this march of time brought about a gradual change in the relations between Nan and Gabriel. It was almost as imperceptible in its growth as the movement of the shadow on the sun-dial. Somehow, and to her great disgust, Nan awoke one morning and was told that she was a young woman, or dreamt that she was told. Anyhow, she realised, all of a sudden, that she was now too tall for short dresses, and too old to be playing with the boys as if she were one of them; and the consciousness of this change gave her many a bad quarter of an hour, and sometimes made her a trifle irritable; for, sweet as she was, she had a temper.

She asked herself a thousand times why she should now begin to feel shy of Gabriel, and why she should be so self-conscious, she who had never thought of herself with any degree of seriousness until now. It was all a puzzle to her. As it was with Nan, so it was with Gabriel. As Nan grew shy and shyer, so the newly-awakened Gabriel grew more and more and more timid, and the two soon found themselves very far apart without knowing why. For a long time Cephas was the only connecting link between them. He was a sly little rascal, this same Cephas, and he found in the situation food for both curiosity and amusement. He had not the least notion why the two friends and comrades were inclined to avoid each other. He only knew that he was not having as pleasant a time as fell to his portion when they were all going about together with no serious notions of life or conduct.

Cephas got no satisfaction from either Nan or Gabriel when he asked them what the trouble was. Nan tried to explain matters, but her explanation was a very lame one. "I am getting old enough to be serious, Cephas; and I must begin to make myself useful. That's what Miss Polly Gaither says, and she's old enough to know. Oh, I hate it all!" said Nan.

"Is Miss Polly Gaither useful?" inquired Cephas.

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Nan; "but that's what she told me, and then she held up her ear-trumpet for me to talk in it; but I just couldn't, she looked so very much in earnest. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. Did you ever notice, Cephas, how funny people are when they are really in earnest?"

Alas! Cephas had often pinched himself in Sunday-school to keep from laughing at old Mrs. Crafton, his teacher. She was so dreadfully in earnest that she kept her face in a pucker the whole time. Outside of the Sunday-school she was a very pleasant old lady.

Gabriel had no explanation to make whatever. He simply told Cephas that Nan was becoming vain. This Cephas denied with great emphasis, but Gabriel only shook his head and looked wise, as much as to say that he knew what he knew, and would continue to know it for some time to come. The truth is, however, that Gabriel was as ignorant of the feminine nature as it is possible for a young fellow to be; whereas, Nan, by means of the instinct or intuition which heaven has conferred on her sex for their protection, knew Gabriel a great deal better than she knew herself.

When the war came to a close, Gabriel was nearly eighteen, and Nan was seventeen, though she appeared to be a year or two younger. She was still childish in her ways and tastes, and carried with her an atmosphere of simplicity and sweetness in which very few girls of her age are fortunate enough to move. Simplicity was a part of her nature, though some of her young lady friends used to whisper to one another that it was all assumed. She was even referred to as Miss Prissy, a term that was probably intended to be an abbreviation of Priscilla.

Regularly, she used to hunt Cephas up and carry him home with her for the afternoon; and on the other hand, Gabriel manifested a great fondness for the little fellow, who enjoyed his enviable popularity with a clear conscience. It was years and years afterwards before the secret of his popularity dawned on him. If he had suspected it at the time, his pride, such as he had, would have had a terrible fall.

One day, it was the year of Appomattox, and the month was June, Cephas heard his name called, and answered very promptly, for the voice was the voice of Gabriel, and it was burdened with an invitation to visit the woods and fields that surrounded the town. The weather itself was burdened with the same invitation. The birds sang it, and it rustled in the leaves of the trees. And Cephas leaped from the house, glad of any excuse to escape from the domestic task at which he had been set. They wandered forth, and became a part and parcel of the wild things. The hermit thrush, with his silver bell, was their brother, and the cat-bird, distressed for the safety of her young, was their sister. Yea, and the gray squirrel was their playmate, a shy one, it is true, but none the less a genuine one for all that. They roamed about the green-wood, and over the hills and fields, and finally found themselves in the public highway that leads to Malvern.

Cephas found a cornstalk, and with hardly an effort of his mind, changed it into a fine saddle-horse. The contagion seized Gabriel, and though he was close upon his eighteenth birthday, he secured a cornstalk, which at once became a saddle-horse at his bidding. The magical powers of youth are wonderful, and for a little while the cornstalk horses were as real as any horses could be. The steed that Cephas bestrode was comparatively gentle, but Gabriel's horse developed a desire to take fright at everything he saw. A creature more skittish and nervous was never seen, and his example was soon followed by the steed that Cephas rode. The two boys were so busily engaged in trying to control their perverse horses, that they failed to see a big covered waggon that came creeping up the hill behind them. So, while they were cutting up their queer capers, the big waggon, drawn by two large mules, was plumb upon them. As for Cephas, he didn't care, being at an age when such capers are permissible, but Gabriel blushed when he discovered that his childish pranks had witnesses; and he turned a shade redder when he saw that the occupants of the waggon were, of all the persons in the world, Mr. Billy Sanders and Francis Bethune.

Both of the boys would have passed on but for the compelling voice of Mr. Sanders. "Why, it's little Gabe, and he's little Gabe no longer. And Cephas ain't growed a mite. Hello, Gabe! Hello, Cephas! Howdy, howdy?"

Francis Bethune's salutation was somewhat constrained, or if that be too large a word, was lacking in cordiality. "What is the matter with Gabriel?" he asked.

"It's a thousand pities, Frank," remarked Mr. Sanders, "that Sarah Clopton wouldn't let you be a boy along with the other boys; but she coddled you up jest like you was a gal. Be jigged ef I don't believe you've got on pantalettes right now."

Bethune blushed hotly, while Gabriel and Cephas fairly yelled with laughter—and there was a little resentment in Gabriel's mirth. "But I don't see what could possess Tolliver," Bethune insisted.

"Shucks, Frank! you wouldn't know ef he was to write it down for you, an' Nan Dorrin'ton would know wi'out any tellin'. You ain't a bit brighter about sech matters than you was the day Nan give you a thumpin'."

At this Gabriel laughed again, for he had been an eye-witness to the episode to which Mr. Sanders referred. A boy has his prejudices, as older persons have theirs. Bethune had always had the appearance of being too fond of himself; when other boys of his age were playing and pranking, he would be primping, and in the afternoon, before he went off to the war, he would strut around town in the uniform of a cadet, and seemed to think himself better than any one else. These things count with boys as much as they do with older persons.

"Climb in the waggin, Gabe an' Cephas, an' tell us about ever'thing an' ever'body. The Yanks didn't take the town off, did they?"

The boys accepted the invitation without further pressing, for they were both fond of Mr. Sanders, and proceeded to give their old friend all the information he desired. Francis Bethune asked no questions, and Gabriel was very glad of it. At bottom, Bethune was a very clever fellow, but the boys are apt to make up their judgments from what is merely superficial. Francis had a very handsome face, and he could have made himself attractive to a youngster on the lookout for friends, but he had chosen a different line of conduct, and as a result, Gabriel had several scores against the young man. And so had Cephas; for, on one occasion, the latter had gone to the Clopton Place for some wine for his mother, who was something of an invalid, and, coming suddenly on Sarah Clopton, found her in tears. Cephas never had a greater shock than the sight gave him, for he had never connected this self-contained, gray-haired woman with any of the tenderer emotions. In the child's mind, she was simply a sort of superintendent of affairs on the Clopton Place, who, in the early mornings, stood on the back porch of the big house, and, in a voice loud enough to be heard a considerable distance, gave orders to the domestics, and allotted to the field hands their tasks for the day.

Sarah Clopton must have seen how shocked the child was, for she dried her eyes and tried to laugh, saying, "You never expected to see me crying, did you, little boy?" Cephas had no answer for this, but when she asked if he could guess why she was crying, the child remembered what he had heard Nan and Gabriel say, and he gave an answer that was both prompt and blunt. "I reckon Frank Bethune has been making a fool of himself again," said he.

"But how did you know, child?" she asked, placing her soft white fingers under his chin, and lifting his face toward the light. "You are a wise lad for your years," she said, when he made no reply, "and I am sure you are sensible enough to do me a favour. Please say nothing about what you have seen. An old woman's tears amount to very little. And don't be too hard on Frank. He has simply been playing some college prank, and they are sending him home."

The most interesting piece of news that Gabriel had in his budget related to the hanging of Mr. Absalom Goodlett by some of Sherman's men, when that commander came marching through Georgia. It seems that a negro had told the men that Mr. Goodlett knew where the Clopton silver had been concealed, and they took him in hand and tried to frighten him into giving them information which he did not possess. Threats failing, they secured a rope and strung him up to a tree. They strung him up three times, and the third time, they went off and left him hanging; and but for the promptness of the negro who was the cause of the trouble, and who had been an interested spectator of the proceedings, Mr. Goodlett would never have opened his eyes on the affairs of this world again. The negro cut him down in the nick of time, and as soon as he recovered, he sent the darkey with instructions to go after the men, and tell them where they could find the plate, indicating an isolated spot. Whereupon Mr. Goodlett took his gun, and went to the point indicated. The negro carried out his instructions to the letter. He found the men, who had not gone far, pointed out the spot from a safe distance, and then waited to see what would happen. If he saw anything unusual, he never told of it; but the men were never seen again. Some of their companions returned to search for them, but the search was a futile one. The negro went about with a frightened face for several days, and then he settled down to work for Mr. Goodlett, in whom he seemed to have a strange interest. He showed this in every way.

"You keep yo' eye on 'im," he used to say to his coloured acquaintances, in speaking of Mr. Goodlett; "keep yo' eye on 'im, an' when you see his under-jaw stickin' out, des turn you' back, an' put yo' fingers in yo' ears."

"You never know," said Mr. Sanders, in commenting on the story, "what a man will do ontell he gits rank pizen mad, or starvin' hongry, or in love."

"What would you do, Mr. Sanders, if you were in love?" Gabriel asked innocently enough.

"Maybe I'd do as Frank does," replied Mr. Sanders, smiling blandly; "shed scaldin' tears one minnit, an' bite my finger-nails the next; maybe I would, but I don't believe it."

"Now, I'll swear you ought not to tell these boys such stuff as that!" exclaimed Francis Bethune angrily. "I don't know about Cephas, but Tolliver doesn't like me any way."

"How do you know?" inquired Gabriel.

"Because you used to make faces at me," replied Bethune, half laughing.

"Why, so did Nan," Gabriel rejoined. "Mine must have been terrible ones for you to remember them so well."

The reference to Nan struck Bethune, and he began to gnaw at the end of his thumb, whereupon Mr. Sanders smiled broadly. The young man reflected a moment and then remarked, his face a trifle redder than usual; "Isn't the young lady old enough for you to call her Miss Dorrington?"

"She is," replied Gabriel; "but if she permits me to call her Nan, why should any one else object?"

There was no answer to this, but presently Bethune turned to Gabriel and said: "Why do you dislike me, Tolliver?"

For a little time the lad was silent; he was trying to formulate his prejudices into something substantial and sufficient, but the effort was a futile one. While he was silent, Bethune regarded him with a curious stare. "Honestly," said Gabriel, "I can give no reason; and I'm not sure I dislike you. But you always held your head so high that I kept away from you. I had an idea that you felt yourself above me because my grandmother is not as rich as the Cloptons."

The statement seemed to amaze Bethune. "You couldn't have been more than ten or twelve when I left here for the war," he remarked.

"Yes, I was more than thirteen," Gabriel replied.

"Well, I never thought that a boy so young could have such thoughts," Bethune declared.

"Pooh!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders; "a fourteen-year-old boy can have some mighty deep thoughts, specially ef he' been brung up in a house full of books, as Gabriel was. I hope, Gabriel," he went on, "that you'll stick to your cornstalk hoss as long as you want to. You'll live longer for it, an' your friends will love you jest the same. Frank here has never been a boy. Out of bib an' hippin, he jumped into long britches an' a standin' collar, an' the only fun he ever had in his life he got kicked out of college for, an' served him right, too. I'll bet you a thrip to a pint of pot-licker that Nan'll ride a stick hoss tomorrer ef she takes a notion—an' she's seventeen. Don't you forgit, Gabriel, that you'll never be a boy but once, an' you better make the most on it whilst you can."

The waggon came just then to the brow of the hill that overlooked Shady Dale, and here Mr. Sanders brought his team to a standstill. It had been many long months since his eyes or Bethune's had gazed on the familiar scene. "I'll tell you what's the fact, boys," he said, drawing in a long breath—"the purtiest place this side of Paradise lies right yander before our eyes. Ef I had some un to give out the lines, I'd cut loose and sing a hime. Yes, sirs! you'd see me break out an' howl jest like my old coon dog, Louder, used to do when he struck a hot track. The Lord has picked us out of the crowd, Frank, an' holp us along at every turn an' crossin'. But before the week's out, we'll forgit to be thankful. J'inin' the church wouldn't do us a grain of good. By next Sunday week, Frank, you'll be struttin' around as proud as a turkey gobbler, an' you'll git wuss an' wuss less'n Nan takes a notion for to frail you out ag'in."

Bethune relished the remark so little that he chirped to the mules, but Mr. Sanders seized the reins in his own hands. "We've fit an' we've fout, an' we've got knocked out," he went on, "an' now, here we are ready for to take a fresh start. The Lord send that it's the right start." He would have driven on, but at that moment, a shabby looking vehicle drew up alongside the waggon. Gabriel and Cephas knew at once that the outfit belonged to Mr. Goodlett. His mismatched team consisted of a very large horse and a very small mule, both of them veterans of the war. They had been left by the Federals in a broken-down condition, and Mr. Goodlett found them grazing about, trying to pick up a living. He appropriated them, fed them well, and was now utilising them not only for farm purposes, but for conveying stray travellers to and from Malvern, earning in this way many a dollar that would have gone elsewhere.

Mr. Goodlett drew rein when he saw Mr. Sanders and Francis Bethune, and gave them as cordial a greeting as he could, for he was a very undemonstrative and reticent man. At that time both Gabriel and Cephas thought he was both sour and surly, but, in the course of events, their opinions in regard to that and a great many other matters underwent a considerable change.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mr. Goodlett's Passengers

The vehicle that Mr. Goodlett was driving was an old hack that had been used for long years to ply between Shady Dale and Malvern. On this occasion, Mr. Goodlett had for his passengers a lady and a young woman apparently about Nan's age. There was such a contrast between the two that Gabriel became absorbed in contemplating them; so much so that he failed to hear the greetings that passed between Mr. Goodlett and Mr. Sanders, who were old-time friends. The elder of the two women was emaciated to a degree, and her face was pale to the point of ghastliness; but in spite of her apparent weakness, there was an ease and a refinement in her manner, a repose and a self-possession that reminded Gabriel of his grandmother, when she was receiving the fine ladies from a distance who sometimes called on her. The younger of the two women, on the other hand, was the picture of health. The buoyancy of youth possessed her. She had an eager, impatient way of handling her fan and handkerchief, and there was a twinkle in her eye that spoke of humour; but her glance never fell directly on the men in the waggon; all her attention was for the invalid.

Mr. Goodlett, his greeting over, was for pushing on, but the voice of the invalid detained him. "Can you tell me," she said, turning to Mr. Sanders, "whether the Gaither Place is occupied? Oh, but I forgot; you are just returning from that horrible, horrible war." She had lifted herself from a reclining position, but fell back hopelessly.

"Why, Ab thar ought to be able to tell you that," responded Mr. Sanders, his voice full of sympathy.

"Well, I jest ain't," declared Mr. Goodlett, with some show of impatience. "I tell you, William, I been so worried an' flurried, an' so disqualified an' mortified, an' so het up wi' fust one thing an' then another, that I ain't skacely had time for to scratch myself on the eatchin' places, much less gittin' up all times er night for to see ef the Gaither Place is got folks or ha'nts in it. When you've been through what I have, William, you won't come a-axin' me ef the Gaither house is whar it mought be, or whar it oughter be, or ef it's popylated or dispopylated."

The young lady stroked the invalid's hand and smiled. Something in the frowning face and fractious tone of the old man evidently appealed to her sense of humour. "Don't you think it is absurd," said the pale lady, again appealing to Mr. Sanders, "that a person should live in so small a town, and not know whether one of the largest houses in the place is occupied—a house that belongs to a family that used to be one of the most prominent of the county? Why, of course it is absurd. There is something uncanny about it. I haven't had such a shock in many a day."

"But, mother," protested the young lady, "why worry about it? A great many strange things have happened to us, and this is the least important of all."

"Why, dearest, this is the strangest of all strange things. The driver here says he lives at Dorringtons', and the Gaither house is not so very far from Dorringtons'."

"Everybody knows," said Gabriel, "that Miss Polly Gaither lives in the Gaither house." He spoke before he was aware, and began to blush. Whereupon the young lady gave him a very bright smile.

"Humph!" grunted Mr. Goodlett, giving the lad a severe look. He started to climb into his seat, but turned to Gabriel. "Is she got a wen?" he asked, with something like a scowl.

"Yes, she has a wen," replied the lad, blushing again, but this time for Mr. Goodlett.

"Well, then, ef she's got a wen, ef Polly Gaithers is got a wen, she's livin' in that house, bekaze, no longer'n last Sat'day, she come roun' for to borry some meal; an' whatsomever she use to have, an' whatsomever she mought have herearter, she's got a wen now, an' I'll tell you so on a stack of Bibles as high as the court-house."

The young lady laughed, but immediately controlled herself with a half-petulant "Oh dear!" Laughter became her well, for it smoothed away a little frown of perplexity that had established itself between her eyebrows.

"Oh, we'll take the young man's word for it," said the invalid, "and we are very much obliged to him. What is your name?" When Gabriel had told her, she repeated the name over again. "I used to know your grandmother very well," she said. "Tell her Margaret Bridalbin has returned home, and would be delighted to see her."

"Then, ma'am, you must be Margaret Gaither," remarked Mr. Sanders.

"Yes, I was Margaret Gaither," replied the invalid. "I used to know you very well, Mr. Sanders, and if I had changed as little as you have, I could still boast of my beauty."

"Yet nobody hears me braggin' of mine, Margaret," said Mr. Sanders with a smile that found its reflection in the daughter's face; "but I hope from my heart that home an' old friends will be a good physic for you, an' git you to braggin' ag'in. Anyhow, ef you don't brag on yourself, you can take up a good part of the time braggin' on your daughter."

"Oh, thank you, sir, for the clever joke. My mother has told me long ago how full of fun you are," said the young lady, blushing sufficiently to show that she did not regard the compliment as altogether a joke. "You may drive on now," she remarked to Mr. Goodlett. Whereupon that surly-looking veteran slapped his mismatched team with the loose ends of the reins, and the shabby old hack moved off toward Shady Dale. Mr. Sanders waited for the vehicle to get some distance ahead, and then he too urged his team forward.

"The word is Home," he said; "I reckon Margaret has had her sheer of trouble, an' a few slices more. She made her own bed, as the sayin' is, an' now she's layin' on it. Well, well, well! when time an' occasions take arter you, it ain't no use to run; you mought jest as well set right flat on the ground an' see what they've got ag'in you."

The remark was not original, nor very deep, but it recurred to Gabriel when trouble plucked at his own sleeve, or when he saw disaster run through a family like a contagion.

In no long time the waggon reached the outskirts of the town, where the highway became a part of the wide street that ran through the centre of Shady Dale, flowing around the old court-house in the semblance of a wide river embracing a small island. Gabriel and Cephas were on the point of leaving the waggon here, but Mr. Sanders was of another mind.

"Ride on to Dorrin'tons' wi' us," he said. "I want to swap a joke or two wi' Mrs. Ab."

"She's sure to get the best of it," Gabriel warned him.

"Likely enough, but that won't spile the fun," responded Mr. Sanders.

Mrs. Absalom, as she was called, was the wife of Mr. Goodlett, and was marked off from the great majority of her sex by her keen appreciation of humour. Her own contributions were spoiled for some, for the reason that she gave them the tone of quarrelsomeness; whereas, it is to be doubted whether she ever gave way to real anger more than once or twice in her life. She was Dr. Randolph Dorrington's housekeeper, and was a real mother to Nan, who was motherless before she had drawn a dozen breaths of the poisonous air of this world.

By the time the waggon reached Dorrington's, Gabriel, acting on the instructions of Mr. Sanders, had crawled under the cover of the waggon, and was holding out a pair of old shoes, so that a passer-by would imagine that some one was lying prone in the waggon with his feet sticking out.

When the waggon reached the Dorrington Place, Mr. Sanders drew rein, and hailed the house, having signed to Cephas to make himself invisible. Evidently Mrs. Absalom was in the rear, or in the kitchen, which was a favourite resort of hers, for the "hello" had to be repeated a number of times before she made her appearance. She came wiping her face on her ample apron, and brushing the hair from her eyes. She was always a busy housekeeper.

"We're huntin', ma'am, for a place called Cloptons'," said Mr. Sanders in a falsetto voice, his hat pulled down over his eyes; "an' we'd thank you might'ly ef you'd put us on the right road. About four mile back, we picked up a' old snoozer who calls himself William H. Sanders, an' he keeps on talkin' about the Clopton Place."

"Why, the Clopton Place is right down the road a piece. What in the world is the matter wi' old Billy?" she inquired with real solicitude. "Was he wounded in the war, or is he jest up to some of his old-time devilment?"

"Well, ma'am, from the looks of the jimmyjon we found by his side, he must 'a' shot hisself in the neck. He complains of cold feet, an' he's got 'em stuck out from under the kiver."

"Don't you worry about that," said Mrs. Absalom; "the climate will never strike in on old Billy's feet till he gits better acquainted wi' soap an' water."

"An' he talks in his sleep about a Mrs. Absalom," Mr. Sanders went on, "an' he cries, an' says she used to be his sweetheart, but he had to jilt her bekaze she can't cook a decent biscuit."

"The old villain!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom, with well simulated indignation; "he can't tell the truth even when he's drunk. If he ever sobers up in this world, I'll give him a long piece of my mind. Jest drive on the way you've started, an' ef you can keep in the middle of the road wi' that drunken old slink in the waggin, you'll come to Cloptons' in a mighty few minutes."

At this juncture Mr. Sanders was obliged to laugh, whereupon, Mrs. Absalom, looking narrowly at the travellers, had no difficulty in recognising them. "Well, my life!" she exclaimed, raising her hands above her head in a gesture of amazement. "Why, that's old Billy, an' him sober; and Franky Bethune, an' him not a primpin'! Well, well! I'd 'a' never believed it ef I hadn't 'a' seed it. I vow I'm beginnin' to believe that war's a real good thing; it's like a revival meetin' for some folks. I'm sorry Ab didn't take his gun an' jine in—maybe he'd 'a' shed his stinginess. But I declare to gracious, I'm glad to see you all; the sight of you is good for the sore eyes. An' Frank tryin' to raise a beard! Well, honey, I'll send you a bottle of bergamot grease to rub on it."

Mrs. Absalom came out to the waggon and shook hands with the returned warriors very heartily, and, sharp as her tongue was, there were tears in her eyes as she greeted them; for in that region, nearly all had feelings of kinship for their neighbours and friends, and in that day and time, people were not ashamed of their emotions.

"Margaret Gaither has come back," remarked Mr. Sanders. "Ab fetched her in his hack."

"Well, the poor creetur'!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom; "they say she's had trouble piled on her house-high."

"She won't have much more in this world ef looks is any sign," Mr. Sanders replied. "She ain't nothin' but a livin' skeleton, but she's got a mighty lively gal."

The waggon moved on and left Mrs. Absalom leaning on the gate, a position that she kept for some little time. Farther down the road, Gabriel, whose example was followed by Cephas, bade Mr. Sanders good-bye, nodded lightly to Francis Bethune, and jumped from the waggon.

"Wait a moment, Tolliver," said Bethune. "I want you to come to see me—and bring Cephas with you. I am going to make you like me if I can. The home folks have been writing great things about you. Oh, you must come," he insisted, seeing that Gabriel was hesitating. "I want to show you what a good fellow I can be when I try right hard."

"Yes, you boys must come," said Mr. Sanders; "an' ef Frank is off courtin' that new gal—I ketched him cuttin' his eye at her—you can hunt me up, an' I'll tell you some old-time tales that'll make your hair stan' on end."

CHAPTER FIVE

The Story of Margaret Gaither

Gabriel and Cephas started toward their homes, which lay in the same direction. Instead of going around by road or street, they cut across the fields and woods. Before they had gone very far, they heard a rustling, swishing sound in the pine-thicket through which they were passing, but gave it little attention, both being used to the noises common to the forest. In their minds it was either a rabbit or a grey fox scuttling away; or a poree scratching in the bushes, or a ground-squirrel running in the underbrush.

But a moment later, Nan Dorrington, followed by Tasma Tid, burst from the pine-thicket, crying, "Oh, you walk so fast, you two!" She was panting and laughing, and as she stood before the lads, one little hand at her throat, and the other vainly trying to control her flying hair, a delicious rosiness illuminating her face, Gabriel knew that he had just been doing her a gross injustice. As he walked along the path, followed by his faithful Cephas, he had been mentally comparing her to a young woman he had just seen in Mr. Goodlett's hack; and had been saying to himself that the new-comer was, if possible, more beautiful than Nan.

But now here was Nan herself in person, and Gabriel's comparisons appeared to be shabby indeed. With Nan before his eyes, he could see what a foolish thing it was to compare her with any one in this world except herself. There was a flavour of wildness in her beauty that gave it infinite charm and variety. It was a wildness that is wedded to grace and vivacity, such as we see embodied in the form and gestures of the wood-dove, or the partridge, or the flying squirrel, when it is un-awed by the presence of man. The flash of her dark brown eyes, her tawny hair blowing free, and her lithe figure, with the dark green pines for a background, completed the most charming picture it is possible for the mind to conceive. All that Gabriel was conscious of, beyond a dim surprise that Nan should be here—the old Nan that he used to know—was a sort of dawning thrill of ecstasy as he contemplated her. He stood staring at her with his mouth open.

"Why do you look at me like that, Gabriel?" she cried; "I am no ghost. And why do you walk so fast? I have been running after you as hard as I can. And, wasn't that Francis Bethune in the waggon with Mr. Sanders?"

"Did you run hard just to ask me that? Mrs. Absalom could have saved you all this trouble." The mention of Bethune's name had brought Gabriel to earth, and to commonplace thoughts again. "Yes, that was Master Bethune, and he has grown to be a very handsome young man."

"Oh, he was always good-looking," said Nan lightly. "Where are you and Cephas going?"

"Straight home," replied Gabriel.

"Well, I'm going there, too. I heard Nonny" (this was Mrs. Absalom) "say that Margaret Gaither has come home again, and then I remembered that your grandmother promised to tell me a story about her some day. I'm going to tease her to-day until she tells it."

"And didn't Mrs. Absalom tell you that Bethune was in the waggon with Mr. Sanders?" Gabriel inquired, in some astonishment.

"Oh, Gabriel! you are so—" Nan paused as if hunting for the right term or word. Evidently she didn't find it, for she turned to Gabriel with a winning smile, and asked what Mr. Sanders had had to say. "I'm so glad he's come I don't know what to do. I wouldn't live in a town that didn't have its Mr. Sanders," she declared.

"Well, about the first thing he said was to remind Bethune of the time when you whacked him over the head with a cudgel."

"And what did Master Francis say to that?" inquired Nan, with a laugh.

"Why, what could he say? He simply turned red. Now, if it had been me, I——"

The path was so narrow, that Nan, the two lads, and Tasma Tid were walking in Indian file. Nan stopped so suddenly and unexpectedly that Gabriel fell against her. As he did so, she turned and seized him by the arm, and emphasised her words by shaking him gently as each was uttered. "Now—Gabriel—don't—say—disagreeable—things!"

What she meant he had not the least idea, and it was not the first nor the last time that his wit lacked the nimbleness to follow and catch her meaning.

"Disagreeable!" he exclaimed. "Why, I was simply going to say that if I had been in Bethune's shoes to-day, I should have declared that you did the proper thing."

Nan dropped a low curtsey, saying, "Oh, thank you, sir—what was the gentleman's name, Cephas—the gentleman who was such a cavalier?"

"Was he a Frenchman?" asked Cephas.

"Oh, Cephas! you should be ashamed. You have as little learning as I." With that she turned and went along the path at such a rapid pace that it was as much as the lads could do to keep up with her, without breaking into an undignified trot.

Nan went home with Gabriel; was there before him indeed, for he paused a moment to say something to Cephas. She ran along the walk, took the steps two at a time, and as she ran skipping along the hallway, she cried out: "Grandmother Lumsden! where are you? Oh, what do you think? Margaret Gaither has come home!" When Gabriel entered the room, Nan had fetched a footstool, and was already sitting at Mrs. Lumsden's feet, holding one of the old lady's frail, but beautiful white hands.

Here was another picture, the beauty of which dawned on Gabriel later—youth and innocence sitting at the feet of sweet and wholesome old age. The lad was always proud of his grandmother, but never more so than at that moment when her beauty and refinement were brought into high relief by her attitude toward Nan Dorrington. Gabriel was very happy to be near those two. Not for a weary time had Nan been so friendly and familiar as she was now, and he felt a kind of exaltation.

"Margaret Gaither! Margaret Gaither!" Gabriel's grandmother repeated the name as if trying to summon up some memory of the past. "Poor girl! Did you see her, Gabriel? And how did she look?" With a boy's bluntness, he described her physical condition, exaggerating, perhaps, its worst features, for these had made a deep impression on him. "Oh, I'm so sorry for her! and she has a daughter!" said Mrs. Lumsden softly. "I will call on them as soon as possible. And then if poor Margaret is unable to return the visit, the daughter will come. And you must be here, Nan; Gabriel will fetch you. And you, Gabriel—for once you must be polite and agreeable. Candace shall brush up your best suit, and if it is to be mended, I will mend it."

Nan and Gabriel laughed at this. Both knew that this famous best suit would not reach to the lad's ankles, and that the sleeves of the coat would end a little way below the elbow.

"I can't imagine what you are laughing at," said Mrs. Lumsden, with a faint smile. "I am sure the suit is a very respectable one, especially when you have none better."

"No, Grandmother Lumsden; Gabriel will have to take his tea in the kitchen with Aunt Candace."

However, the affair never came off. The dear old lady, in whom the social instinct was so strong, had no opportunity to send the invitation until long afterward. Nan was compelled to beg very hard for the story of Margaret Gaither. It was never the habit of Gabriel's grandmother to indulge in idle gossip; she could always find some excuse for the faults of those who were unfortunate; but Nan had the art of persuasion at her tongue's end. Whether it was this fact or the fact that Mrs. Lumsden believed that the story carried a moral that Nan would do well to digest, it would be impossible to say. At any rate, the youngsters soon had their desire. The story will hardly bear retelling; it can be compressed into a dozen lines, and be made as uninteresting as a newspaper paragraph; but, as told by Gabriel's grandmother, it had the charm which sympathy and pity never fail to impart to a narrative. When it came to an end, Nan was almost in tears, though she could never tell why.

"It happened, Nan, before you and Gabriel were born," said Mrs. Lumsden. "Margaret Gaither was one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, and at that time Pulaski Tomlin was one of the handsomest young men in all this region. Naturally these two were drawn together. They were in love with each other from the first, and, finally, a day was set for the wedding. They were to have been married in November, but one night in October, the Tomlin Place was found to be on fire. The flames had made considerable headway before they were discovered, and, to me, it was a most horrible sight. Yet, horrible as it was, there was a fascination about it. The sweeping roar of the flames attracted me and held me spellbound, but I hope I shall never be under such a spell again.

"Well, it was impossible to save the house, and no one attempted such a preposterous feat. It was all that the neighbours could do to prevent the spread of the flames to the nearby houses. Some of the furniture was saved, but the house was left to burn. All of a sudden, Fanny Tomlin——"

"You mean Aunt Fanny?" interrupted Nan.

"Yes, my dear. All of a sudden Fanny Tomlin remembered that her mother's portrait had been left hanging on the wall. Without a word to any one she ran into the house. How she ever passed through the door safely, I never could understand, for every instant, it seemed to me, great tongues and sheets of flame were darting across it and lapping and licking inward, as if trying to force an entrance. You may be sure that we who were looking on, helpless, held our breaths when Fanny Tomlin disappeared through the doorway. Pulaski Tomlin was not a witness to this performance, but he was quickly informed of it; and then he ran this way and that, like one distraught. Twice he called her name, and his voice must have been heard above the roar of the flames, for presently she appeared at an upper window, and cried out, 'What is it, brother?' 'Come down! Come out!' he shouted. 'I'm afraid I can't,' she answered; and then she waved her hand and disappeared, after trying vainly to close the blinds.

"But no sooner had Pulaski Tomlin caught a glimpse of his sister, and heard her voice, than he lowered his head like an angry bull, and rushed through the flames that now had possession of the door. I, for one, never expected to see him again; and I stood there frightened, horrified, fascinated, utterly helpless. Oh, when you go through a trial like that, my dear," said Mrs. Lumsden, stroking Nan's hair gently, "you will realise how small and weak and contemptible human beings are when they are engaged in a contest with the elements. There we stood, helpless and horror-stricken, with two of our friends in the burning house, which was now almost completely covered with the roaring flames. What thoughts I had I could never tell you, but I wondered afterward that I had not become suddenly grey.

"We waited an age, it seemed to me. Major Tomlin Perdue, of Halcyondale, who happened to be here at the time, was walking about wringing his hands and crying like a child. Up to that moment, I had thought him to be a hard and cruel man, but we can never judge others, not even our closest acquaintances, until we see them put to the test. Suddenly, I heard Major Perdue cry, 'Ah!' and saw him leap forward as a wild animal leaps.

"Through the doorway, which was now entirely covered with a roaring flame, a blurred and smoking figure had rushed—a bulky, shapeless figure, it seemed—and then it collapsed and fell, and lay in the midst of the smoke, almost within reach of the flames. But Major Perdue was there in an instant, and he dragged the shapeless mass away from the withering heat and stifling smoke. After this, he had more assistance than was necessary or desirable.

"'Stand back!' he cried; and his voice had in it the note that men never fail to obey. 'Stand back there! Where is Dorrington? Why isn't he here?' Your father, my dear, had gone into the country to see a patient. He was on his way home when he saw the red reflection of the flames in the sky, and he hastened as rapidly as his horse could go. He arrived just in the nick of time. He heard his name called as he drove up, and was prompt to answer. 'Make way there!' commanded Major Perdue; 'make way for Dorrington. And you ladies go home! There's nothing you can do here.' Then I heard Fanny Tomlin call my name, and Major Perdue repeated in a ringing voice, 'Lucy Lumsden is wanted here!'

"I don't know how it was, but every command given by Major Perdue was obeyed promptly. The crowd dispersed at once, with the exception of two or three, who were detailed to watch the few valuables that had been saved, and a few men who lingered to see if they could be of any service.

"Pulaski Tomlin had been kinder to his sister than to himself. Only the hem of her dress was scorched. It may be absurd to say so, but that was the first thing I noticed; and, in fact, that was all the injury she had suffered. Her brother had found her unconscious on a bed, and he simply rolled her in the quilts and blankets, and brought her downstairs, and out through the smoke and flame to the point where he fell. Fanny has not so much as a scar to show. But you can look at her brother's face and see what he suffered. When they lifted him into your father's buggy, his outer garments literally crumbled beneath the touch, and one whole side of his face was raw and bleeding.

"But he never thought of himself, though the agony he endured must have been awful. His first word was about his sister: 'Is Fanny hurt?' And when he was told that she was unharmed, he closed his eyes, saying, 'Don't worry about me.' We brought him here—it was Fanny's wish—and by the time he had been placed in bed, the muscles of his mouth were drawn as you see them now. There was nothing to do but to apply cold water, and this was done for the most part by Major Perdue, though both Fanny and I were anxious to relieve him. I never saw a man so devoted in his attentions. He was absolutely tireless; and I was so struck with his tender solicitude that I felt obliged to make to him what was at once a confession and an apology. 'I once thought, Major Perdue, that you were a hard and cruel man,' said I, 'but I'll never think so again.'

"'But why did you think so in the first place?' he asked.

"'Well, I had heard of several of your shooting scrapes,' I replied.

"He regarded me with a smile. 'There are two sides to everything, especially a row,' he said. 'I made up my mind when a boy that turn-about is fair play. When I insult a man, I'm prepared to take the consequences; yet I never insulted a man in my life. The man that insults me must pay for it. Women may wipe their feet on me, and children may spit on me; but no man shall insult me, not by so much as the lift of an eyelash, or the twitch of an upper-lip. Pulaski here has done me many a favour, some that he tried to hide, and I'd never get through paying him if I were to nurse him night and day for the rest of my natural life. In some things, Ma'am, you'll find me almost as good as a dog.'

"I must have given him a curious stare," continued Mrs. Lumsden, "for he laughed softly, and remarked, 'If you'll think it over, Ma'am, you'll find that a dog has some mighty fine qualities.' And it is true."

"But what about Margaret Gaither?" inquired Nan, who was determined that the love-story should not be lost in a wilderness of trifles—as she judged them to be.

"Poor Margaret!" murmured Gabriel's grandmother. "I declare! I had almost forgotten her. Well, bright and early the next morning, Margaret came and asked to see Pulaski Tomlin. I left her in the parlour, and carried her request to the sick-room.

"'Brother,' said Fanny, 'Margaret is here, and wants to see you. Shall she come in?'

"I saw Pulaski clench his hands; his bosom heaved and his lips quivered. 'Not for the world!' he exclaimed; 'oh, not for the world!'

"'I can't tell her that,' said I. 'Nor I,' sobbed Fanny, covering her face with her hands. 'Oh, it will kill her!'

"Major Perdue turned to me, his eyes wet. 'Do you know why he doesn't want her to see him?' I could only give an affirmative nod. 'Do you know, Fanny?' She could only say, 'Yes, yes!' between her sobs. 'It is for her sake alone; we all see that,' declared Major Perdue. 'Now, then,' he went on, touching me on the arm, 'I want you to see how hard a hard man can be. Show me where the poor child is.'

"I led him to the parlour door. He stood aside for me to enter first, but I shook my head and leaned against the door for support. 'This is Miss Gaither?' he said, as he entered alone. 'My name is Perdue—Tomlin Perdue. We are very sorry, but no one is permitted to see Pulaski, except those who are nursing him.' 'That is what I am here for,' she said, 'and no one has a better right. I am to be his wife; we are to be married next month.' 'It is not a matter of right, Miss Gaither. Are you prepared to sustain a very severe shock?' 'Why, what—what is the trouble?' 'Can you not conceive a reason why you should not see him now—at this time, and for many days to come?' 'I cannot,' she replied haughtily. 'That, Miss Gaither, is precisely the reason why you are not to see him now,' said Major Perdue. His tone was at once humble and tender. 'I don't understand you at all,' she exclaimed almost violently. 'I tell you I will see him; I'll beat upon the wall; I'll lie across the door, and compel you to open it. Oh, why am I treated so and by his friends!' She flung herself upon a sofa, weeping wildly; and there I found her, when, a moment later, I entered the room in response to a gesture from Major Perdue.

"Whether she glanced up and saw me, or whether she divined my presence, I could never guess," Gabriel's grandmother went on, "but without raising her face, she began to speak to me. 'This is your house, Miss Lucy,' she said—she always called me Miss Lucy—'and why can't I, his future wife, go in and speak to Pulaski; or, at the very least, hold his hand, and help you and Fanny minister to his wants?' I made her no answer, for I could not trust myself to speak; I simply sat on the edge of the sofa by her, and stroked her hair, trying in this mute way to demonstrate my sympathy. She seemed to take some comfort from this, and finally put her request in a different shape. Would I permit her to sit in a chair near the door of the room in which Pulaski lay, until such time as she could see him? 'I will give you no trouble whatever,' she said. 'I am determined to see him,' she declared; 'he is mine, and I am his.' I gave a cordial assent to this proposition, carried a comfortable chair and placed it near the door, and there she stationed herself.

"I went into the room where the others were, and was surprised to see Fanny Tomlin looking so cheerful. Even Major Perdue appeared to be relieved. Fanny asked me a question with her eyes, and I answered it aloud. 'She is sitting by the door, and says she will remain there until she can see Pulaski.' He beat his hand against the headboard of the bed, his mental agony was so great, and kept murmuring to himself. Major Perdue turned his back on his friend's writhings, and went to the window. Presently he returned to the bedside, his watch in his hand. 'Pulaski,' he said, 'if she's there fifteen minutes from now, I shall invite her in.' Pulaski Tomlin made no reply, and we continued our ministrations in perfect silence.

"A few minutes later, I had occasion to go into my own room for a strip of linen, and to my utter amazement, the chair I had placed for Margaret Gaither was empty. Had she gone for a drink of water, or for a book? I went from room to room, calling her name, but she had gone; and I have never laid eyes on her from that day to this. She went away to Malvern on a visit, and while there eloped with a Louisiana man named Bridalbin, whose reputation was none too savoury, and we never heard of her again. Even her Aunt Polly lost all trace of her."

"What did Mr. Tomlin say when you told him she was gone?" Nan inquired.

"We never told him. I think he understood that she was gone almost as soon as she went, for his spiritual faculties are very keen. I remember on one occasion, and that not so very long ago, when he refused to retire at night, because he had a feeling that he would be called for; and his intuitions were correct. He was summoned to the bedside of one of his friends in the country, and, as he went along, he carried your father with him. Margaret Gaither, such as she was, was the sum and the substance of his first and last romance. He suffered, but his suffering has made him strong.

"Yes," Mrs. Lumsden went on, "it has made him strong and great in the highest sense. Do you know why he is called Neighbour Tomlin? It is because he loves his neighbours as he loves himself. There is no sacrifice that he will not make for them. The poorest and meanest person in the world, black or white, can knock at Neighbour Tomlin's door any hour of the day or night, and obtain food, money or advice, as the case may be. If his wife or his children are ill, Neighbour Tomlin will get out of bed and go in the cold and rain, and give them the necessary attention. To me, there never was a more beautiful countenance in the world than Neighbour Tomlin's poor scarred face. But for that misfortune we should probably never have known what manner of man he is. The Providence that urged Margaret Gaither to fly from this house was arranging for the succour of many hundreds of unfortunates, and Pulaski Tomlin was its instrument."

"If I had been Margaret Gaither," said Nan, clenching her hands together, "I never would have left that door. Never! They couldn't have dragged me away. I've never been in love, I hope, but I have feelings that tell me what it is, and I never would have gone away."

"Well, we must not judge others," said Gabriel's grandmother gently. "Poor Margaret acted according to her nature. She was vain, and lacked stability, but I really believe that Providence had a hand in the whole matter."

"I know I'm pretty," remarked Nan, solemnly, "but I'm not vain."

"Why, Nan!" exclaimed Mrs. Lumsden, laughing; "what put in your head the idea that you are pretty?"

"I don't mean my own self," explained Nan, "but the other self that I see in the glass. She and I are very good friends, but sometimes we quarrel. She isn't the one that would have stayed at the door, but my own, own self."

Mrs. Lumsden looked at the girl closely to see if she was joking, but Nan was very serious indeed. "I'm sure I don't understand you," said Gabriel's grandmother.

"Gabriel does," replied Nan complacently. Gabriel understood well enough, but he never could have explained it satisfactorily to any one who was unfamiliar with Nan's way of putting things.

"Well, you are certainly a pretty girl, Nan," Gabriel's grandmother admitted, "and when you and Francis Bethune are married, you will make a handsome pair."

"When Francis Bethune and I are married!" exclaimed Nan, giving a swift side-glance at Gabriel, who pretended to be reading. "Why, what put such an idea in your head, Grandmother Lumsden?"

"Why, it is on the cards, my dear. It is what, in my young days, they used to call the proper caper."

"Well, when Frank and I are to be married, I'll send you a card of invitation so large that you will be unable to get it in the front door." She rose from the footstool, saying, "I must go home; good-bye, everybody; and send me word when you have chocolate cake."

This was so much like the Nan who had been his comrade for so long that Gabriel felt a little thrill of exultation. A little later he asked his grandmother what she meant by saying that it was on the cards for Nan to marry Bethune.

"Why, I have an idea that the matter has already been arranged," she answered with a knowing smile. "It would be so natural and appropriate. You are too young to appreciate the wisdom of such arrangements, Gabriel, but you will understand it when you are older. Nan is not related in any way to the Cloptons, though a great many people think so. Her grandmother was captured by the Creeks when only a year or two old. She was the only survivor of a party of seven which had been ambushed by the Indians. She was too young to give any information about herself. She could say a few words, and she knew that her name was Rosalind, but that was all. She was ransomed by General McGillivray, and sent to Shady Dale. Under the circumstances, there was nothing for Raleigh Clopton to do but adopt her. Thus she became Rosalind Clopton. She married Benier Odom when, as well as could be judged, she was more than forty years old. Randolph Dorrington married her daughter, who died when Nan was born. Marriage, Gabriel, is not what young people think it is; and I do hope that when you take a wife, it will be some one you have known all your life."

"I hope so, too," Gabriel responded with great heartiness.

CHAPTER SIX

The Passing of Margaret

The day after the return of Mr. Sanders and Francis Bethune from the war, Gabriel's grandmother had an early caller in the person of Miss Fanny Tomlin. For a maiden lady, Miss Fanny was very plump and good-looking. Her hair was grey, and she still wore it in short curls, just as she had worn it when a girl. The style became her well. The short curls gave her an air of jauntiness, which was in perfect keeping with her disposition, and they made a very pretty frame for her rosy, smiling face. Socially, she was the most popular person in the town, with both young and old. A children's party was a dull affair in Shady Dale without Miss Fanny to give it shape and form, to suggest games, and to make it certain that the timid ones should have their fair share of the enjoyment. Indeed, the community would have been a very dull one but for Miss Fanny; in return for which the young people conferred the distinction of kinship on her by calling her Aunt Fanny. She had remained single because her youngest brother, Pulaski, was unmarried, and needed some one to take care of him, so she said. But she had another brother, Silas Tomlin, who was twice a widower, and who seemed to need some one to take care of him, for he presented a very mean and miserable appearance.

It chanced that when Miss Fanny called, Gabriel was studying his lessons, using the dining-room table as a desk, and he was able to hear the conversation that ensued. Miss Fanny stood on no ceremony in entering. The front door was open and she entered without knocking, saying, "If there's nobody at home I'll carry the house away. Where are you, Lucy?"

"In my room, Fanny; come right in."

"How are you, and how is the high and mighty Gabriel?" Having received satisfactory answers to her friendly inquiries, Miss Fanny plunged at once into the business that had brought her out so early. "What do you think, Lucy? Margaret Gaither and her daughter have returned. They are at the Gaither Place, and Miss Polly has just told me that there isn't a mouthful to eat in the house—and there is Margaret at the point of death! Why, it is dreadful. Something must be done at once, that's certain. I wouldn't have bothered you, but you know what the circumstances are. I don't know what Margaret's feelings are with respect to me; you know we never were bosom friends. Yet I never really disliked her, and now, after all that has happened, I couldn't bear to think that she was suffering for anything. Likely enough she would be embarrassed if I called and offered assistance. What is to be done?"

"Wouldn't it be best for some one to call—some one who was her friend?" The cool, level voice of Gabriel's grandmother seemed to clear the atmosphere. "Whatever is to be done should be done sympathetically. If I could see Polly, there would be no difficulty."

"Well, I saw Miss Polly," said Miss Fanny, "and she told me the whole situation, and I was on the point of saying that I'd run back home and send something over, when an upper window was opened, and Margaret Gaither's daughter stood there gazing at me—and she's a beauty, Lucy; there's a chance for Gabriel there. Well, you know how deaf Miss Polly is; if I had said what I wanted to say, that child would have heard every word, and there was something in her face that held me dumb. Miss Polly talked and I nodded my head, and that was all. The old soul must have thought the cat had my tongue." Miss Fanny laughed uneasily as she made the last remark.

"If Margaret is ill, she should have attention. I will go there this morning." This was Mrs. Lumsden's decision.

"I'll send the carriage for you as soon as I can run home," said Miss Fanny. With that she rose to go, and hustled out of the room, but in the hallway she turned and remarked: "Tell Gabriel that he will have to lengthen his suspenders, now that Nan has put on long dresses."

"Oh, no!" protested Mrs. Lumsden. "We mustn't put any such nonsense in Gabriel's head. Nan is for Francis Bethune. If it isn't all arranged it ought to be. Why, the land of Dorrington joins the land that Bethune will fall heir to some day, and it seems natural that the two estates should become one." Gabriel's grandmother had old-fashioned ideas about marriage.

"Oh, I see!" replied Miss Fanny with a laugh; "you are so intent on joining the two estates in wedlock that you take no account of the individuals. But brother Pulaski says that for many years to come, the more land a man has the poorer he will become."

"Upon my word, I don't see how that can be," responded Mrs. Lumsden. This was the first faint whiff of the new order that had come to the nostrils of the dear old lady.

Miss Fanny went home, and in no long time Neighbour Tomlin's carriage came to the door. At the last moment, Mrs. Lumsden decided that Gabriel should go with her. "It may be necessary for you to go on an errand. I presume there are servants there, but I don't know whether they are to be depended on."

So Gabriel helped his grandmother into the carriage, climbed in after her, and in a very short time they were at the Gaither Place. The young woman whom Gabriel had seen in Mr. Goodlett's hack was standing in the door, and the little frown on her forehead was more pronounced than ever. She was evidently troubled.

"Good-morning," said Mrs. Lumsden. "I have come to see Margaret. Does she receive visitors?"

"My name is Margaret, too," said the young woman, after returning Mrs. Lumsden's salutation, and bowing to Gabriel. "But of course you came to see my mother. She is upstairs—she would be carried there, though I begged her to take one of the lower rooms. She is in the room in which she was born."

"I know the way very well," said Mrs. Lumsden. She was for starting up the stairway, but the young woman detained her by a gesture and turned to Gabriel.

"Won't you come in?" she inquired. "We are old acquaintances, you know. Your name is Gabriel—wait!—Gabriel Tolliver. Don't you see how well I know you? Come, we'll help your grandmother up the stairs." This they did—the girl with the firm and practised hand of an expert, and Gabriel with the awkwardness common to young fellows of his age. The young woman led Mrs. Lumsden to her mother's bedside, and presently came back to Gabriel.

"We will go down now, if you please," she said. "My mother is very ill—worse than she has ever been—and you can't imagine how lonely I am. Mother is at home here, while my home, if I have any, is in Louisiana. I suppose you never had any trouble?"

"My mother is dead," he said simply. Margaret reached out her hand and touched him gently on the arm. It was a gesture of impulsive sympathy.

"What is it?" Gabriel asked, thinking she was calling his attention to something she saw or heard.

"Nothing," she said softly. Gabriel understood then, and he could have kicked himself for his stupidity. "Your grandmother is a very beautiful old lady," she remarked after a period of silence.

"She is very good to me," Gabriel replied, at a loss what to say, for he always shrank from praising those near and dear to him. As he sat there, he marvelled at the self-possession of this young woman in the midst of strangers, and with her mother critically ill.

In a little while he heard his grandmother calling him from the head of the stairs. "Gabriel, jump in the carriage and fetch Dr. Dorrington at once. He's at home at this hour."

He did as he was bid, and Nan, who was coming uptown on business of her own, so she said, must needs get in the carriage with her father. The combination was more than Gabriel had bargained for. There was a twinkle in Dr. Dorrington's eye, as he glanced good-humouredly from one to the other, that Gabriel did not like at all. For some reason or other, which he was unable to fathom, the young man was inclined to fight shy of Nan's father; and there was nothing he liked less than to find himself in Dr. Dorrington's company—more especially when Nan was present, too. Noting the quizzical glances of the physician, Gabriel, like a great booby, began to blush, and in another moment, Nan was blushing, too.

"Now, father"—she only called him father when she was angry, or dreadfully in earnest—"Now, father! if you begin your teasing, I'll jump from the carriage. I'll not ride with a grown man who doesn't know how to behave in his daughter's company."

Her father laughed gaily. "Teasing? Why, I wasn't thinking of teasing. I was just going to remark that the weather is very warm for the season, and then I intended to suggest to Gabriel that, as I proposed to get you a blue parasol, he would do well to get him a red one."

"And why should Gabriel get a parasol?" Nan inquired with a show of indignation.

"Why, simply to be in the fashion," her father replied. "I remember the time when you cried for a hat because Gabriel had one; I also remember that once when you were wearing a sun-bonnet, Gabriel borrowed one and wore it—and a pretty figure he cut in it."

"I don't see how you can remember it," said Gabriel laughing and blushing.

"Well, I don't see how in the world I could forget it," Dr. Dorrington responded in tone so solemn that Nan laughed in spite of her uncomfortable feelings.

"You say Margaret Gaither has a daughter, Gabriel?" said Dr. Dorrington, suddenly growing serious, much to the relief of the others. "And about Nan's age? Well, you will have to go in with me, daughter, and see her. If her mother is seriously ill, it will be a great comfort to her to have near her some one of her own age."

Nan made a pretty little mouth at this command, to show that she didn't relish it, but otherwise she made no objection. Indeed, as matters fell out, it became almost her duty to go in to Margaret Bridalbin; for when the carriage reached the house, the young girl was standing at the gate.

"Is this Dr. Dorrington? Well, you are to go up at once. They are constantly calling to know if you have come. I don't know how my dearest is—I dread to know. Oh, I am sure you will do what you can." There was an appeal in the girl's voice that went straight to the heart of the physician.

"You may make your mind easy on that score, my dear," said Dr. Dorrington, laying his hand lightly on her shoulder. There was something helpful and hopeful in the very tone of his voice. "This is my daughter Nan," he added.

Margaret turned to Nan, who was lagging behind somewhat shyly. "Will you please come in?—you and Gabriel Tolliver. It is very lonely here, and everything is so still and quiet. My name is Margaret Bridalbin," she said. She took Nan's hand, and looked into her eyes as if searching for sympathy. And she must have found it there, for she drew Nan toward her and kissed her.

That settled it for Nan. "My name is Nan Dorrington," she said, swallowing a lump in her throat, "and I hope we shall be very good friends."

"We are sure to be," replied the other, with emphasis. "I always know at once."

They went into the dim parlour, and Nan and Margaret sat with their arms entwined around each other. "Gabriel told me yesterday that you were a young girl," Nan remarked.

"I am seventeen," replied the other.

"Only seventeen! Why, I am seventeen, and yet I seem to be a mere child by the side of you. You talk and act just as a grown woman does."

"That is because I have never associated with children of my own age. I have always been thrown with older persons. And then my mother has been ill a long, long time, and I have been compelled to do a great deal of thinking. I know of nothing more disagreeable than to have to think. Do you dislike poor folks?"

"No, I don't," replied Nan, snuggling up to Margaret. "Some of my very bestest friends are poor."

Margaret smiled at the childish adjective, and placed her cheek against Nan's for a moment. "I'm glad you don't dislike poverty," she said, "for we are very poor."

"When it comes to that," Nan responded, "everybody around here is poor—everybody except Grandfather Clopton and Mr. Tomlin. They have money, but I don't know where they get it. Nonny says that some folks have only to dream of money, and when they wake in the morning they find it under their pillows."

Dr. Dorrington came downstairs at this moment. "Your mother is very much better than she was awhile ago," he said to Margaret. "She never should have made so long a journey. She has wasted in that way strength enough to have kept her alive for six months."

"I begged and implored her not to undertake it," the daughter explained, "but nothing would move her. Even when she needed nourishing food, she refused to buy it; she was saving it to bring her home."

"Well, she is here, now, and we'll do the best we can. Gabriel, will you run over, and ask Fanny Tomlin to come? And if Neighbour Tomlin is there tell him I want to see him on some important business."

It was very clear to Gabriel from all this that there was small hope for the poor lady above. She might be better than she was when the doctor arrived, but there was no ray of hope to be gathered from Dr. Dorrington's countenance.

Pulaski Tomlin and his sister responded to the summons at once; and with Gabriel's grandmother holding her hand, the poor lady had an interview with Pulaski Tomlin. But she never saw his face nor he hers. The large screen was carried upstairs from the dining-room, and placed in front of the bed; and near the door a chair was placed for Pulaski Tomlin. It was the heart's desire of the dying lady that Neighbour Tomlin should become the guardian of her daughter. He was deeply affected when told of her wishes, but before consenting to accept the responsibility, asked to see the daughter, and went to the parlour, where she was sitting with Nan and Gabriel. When he came in Nan ran and kissed him as she never failed to do, for, though his face on one side was so scarred and drawn that the sight of it sometimes shocked strangers, those who knew him well, found his wounded countenance singularly attractive.

"This is Margaret," he said, taking the girl's hand. "Come into the light, my dear, where you may see me as I am. Your mother has expressed a wish that I should become your guardian. As an old and very dear friend of mine, she has the right to make the request. I am willing and more than willing to meet her wishes, but first I must have your consent."

They went into the hallway, which was flooded with light. "Are you the Mr. Tomlin of whom I have heard my mother speak?" Margaret asked, fixing her clear eyes on his face; and when he had answered in the affirmative—"I wonder that she asked you, after what she has told me. She certainly has no claims on you."

"Ah, my dear, that is where you are wrong," he insisted. "I feel that every one in this world has claims on me, especially those who were my friends in old times. It is I who made a mistake, and not your mother; and I should be glad to rectify that mistake now, as far as I can, by carrying out her wishes. You know, of course, that she is very ill; will you go up and speak with her?"

"No, not now; not when there are so many strangers there," Margaret replied, and stood looking at him with almost childish wonder.

At this moment, Nan, who knew by heart all the little tricks of friendship and affection, left Margaret, and took her stand by Neighbour Tomlin's side. It was an indorsement that the other could not withstand. She followed Nan, and said very firmly and earnestly, "It shall be as my mother wishes."

"I hope you will never have cause to regret it," remarked Pulaski Tomlin solemnly.

"She never will," Nan declared emphatically, as Pulaski Tomlin turned to go upstairs.

He went up very slowly, as if lost in thought. He went to the room and stood leaning against the framework of the door. "Pulaski is here," said Miss Fanny, who had been waiting to announce his return.

"You remember, Pulaski," the invalid began, "that once when you were ill, you would not permit me to see you. I was so ignorant that I was angry; yes, and bitter; my vanity was wounded. And I was ignorant and bitter for many years. I never knew until eighteen months ago why I was not permitted to see you. I knew it one day, after I had been ill a long time. I looked in the mirror and saw my wasted face and hollow eyes. I knew then, and if I had known at first, Pulaski, everything would have been so different. I have come all this terrible journey to ask you to take my daughter and care for her. It is my last wish that you should be her guardian and protector. Is she in the room? Can she hear what I am about to say?"

"No, Margaret," replied Pulaski Tomlin, in a voice that was tremulous and husky. "She is downstairs; I have just seen her."

"Well, she has no father according to my way of thinking," Margaret Bridalbin went on. "Her father is a deserter from the Confederate army. She doesn't know that; I tried to tell her, but my heart failed me. Neither does she know that I have been divorced from him. These things you can tell her when the occasion arises. If I had told her, it would have been like accusing myself. I was responsible—I felt it and feel it—and I simply could not tell her."

"I shall try to carry out your wishes, Margaret," said Pulaski Tomlin; "I have seen your daughter, as Fanny suggested, and she has no objection to the arrangement. I shall do all that you desire. She shall be to me a most sacred charge."

"If you knew how happy you are making me, Pulaski—Oh, I am grateful—grateful!"

"There should be no talk of gratitude between you and me, Margaret."

At a signal from Pulaski Tomlin, Judge Odom cleared his throat, and read the document that he had drawn up, and his strong, business-like voice went far toward relieving the strain that had been put on those who heard the conversation between the dying woman and the man who had formerly been her lover. Everything was arranged as she desired, every wish she expressed had been carried out; and then, as if there was nothing else to be done, the poor lady closed her eyes with a sigh, and opened them no more in this world. It seemed that nothing had sustained her but the hope of placing her daughter in charge of Pulaski Tomlin.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Silas Tomlin Goes A-Calling

When the solemn funeral ceremonies were over, it was arranged that Nan should spend a few days with her new friend, Margaret Gaither—she was never called by the name of her father after her mother died—and Gabriel took advantage of Nan's temporary absence to pay a visit to Mrs. Absalom. He was very fond of that strong-minded woman; but since Nan had grown to be such a young lady, he had not called as often as he had been in the habit of doing. He was afraid, indeed, that some one would accuse him of a sneaking desire to see Nan, and he was also afraid of the quizzing which Nan's father was always eager to apply. But with Nan away—her absence being notorious, as you may say—Gabriel felt that he could afford to call on the genial housekeeper.

Mrs. Absalom had for years been the manager of the Dorrington household, and she retained her place even after Randolph Dorrington had taken for his second wife Zepherine Dion, who had been known as Miss Johns, and who was now called Mrs. Johnny Dorrington. In that household, indeed, Mrs. Absalom was indispensable, and it was very fortunate that she and Mrs. Johnny were very fond of each other. Her maiden name was Margaret Rorick, and she came of a family that had long been attached to the Dorringtons. In another clime, and under a different system, the Roricks would have been described as retainers. They were that and much more. They served without fee or reward. They were retainers in the highest and best sense; for, in following the bent of their affections, they retained their independence, their simple dignity and their self-respect; and in that region, which was then, and is now, the most democratic in the world, they were as well thought of as the Cloptons or the Dorringtons.

It came to pass, in the order of events, that Margaret Rorick married Mr. Absalom Goodlett, who was the manager of the Dorrington plantation. Though she was no chicken, as she said herself, Mr. Goodlett was her senior by several years. She was also, in a sense, the victim of the humour that used to run riot in Middle Georgia; for, in spite of her individuality, which was vigorous and aggressive, she lost her own name and her husband's too. At Margaret Rorick's wedding, or, rather, at the infair, which was the feast after the wedding, Mr. Uriah Lazenby, whose memory is kept green by his feats at tippling, and who combined fiddling with farming, furnished the music for the occasion. Being something of a privileged character, and having taken a thimbleful too much dram, as fiddlers will do, the world over, Mr. Lazenby rose in his place, when the company had been summoned to the feast, and remarked:

"Margaret Rorick, now that the thing's been gone and done, and can't be holp, I nominate you Mrs. Absalom, an' Mrs. Absalom it shall be herearter. Ab Goodlett, you ought to be mighty proud when you can fling your bridle on a filly like that, an' lead her home jest for the bar' sesso."

The loud laughter that followed placed the bride at a temporary disadvantage. She joined in, however, and then exclaimed: "My goodness! Old Uriah's drunk ag'in; you can't pull a stopper out'n a jug in the same house wi' him but what he'll dribble at the mouth an' git shaky in the legs."

But drunk or sober, Uriah had "nominated" Mrs. Absalom for good and all. One reason why this "nomination" was seized on so eagerly was the sudden change that had taken place in Miss Rorick's views in regard to matrimony. She was more than thirty years old when she consented to become Mrs. Absalom. Up to that time she had declared over and over again that there wasn't a man in the world she'd look at, much less marry.

Now, many a woman has said the same thing and changed her mind without attracting attention; but Mrs. Absalom's views on matrimony, and her pithy criticisms of the male sex in general, had flown about on the wings of her humour, and, in that way, had come to have wide advertisement. But her "nomination" interfered neither with her individuality, nor with her ability to indulge in pithy comments on matters and things in general. Of Mr. Lazenby, she said later: "What's the use of choosin' betwixt a fool an' a fiddler, when you can git both in the same package?"

She made no bad bargain when she married Mr. Goodlett. His irritability was all on the surface. At bottom, he was the best-natured and most patient of men—a philosopher who was so thoroughly contented with the ways of the world and the order of Providence, that he had no desire to change either—and so comfortable in his own views and opinions that he was not anxious to convert others to his way of thinking. If anything went wrong, it was like a garment turned inside out; it would "come out all right in the washin'."

Mrs. Absalom's explanation of her change of views in the subject of matrimony was very simple and reasonable. "Why, a single 'oman," she said, "can't cut no caper at all; she can't hardly turn around wi'out bein' plumb tore to pieces by folks's tongues. But now—you see Ab over there? Well, he ain't purty enough for a centre-piece, nor light enough for to be set on the mantel-shelf, but it's a comfort to see him in that cheer there, knowin' all the time that you can do as you please, and nobody dastin to say anything out of the way. Why, I could put on Ab's old boots an' take his old buggy umbrell, an' go an' jine the muster. The men might snicker behind the'r han's, but all they could say would be, 'Well, ef that kind of a dido suits Ab Goodlett, it ain't nobody else's business.'"

It happened that Mr. Sanders was the person to whom Mrs. Absalom was addressing her remarks, and he inquired if such an unheard of proceeding would be likely to suit Mr. Goodlett.

"To a t!" she exclaimed. "Why, he wouldn't bat his eye. He mought grunt an' groan a little jest to let you know that he's alive, but that'd be all. An' that's the trouble: ef Ab has any fault in the world that you can put your finger on, it's in bein' too good. You know, William—anyhow, you'd know it ef you belonged to my seck—that there's lots of times and occasions when it'd make the wimmen folks feel lots better ef they had somethin' or other to rip and rare about. My old cat goes about purrin', the very spit and image of innocence; but she'd die ef she didn't show her claws sometimes. Once in awhile I try my level best for to pick a quarrel wi' Ab, but before I say a dozen words, I look at him an' have to laugh. Why the way that man sets there an' says nothin' is enough to make a saint ashamed of hisself."

It was the general opinion that Mr. Goodlett, who was shrewd and far-seeing beyond the average, had an eye to strengthening his relations with Dr. Dorrington, when he "popped the question" to Margaret Rorick. But such was not the case. His relations needed no strengthening. He managed Dorrington's agricultural interests with uncommon ability, and brought rare prosperity to the plantation. Unlettered, and, to all appearances, taking no interest in public affairs, he not only foresaw the end of the Civil War, but looked forward to the time when the Confederate Government, pressed for supplies, would urge upon the States the necessity of limiting the raising of cotton.

He gave both Meriwether Clopton and Neighbour Tomlin the benefit of these views; and then, when the rumours of Sherman's march through Georgia grew rifer he made a shrewd guess as to the route, and succeeded in hiding out and saving, not only all the cotton the three plantations had grown, but also all the livestock. Having an ingrained suspicion of the negroes, and entertaining against them the prejudices of his class, Mr. Goodlett employed a number of white boys from the country districts to aid him with his refugee train. And he left them in charge of the camp he had selected, knowing full well that they would be glad to remain in hiding as long as the Federal soldiers were about.

The window of the dining-room at Dorringtons' commanded a view of the street for a considerable distance toward town, and it was at this window that Mrs. Absalom had her favourite seat. She explained her preference for it by saying that she wanted to know what was going on in the world. She looked out from this window one day while she was talking to Gabriel Tolliver, whose visits to Dorringtons' had come to be coincident with Nan's absence, and suddenly exclaimed:

"Well, my gracious! Ef yonder ain't old Picayune Pauper! I wonder what we have done out this way that old Picayune should be sneakin' around here? I'll tell you what—ef Ab has borried arry thrip from old Silas Tomlin, I'll quit him; I won't live wi' a man that'll have anything to do wi' that old scamp. As I'm a livin' human, he's comin' here!"

Now, Silas Tomlin was Neighbour Tomlin's elder brother, but the two men were as different in character and disposition as a warm bright day is different from a bitter black night. Pulaski Tomlin gave his services freely to all who needed them, and he was happy and prosperous; whereas Silas was a miserly money-lender and note-shaver, and always appeared to be in the clutches of adversity. To parsimony he added the sting—yes, and the stain—of a peevish and an irritable temper. It was as Mrs. Absalom had said—"a picayunish man is a pauper, I don't care how much money he's got."

"I'll go see ef Johnny is in the house," said Mrs. Absalom. "Johnny" was Mrs. Dorrington, who, in turn, called Mrs. Absalom "Nonny," which was Nan's pet name for the woman who had raised her—"I'll go see, but I lay she's gone to see Nan; I never before seed a step-mammy so wropped up in her husband's daughter." Nan, as has been said, was spending a few days with poor Margaret Bridalbin, whose mother had just been buried.

Mrs. Absalom called Mrs. Dorrington, and then looked for her, but she was not to be found at the moment. "I reckon you'll have to go to the door, Gabe," said Mrs. Absalom, as the knocker sounded. "Sence freedom, we ain't got as many niggers lazyin' around an' doin' nothin' as we use to have."

"Is Mr. Goodlett in?" asked Silas Tomlin, when Gabriel opened the door.

"I think he's in Malvern," Gabriel answered, as politely as he could.

"No, no, no!" exclaimed Silas Tomlin, with a terrible frown; "you don't know a thing about it, not a thing in the world. He got back right after dinner."

"Well, ef he did," said Mrs. Absalom, coming forward, "he didn't come here. He ain't cast a shadow in this house sence day before yistiddy, when he went to Malvern."

"How are you, Mrs. Absalom?—how are you?" said Silas, with a tremendous effort at politeness. "I hope you are well; you are certainly looking well. You say your husband is not in? Well, I'm sorry; I wanted to see him on business; I wanted to get some information."

"Ab don't owe you anything, I hope," remarked Mrs. Absalom, ignoring the salutation.

"Not a thing—not a thing in the world. But why do you ask? Many people have the idea that I'm rolling in money—that's what I hear—and they think that I go about loaning it to Tom, Dick and Harry. But it is not so—it is not so; I have no money."

Mrs. Absalom laughed ironically, saying, "I reckon if your son Paul was to scratch about under the house, he'd find small change about in places."

Silas Tomlin looked hard at Mrs. Absalom, his little black eyes glistening under his coarse, heavy eyebrows like those of some wild animal. He was not a prepossessing man. He was so bald that he was compelled to wear a skull-cap, and the edge of this showed beneath the brim of his chimney-pot hat. His face needed a razor; and the grey beard coming through the cuticle, gave a ghastly, bluish tint to the pallor of his countenance. His broadcloth coat—Mrs. Absalom called it a "shadbelly"—was greasy at the collar, and worn at the seams, and his waistcoat was stained with ambeer. His trousers, which were much too large for him, bagged at the knees, and his boots were run down at the heels. Though he was temperate to the last degree, he had the appearance of a man who is the victim of some artificial stimulant.

"What put that idea in your head, Mrs. Goodlett?" he asked, after looking long and searchingly at Mrs. Absalom.

"Well, I allowed that when you was countin' out your cash, a thrip or two mought have slipped through the cracks in the floor," she replied; "sech things have happened before now."

He wiped his thin lips with his lean forefinger, and stood hesitating, whereupon Mrs. Absalom remarked: "It sha'n't cost you a cent ef you'll come in. Ab'll be here purty soon ef somebody ain't been fool enough to give him his dinner. His health'll fail him long before his appetite does. Show Mr. Tomlin in the parlour, Gabriel, an' I'll see about Ab's dinner; I don't want it to burn to a cracklin' before he gits it."

Silas Tomlin went into the parlour and sat down, while Gabriel stood hesitating, not knowing what to do or say. He was embarrassed, and Silas Tomlin saw it. "Oh, take a seat," he said, with a show of impatience. "What are you doing for yourself, Tolliver? You're a big boy now, and you ought to be making good money. We'll all have to work now: we'll have to buckle right down to it. The way I look at it, the man who is doing nothing is throwing money away; yes, sir, throwing it away. What does Adam Smith say? Why, he says——"

Gabriel never found out what particular statement of Adam Smith was to be thrown at his head, for at that moment, Mr. Goodlett called out from the dining-room: "Si Tomlin in there, Gabriel? Well, fetch him out here whar I live at. I ain't got no parlours for company." By the time that Gabriel had led Mr. Silas Tomlin into the dining-room, Mr. Goodlett had a plate of victuals carrying it to the kitchen; and he remarked as he went along, "I got nuther parlours nor dinin'-rooms: fetch him out here to the kitchen whar we both b'long at."

If Silas Tomlin objected to this arrangement, he gave no sign; he followed without a word, Mr. Goodlett placed his plate on the table where the dishes were washed, and dropped his hat on the floor beside him, and began to attack his dinner most vigorously. Believing, evidently, that ordinary politeness would be wasted here, Silas entered at once on the business that had brought him to Dorringtons'.

"Sorry to trouble you, Goodlett," he said by way of making a beginning.

"I notice you ain't cryin' none to hurt," remarked Mr. Goodlett placidly. "An' ef you was, you'd be cryin' for nothin'. You ain't troublin' me a mite. Forty an' four like you can't trouble me."

"You'll have to excuse Ab," said Mrs. Goodlett, who had preceded Gabriel and Silas to the kitchen. "He's lost his cud, an' he won't be right well till he finds it ag'in." She placed her hand over her mouth to hide her smiles.

Silas Tomlin paid no attention to this by-play. He stood like a man who is waiting an opportunity to get in a word.

"Goodlett, who were the ladies you brought from Malvern to-day?" His face was very serious.

"You know 'em lots better'n I do. The oldest seed you out in the field, an' she axed me who you mought be. I told her, bekaze I ain't got no secrets from my passengers, specially when they're good-lookin' an' plank down the'r money before they start. Arter I told 'em who you was, the oldest made you a mighty purty bow, but you wer'n't polite enough for to take off your hat. I dunno as I blame you much, all things considered. Then the youngest, she's the daughter, she says, says she, 'Is that reely him, ma?' an' t'other one, says she, 'Ef it's him, honey, he's swunk turrible.' She said them very words."

"I wonder who in the world they can be?" said Silas Tomlin, as if talking to himself.

"You'll think of the'r names arter awhile," Mr. Goodlett remarked by way of consolation, but his tone was so suspicious that Silas turned on his heel—he had started out—and asked Mr. Goodlett what he meant.

"Adzackly what I said, nuther more nor less."

Mrs. Absalom was so curious to find out something more that Silas was hardly out of the house before she began to ply her husband with questions. But they were all futile. Mr. Goodlett knew no more than that he had brought the women from Malvern; that they had chanced to spy old Silas Tomlin in a field by the side of the road, and that when the elder of the two women found out what his name was, she made him a bow, which Silas wasn't polite enough to return.

"That's all I know," remarked Mr. Goodlett. "Dog take the wimmen anyhow!" he exclaimed indignantly; "ef they'd stay at home they'd be all right; but here they go, a-trapesin' an' a-trollopin' all over creation, an' a-givin' trouble wherever they go. They git me so muddled an' befuddled wi' ther whickerin' an' snickerin' that I dunner which een' I'm a-stannin' on half the time. Nex' time they want to ride wi' me, I'll say, 'Walk!' By jacks! I won't haul 'em."

This episode, if it may be called such, made small impression on Gabriel's mind, but it tickled Mrs. Goodlett's mind into activity, and the lad heard more of Silas Tomlin during the next hour than he had ever known before. In a manner, Silas was a very important factor in the community, as money-lenders always are, but according to Gabriel's idea, he was always one of the poorest creatures in the world.

When he was a young man, Silas joined the tide of emigration that was flowing westward. He went to Mississippi, where he married his first wife. In a year's time, he returned to his old home. When asked about his wife—for he returned alone—he curtly answered that she was well enough off. Mrs. Absalom was among those who made the inquiry, and her prompt comment was, "She's well off ef she's dead; I'll say that much."

But there was a persistent rumour, coming from no one knew where, that when a child was born to Silas, the wife was seized with such a horror of the father that the bare sight of him would cause her to scream, and she constantly implored her people to send him away. It is curious how rumours will travel far and wide, from State to State, creeping through swamps, flying over deserts and waste places, and coming home at last as the carrier-pigeon does, especially if there happens to be a grain of truth in them.

It turned out that the lady, in regard to whom Silas Tomlin expressed such curiosity, was a Mrs. Claiborne, of Kentucky, who, with her daughter, had refugeed from point to point in advance of the Federal army. Finally, when peace came, the lady concluded to make her home in Georgia, where she had relatives, and she selected Shady Dale as her place of abode on account of its beauty. These facts became known later.

Evidently the new-comers had resources, for they arranged to occupy the Gaither house, taking it as it stood, with Miss Polly Gaither, furniture and all. This arrangement must have been satisfactory to Miss Polly in the first place, or it would never have been made; and it certainly relieved her of the necessity of living on the charity of her neighbours, under pretence of borrowing from them. But so strange a bundle of contradictions is human nature, that no sooner had Miss Polly begun to enjoy the abundance that was now showered upon her in the shape of victuals and drink than she took her ear-trumpet in one hand and her work-bag in the other, and went abroad, gossiping about her tenants, telling what she thought they said, and commenting on their actions—not maliciously, but simply with a desire to feed the curiosity of the neighbours.

In order to do this more effectually, Miss Polly returned visits that had been made to her before the war. There was nothing in her talk to discredit the Claibornes or to injure their characters. They were strangers to the community, and there was a natural and perfectly legitimate curiosity on the part of the town to learn something of their history. Miss Polly could not satisfy this curiosity, but she could whet it by leaving at each one's door choice selections from her catalogue of the sayings and doings of the new-comers—wearing all the time a dress that Miss Eugenia, the daughter, had made over for her. Miss Polly was a dumpy little woman, and, with her wen, her ear-trumpet, and her work-bag, she cut a queer figure as she waddled along.

There was one piece of information she gave out that puzzled the community no little. According to Miss Polly, the Claibornes had hardly settled themselves in their new home before Silas Tomlin called on them. "I can't hear as well as I used to," said Miss Polly—she was deaf as a door-post—"but I can see as well as anybody; yes indeed, as well as anybody in the world. And I tell you, Lucy Lumsden"—she was talking to Gabriel's grandmother—"as soon as old Silas darkened the door, I knew he was worried. I never saw a grown person so fidgety and nervous, unless it was Micajah Clemmons, and he's got the rickets, poor man. So I says to myself, 'I'll watch you,' and watch I did. Well, when Mrs. Claiborne came into the parlour, she bowed very politely to old Silas, but I could see that she could hardly keep from laughing in his face; and I don't blame her, for the way old Silas went on was perfectly ridiculous. He spit and he spluttered, and sawed the air with his arms, and buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, and jerked at the bottom of his wescut till I really thought he'd pull the front out. I wish you could have seen him, Lucy Lumsden, I do indeed. And when the door was shut on him, Mrs. Claiborne flung herself down on a sofa, and laughed until she frightened her daughter. I don't complain about my afflictions as a general thing, Lucy, but I would have given anything that day if my hearing had been as good as it used to be."

And though Gabriel's grandmother was a woman of the highest principles, holding eavesdropping in the greatest contempt, it is possible that she would have owned to a mild regret that Miss Polly Gaither was too deaf to hear what Silas Tomlin's troubles were. This was natural, too, for, on account of the persistent rumours that had followed Silas home from Mississippi, there was always something of a mystery in regard to his first matrimonial venture. There was none about his second. A year or two after he returned home he married Susan Pritchard, whose father was a prosperous farmer, living several miles from town. Susan bore Silas a son and died. She was a pious woman, and with her last breath named the child Paul, on account of the conjunction of the names of Paul and Silas in the New Testament. Paul grew up to be one of the most popular young men in the community.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Political Machine Begins its Work

All that has been set down thus far, you will say, is trifling, unimportant and wearisome. Your decision is not to be disputed; but if, by an effort of the mind, you could throw yourself back to those dread days, you would understand what a diversion these trifling events and episodes created for the heart-stricken and soul-weary people of that region. The death of Margaret Bridalbin moved them to pity, and awoke in their minds pleasing memories of happier days, when peace and prosperity held undisputed sway in all directions. The arrival of the Claibornes had much the same effect. It gave the community something to talk about, and, in a small measure, took them out of themselves. Moreover, the Claibornes, mother and daughter, proved to be very attractive additions to the town's society. They were both bright and good-humoured, and the daughter was very beautiful.

To a people overwhelmed with despair, the most trifling episode becomes curiously magnified. The case of Mr. Goodlett is very much to the point. He was merely an individual, it is true, but in some respects an individual represents the mass. When Sherman's men hanged him to a limb, under the mistaken notion that he was the custodian of the Clopton plate, the last thing he remembered as he lost consciousness, was the ticking of his watch. It sounded in his ears, he said, as loud as the blows of a sledge-hammer falling on an anvil. From that day until he died, he never could bear to hear the ticking of a watch. He gave his time-piece to his wife, who put it away with her other relics and treasures.

How it was with other communities it is not for this chronicler to say, but the collapse of the Confederacy, coming when it did, was an event that Shady Dale least expected. The last trump will cause no greater surprise and consternation the world over, than the news of Lee's surrender caused in that region. The public mind had not been prepared for such an event, especially in those districts remote from the centres of information. Almost every piece of news printed in the journals of the day was coloured with the prospect of ultimate victory: and when the curtain suddenly came down and the lights went out, no language can describe the grief, the despair, and the feeling of abject humiliation that fell upon the white population in the small towns and village communities. How it was in the cities has not been recorded, but it is to be presumed that then, as now, the demands and necessities of trade and business were powerful enough to overcome and destroy the worst effects of a calamity that attacked the sentiments and emotions.

It has been demonstrated recently on some very wide fields of action that the atmosphere of commercialism is unfavourable to the growth of sentiments of an ideal character. That is why wise men who believe in the finer issues of life are inclined to be suspicious of what is loosely called civilisation and progress, and doubtful of the theories of those who clothe themselves in the mantle of science.

Whatever the feeling in the cities may have been when news of the surrender came, it caused the most poignant grief and despair in the country places: and there, as elsewhere in this world, whenever suffering is to be borne, the most of the burden falls on the shoulders of the women. It is at once the strength and weakness of the sex that woman suffers more than man and is more capable of enduring the pangs of suffering.

As for the men they soon recovered from the shock. They were startled and stunned, but when they opened their eyes to the situation they found themselves confronted by conditions that had no precedent or parallel in the history of the world. It is small fault if their minds failed at first to grasp the significance and the import of these conditions, so new were they and so amazing.

A few years later, Gabriel Tolliver, who, when the surrender came, was a lad just beyond seventeen, took himself severely to task before a public assemblage for his blindness in 1865, and the years immediately following; and his criticisms must have gone home to others, for the older men who sat in the audience rose to their feet and shook the house with their applause. They, too, had been as blind as the boy.

It was perhaps well for Shady Dale that Mr. Sanders came home when he did. He had been in the field, if not on the forum. He had mingled with public men, and, as he himself contended, had been "closeted" with one of the greatest men the country ever produced—the reference being to Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Sanders had to tell over and over again the story of how he and Frank Bethune didn't kidnap the President; and he brought home hundreds of rich and racy anecdotes that he had picked up in the camp. In those awful days when there was little ready money to be had, and business was at a standstill, and the courts demoralised, and the whole social fabric threatening to fall to pieces, it was Mr. Billy Sanders who went around scattering cheerfulness and good-humour as carelessly as the children scatter the flowers they have gathered in the fields.

Mr. Sanders and Francis Bethune had formed a part of the escort that went with Mr. Davis as far as Washington in Wilkes County. On this account, Mr. Sanders boasted that at the last meeting of the Confederate Cabinet held in that town, he had elected himself a member, and was duly installed. "It was the same," he used to say, "as j'inin' the Free-masons. The doorkeeper gi' me the grip an' the password, the head man of the war department knocked me on the forrerd, an' the thing was done. When Mr. Davis was ready to go, he took me by the hand, an' says, 'William,' says he, 'keep house for the boys till I git back, an' be shore that you cheer 'em up.'"

This sort of nonsense served its purpose, as Mr. Sanders intended that it should. Wherever he appeared on the streets a crowd gathered around him—as large a crowd as the town could furnish. To a spectator standing a little distance away and out of hearing, the attitude and movements of these groups presented a singular appearance. The individuals would move about and swap places, trying to get closer to Mr. Sanders. There would be a period of silence, and then, suddenly, loud shouts of laughter would rend the air. Such a spectator, if a stranger, might easily have imagined that these men and boys, standing close together, and shouting with laughter at intervals, were engaged in practising a part to be presented in a rural comedy—or that they were a parcel of simpletons.

One peculiarity of Mr. Sanders's humour was that it could not be imitated with any degree of success. His raciest anecdote lost a large part of its flavour when repeated by some one else. It was the way he told it, a cut of the eye, a lift of the eyebrow, a movement of the hand, a sudden air of solemnity—these were the accessories that gave point and charm to the humour.

Mr. Sanders had cut out a very large piece of work for himself. He kept it up for some time, but he gradually allowed himself longer and longer intervals of seriousness. The multitude of problems growing out of the new and strange conditions were of a thought-compelling nature; and they grew larger and more ominous as the days went by. Gabriel Tolliver might take to the woods, as the saying is, and so escape from the prevailing depression. But Mr. Sanders and the rest of the men had no such resource; responsibility sat on their shoulders, and they were compelled to face the conditions and study them. Gabriel could sit on the fence by the roadside, and see neither portent nor peril in the groups and gangs of negroes passing and repassing, and moving restlessly to and fro, some with bundles and some with none. He watched them, as he afterward complained, with a curiosity as idle as that which moves a little child to watch a swarm of ants. He noticed, however, that the negroes were no longer cheerful. Their child-like gaiety had vanished. In place of their loud laughter, their boisterous play, and their songs welling forth and filling the twilight places with sweet melodies, there was silence. Gabriel had no reason to regard this silence as ominous, but it was so regarded by his elders.

He thought that the restless and uneasy movements of the negroes were perfectly natural. They had suddenly come to the knowledge that they were free, and they were testing the nature and limits of their freedom. They desired to find out its length and its breadth. So much was clear to Gabriel, but it was not clear to his elders. And what a pity that it was not! How many mistakes would have been avoided! What a dreadful tangle and turmoil would have been prevented if these grown children could have been judged from Gabriel's point of view! For the boy's interpretation of the restlessness and uneasiness of the blacks was the correct one. Your historians will tell you that the situation was extraordinary and full of peril. Well, extraordinary, if you will, but not perilous. Gabriel could never be brought to believe that there was anything to be dreaded in the attitude of the blacks. What he scored himself for in the days to come was that his interest in the matter never rose above the idle curiosity of a boy.

And yet there were some developments calculated to pique curiosity. A few years before the war, one of Madame Awtry's nephews from Massachusetts came in to the neighbourhood preaching freedom to the negroes. As a result, a large body of the Clopton negroes gathered around the house one morning with many breathings and mutterings. Uncle Plato, the carriage-driver, went to his master with a very grave face, and announced that the hands, instead of going to work, had come in a body to the house.

"Well, go and see what they want, Plato," said the master of the Clopton Place.

"I done ax um dat, suh," replied Uncle Plato, "an' dey say p'intedly dat dey want ter see you."

"Very well; where is Mr. Sanders?"

"He out dar, suh, makin' fun un um."

When Meriwether Clopton went out, he was told by old man Isaiah, the foreman of the field-hands, that the boys didn't want to be "Bledserd." It was some time before the master could understand what the old man meant, but Mr. Sanders finally made it clear, and Meriwether Clopton sent the negroes about their business with a promise that none of them should ever be "Bledserd" by his consent.

A year or two before this "rising" occurred, General Jesse Bledsoe had died leaving a will, by the terms of which all his negroes were given their freedom, and provision was made for their transportation to a free State. But the General had relatives, who put in their claims, and succeeded in breaking the will, with the result that many of the negroes were carried to the West and Southwest, bringing about a wholesale separation of families, the first that had ever occurred in that section. The impression it made on both whites and negroes was a lasting one. In the minds of the blacks, freedom was only another name for "Bledserin'."

Nevertheless, when, after the collapse of the Confederacy and the advent of Sherman's army, the Clopton negroes were told that they were free, a large number of them joined the restless, migratory throng that passed to and fro along the public highway, some coming, some going, but all moved by the same irresistible impulse to test their freedom—to see if they really could come hither and go yonder without let or hinderance. Uncle Plato and his family, with a dozen others who were sagacious enough to follow the old man's example, remained in their places and fared better than the rest.

For a time Shady Dale rested peacefully in its seclusion, watching the course of events with apparent tranquillity. But behind this appearance of repose there was a good deal of restlessness and uneasiness. Sometimes its bosom (so to speak) was inflamed with anger, and sometimes it would be sunk in despair. One of the events that brought Shady Dale closer to the troubles that the newspapers were full of, was a circular letter issued by Major Tomlin Perdue, of Halcyondale. Major Perdue had returned home thoroughly reconstructed. He was full of admiration for General Grant's attitude toward General Lee, and he endorsed with all his heart the tone and spirit of Lee's address to his old soldiers; but when he saw the unexpected turn that the politicians had been able to give to events, he found it hard to hold his peace. Finally, when he could restrain himself no longer, he incited his friends to hold a meeting and propose his name as a candidate for Congress. This was done, and the Major seized the opportunity to issue a circular letter declining the nomination, and giving his reasons therefor. This letter remains to this day the most scathing arraignment of carpet-baggery, bayonet rule, and the Republican Party generally that has ever been put in print. It contained some decidedly picturesque references to the personality of the commander of the Georgia district, who happened to be General Pope, the famous soldier who had his head-quarters in the saddle at a very interesting period of the Civil War.

Major Perdue did not intend it so, but his letter was a piece of pure recklessness. The effect of this scorching document was to bring a company of Federal troops to Halcyondale, and in the course of a few weeks a detachment was stationed at Shady Dale. In each case they brought their tents with them, and went into camp. This was taken as a signal by the carpet-baggers that the region round-about was to be cultivated for political purposes, and forthwith they began operations, receiving occasional accessions in the person of a number of scalawags, the most respectable and conscientious of these being Mr. Mahlon Butts, who had been a vigorous and consistent Union man all through the war. He could be neither convinced nor intimidated, and his consistency won for him the respect of his neighbours. But when the carpet-baggers made their appearance, and Mahlon Butts began to fraternise with them, he was ostracised along with the rest.

It soon became necessary for the whites to take counsel together, and Shady Dale became, as it had been before the war, the Mecca of the various leaders. Before the war, the politicians of both parties were in the habit of meeting at Shady Dale, enjoying the barbecues for which the town was famous, and taking advantage of the occasion to lay out the programme of the campaign. And now, when it was necessary to organise a white man's party, the leaders turned their eyes and their steps to Shady Dale.

Then it was that Gabriel had an opportunity to see Toombs, and Stephens, and Hill, and Herschel V. Johnson—he who was on the national ticket with Douglas in 1860—and other men who were to become prominent later. There were some differences of opinion to be settled. A few of the leaders had advised the white voters to take no part in the political farce which Congress had arranged, but to leave it all to the negroes and the aliens, especially as so many of the white voters had been disfranchised, or were labouring under political disabilities. Others, on the contrary, advised the white voters to qualify as rapidly as possible. It was this difference of opinion that remained to be settled, so far as Georgia was concerned.

It was Gabriel's acquaintance with Mr. Stephens that first fired his ambition. Here was a frail, weak man, hardly able to stand alone, who had been an invalid all his life, and yet had won renown, and by his wisdom and conservatism had gained the confidence and esteem of men of all parties and of all shades of opinion. His willpower and his energy lifted him above his bodily weakness and ills, and carried him through some of the most arduous campaigns that ever occurred in Georgia, where heated canvasses were the rule and not the exception. Watching him closely, and noting his wonderful vivacity and cheerfulness, Gabriel Tolliver came to the conclusion that if an invalid could win fame a strong healthy lad should be able to make his mark.

It fell out that Gabriel attracted the attention of Mr. Stephens, who was always partial to young men. He made the lad sit near him, drew him out, and gave him some sound advice in regard to his studies. At the suggestion of Mr. Stephens, the lad was permitted to attend the conferences, which were all informal, and the kindly statesman took pains to introduce the awkward, blushing youngster to all the prominent men who came.

It was curious, Gabriel thought, how easily and naturally the invalid led the conversation into the channel he desired. He was smoking a clay pipe, which his faithful body-servant replenished from time to time. "Mr. Sanders," he began, "I have heard a good deal about your attempt to kidnap Lincoln. What did you think of Lincoln anyhow?"

"Well, sir, I thought, an' still think that he was the best all-'round man I ever laid eyes on."

"He certainly was a very great man," remarked Mr. Stephens. "I knew him well before the war. We were in Congress together. It is odd that he showed no remarkable traits at that time."

"Well," replied Mr. Sanders, "arter the Dimmycrats elected him President, he found hisself in a corner, an' he jest had to be a big man."

"You mean after the Republicans elected him," some one suggested.

"Not a bit of it,—not a bit of it!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Why the Republicans didn't have enough votes to elect three governors, much less a President. But the Dimmycrats, bein' perlite by natur' an' not troubled wi' any surplus common sense, divided up the'r votes, an' the Republicans walked in an' took the cake. If you ever hear of me votin' the Dimmycrat ticket—an' I reckon I'll have to do it—you may jest put it down that it ain't bekase I want to, but bekase I'm ableege to. The party ain't hardly got life left in it, an' yit here you big men are wranglin' an' jowerin' as to whether you'll set down an' let a drove of mules run over you, or whether you'll stan' up to the rack, fodder or no fodder."

"This brings us to the very point we are to discuss," said Mr. Stephens, laughing. "I may say in the beginning that I am much of Mr. Sanders's opinion. Some very able men insist that if we take no part in this reconstruction business, we'll not be responsible for it. That is true, but we will have to endure the consequences just the same. Radicalism has majorities at present, but these will disappear after a time."

"I reckon some of us can be trusted to wear away a few majorities," said Mr. Sanders, dryly, and it was his last contribution to the discussion. As might be supposed, no definite policy was hit upon. The conditions were so new to those who had to deal with them, that, after an interchange of views, the company separated, feeling that the policy proper to be pursued would arise naturally out of the immediate necessities of the occasion, or the special character of the situation. This was the view of Mr. Stephens, who, as he was still suffering from his confinement in prison, accepted the invitation of Meriwether Clopton to remain at Shady Dale for a week or more.

During that week, there was hardly a day that Gabriel did not go to the Clopton Place. He went because he could see that his presence was agreeable to Mr. Stephens, as well as to Meriwether Clopton. He was led along to join in the conversation which the older men were carrying on, and in that way he gained more substantial information about political principles and policies than he could have found in the books and the newspapers.

Moreover, Gabriel came in closer contact with Francis Bethune. That young gentleman seized the opportunity to invite Gabriel to his room, where they had several familiar and pleasant talks. Bethune told Gabriel much that was interesting about the war, and about the men he had met in Richmond and Washington. He also related many interesting incidents and stories of adventure, in which he had taken part. But he never once put himself forward as the hero of an exploit. On the contrary, he was always in the background; invariably, it was some one else to whom he gave the credit of success, taking upon himself the responsibility of the failures.

Gabriel had never suspected this proud-looking young man of modesty, and he at once began to admire and like Bethune, who was not only genial, but congenial. He seemed to take a real interest in Gabriel, and gave him a good deal of sober advice which he should have taken himself.

"I'll never be anything but plain Bethune," he said to Gabriel. "I'd like to do something or be something for the sake of those who have had the care of me; but it isn't in me. I don't know why, but the other fellow gets there first when there's something to be won. And when I am first it leads to trouble. Take my college scrape; you've heard about it, no doubt. Well, the boys there have been playing poker ever since there was a college, and they'll play it as long as the college remains; but the first game I was inveigled into, the Chancellor walked in upon us while I was shuffling the cards, and stood at my back and heard me cursing the others because they had suddenly turned to their books. 'That will do, Mr. Bethune,' said the Chancellor; 'we have had enough profanity for to-night.' Well, that has been the way all through. I wanted to win rank in the army—and I did; I ranked everybody as the king-bee of insubordination. That isn't all. Take my gait—the way I walk; everybody thinks I hold my head up and swagger because I am vain. But look at the matter with clear eyes, Tolliver; I walk that way because it is natural to me. As for vanity, what on earth have I to be vain of?"

"Well, you are young, you know," said Gabriel—"almost as young as I am; and though you have been unlucky, that is no sign that it will always be so."

"No, Tolliver, I am several years older than you. All your opportunities are still to come; and if I can do nothing myself, I should like to see you succeed. I have heard my grandfather say some fine things about you."

Now, such talk as that, when it carries the evidence of sincerity along with it, is bound to win a young fellow over; youth cannot resist it. Bethune won Gabriel, and won him completely. It was so pleasing to Gabriel to be able to have a cordial liking for Bethune that he had the feelings of those who gain a moral victory over themselves in the matter of some evil habit or passion. His grandmother smiled fondly on his enthusiasm, remarking:

"Yes, Gabriel; he is certainly a fine young gentleman, and I am glad of it for Nan's sake. He will be sure to make her happy, and she deserves happiness as much as any human being I ever knew."

Gabriel also thought that Nan deserved to be very happy, but he could imagine several forms of happiness that did not include marriage with Bethune, however much he might admire his friend. And his enthusiastic praises of Bethune ceased so suddenly that his grandmother looked at him curiously. The truth is, her remarks about Nan and Bethune always gave Gabriel a cold chill. His grandmother was to him the fountain-head of wisdom, the embodiment of experience. When he was a bit of a lad, she used to untie all the hard knots, and untangle all the tangles that persisted in invading his large collection of string, cords and twines, and the ease with which she did this—for the knots seemed to come untied of their own accord, and the tangles to vanish as soon as her fingers touched them—gave Gabriel an impression of her ability that he never lost. Her word was law with him, though he had frequently broken the law, and her judgment was infallible.

CHAPTER NINE

Nan and Gabriel

Gabriel renewed his enthusiasm for Bethune as soon as he had an opportunity to see Nan. These opportunities became rarer and rarer as the days went by. Sometimes she was friendly and familiar, as on the day when she went home with him to hear the story of poor Margaret Gaither; but oftener she was cool and dignified, and appeared to be inclined to patronise her old friend and comrade. This was certainly her attitude when Gabriel began to sing the praises of Francis Bethune when, on one occasion, he met her on the street.

"I'm sure it is very good of you, Gabriel, to speak so kindly of Mr. Bethune," she said. "No doubt he deserves it all. He also says some very nice things about you, so I've heard. Nonny says there's some sort of an agreement between you—'you tickle me and I'll tickle you.' Oh, there's nothing for you to blush about, Gabriel," she went on very seriously. "Nonny may laugh at it, but I think it speaks well for both you and Mr. Bethune."

Gabriel made no reply, and as he stood there looking at Nan, and realising for the first time what he had only dimly suspected before, that they could no longer be comrades and chums, he presented a very uncomfortable spectacle. He was the picture of awkwardness. His hands and his feet were all in his way, and for the first time in his life he felt cheap. Nan had suddenly loomed up as a woman grown. It is true that she resolutely refused to follow the prevailing fashion and wear hoop-skirts, but this fact and her long dress simply gave emphasis to the fact that she was grown.

"Well, Nan, I'm very sorry," said Gabriel, by way of saying something. He spoke the truth without knowing why.

"Sorry! Why should you be sorry?" cried Nan. "I think you have everything to make you glad. You have your Mr. Bethune, and no longer than yesterday I heard Eugenia Claiborne say that you are the handsomest man she ever saw—yes, she called you a man. She declared that she never knew before that curly hair could be so becoming to a man. And Margaret says that you and Eugenia would just suit each other, she a blonde and you a brunette."

Gabriel blushed again in spite of himself, and laughed, too—laughed at the incongruity of the situation. This Nan, with her long gingham frock, and her serious ways, was no more like the Nan he had known than if she had come from another world. It was laughable, of course, and pathetic, too, for Gabriel could laugh and feel sorry at the same moment.

"You haven't told me why you are sorry," said Nan, when the lad's silence had become embarrassing to her.

"Well, I am just sorry," Gabriel replied.

"You are angry," she declared.

"No," he insisted, "I am just sorry. I don't know why, unless it's because you are not the same. You have been changing all the time, I reckon, but I never noticed it so much until to-day." His tone was one of complaint.

As Nan stood there regarding Gabriel with an expression of perplexity in her countenance, and tapping the ground impatiently with one foot, the two young people got their first whiff of the troubles that had been slowly gathering over that region. Around the corner near which they stood, two men had paused to finish an earnest conversation. Evidently they had been walking along, but their talk had become so interesting, apparently, that they paused involuntarily. They were hid from Nan and Gabriel by the high brick wall that enclosed Madame Awtry's back yard.

"As president of this league," said a voice which neither Nan nor Gabriel could recognise, "you will have great responsibility. I hope you realise it."

"I'm in hopes I does, suh," replied the other, whose voice there was no difficulty in recognising as that of the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin.

"As you so aptly put it last night at your church, the bottom rail is now on top, and it will stay there if the coloured people know their own interests. Every dollar that has been made in the South during the parst two hundred years was made by the niggeroes and belongs to them."

"Dat is so, suh; dat is de Lord's trufe. I realise dat, suh; an' I'll try fer ter make my people reelize it," responded the Rev. Jeremiah.

"What you lack in experience," continued the first speaker, "you make up in numbers. It is important to remember that. Organise your race, get them together, impress upon them the necessity of acting as one man. Once organised, you will find leaders. All the arrangements have been made for that."

"I hears you, suh; an' b'lieves you," replied the Rev. Jeremiah with great ceremony.

"You have seen white men from a distance coming and going. Where did they go?"

"Dey went ter Clopton's, suh; right dar an' nowhars else. I seed um, suh, wid my own eyes."

"You don't know what they came for. Well, I will tell you: they came here to devise some plan by which they can deprive the niggeroes of the right to vote. Now, what do you suppose would be the simplest way to do this?" The Rev. Jeremiah made no reply. He was evidently waiting in awe to hear what the plan was. "You don't know," the first speaker went on to say; "well, I will tell you. They propose to re-enslave the coloured people. They propose to take the ballots out of their hands and put in their place, the hoe and the plough-handles. They propose to deprive you of the freedom bestowed upon you by the martyr President."

"You don't tell me, suh! Well, well!"

"Yes, that is their object, and they will undoubtedly succeed if your people do not organise, and stand together, and give their support to the Republican Party."

"I has b'longed ter de Erpublican Party, suh, sense fust I heard de name."

"We meet to-night in the school-house. Bring only a few—men whom you can trust, and the older they are the better."

"I ain't so right down suttin and sho' 'bout dat, suh. Some er de ol' ones is mighty sot in der ways; dey ain't got de l'arnin', suh, an' dey dunner what's good fer 'm. But I'll pick out some, suh; I'll try fer ter fetch de ones what'll do us de mos' good."

"Very well, Mr. Tommerlin; the old school-house is the place, and there'll be no lights that can be seen from the outside. Rap three times slowly, and twice quickly—so. The password is——"

He must have whispered it, for no sound came to the ears of Nan and Gabriel. The latter motioned his head to Nan, and the two walked around the corner. As they turned Nan was saying, "You must go with me some day, and call on Eugenia Claiborne; she'll be delighted to see you—and she's just lovely."

What answer Gabriel made he never knew, so intently was he engaged in trying to digest what he had heard. The Rev. Jeremiah took off his hat and smiled broadly, as he gave Nan and Gabriel a ceremonious bow. They responded to his salute and passed on. The white man who had been talking to the negro was a stranger to both of them, though both came to know him very well—too well, in fact—a few months later. He had about him the air of a preacher, his coat being of the cut and colour of the garments worn by clergymen. His countenance was pale, but all his features, except his eyes, stood for energy and determination. The eyes were restless and shifty, giving him an appearance of uneasiness.

"What does he mean?" inquired Nan, when they were out of hearing.

"He means a good deal," replied Gabriel, who as an interested listener at the conferences of the white leaders, had heard several prominent men express fears that just such statements would be made to the negroes by the carpet-bag element; and now here was a man pouring the most alarming and exciting tidings into the ears of a negro on the public streets. True, he had no idea that any one but the Rev. Jeremiah was in hearing, but the tone of his voice was not moderated. What he said, he said right out.

"But what do you mean by a good deal?" Nan asked.

"You heard what he said," Gabriel answered, "and you must see what he is trying to do. Suppose he should convince the negroes that the whites are trying to put them back in slavery, and they should rise and kill the whites and burn all the houses?"

"Now, Gabriel, you know that is all nonsense," replied Nan, trying to laugh. In spite of her effort to smile at Gabriel's explanation, her face was very serious indeed.

"Yonder comes Miss Claiborne," said Gabriel. "Good-bye, Nan; I'm still sorry you are not as you used to be. I must go and see Mr. Sanders." With that, he turned out of the main street, and went running across the square.

"That child worries me," said Nan, uttering her thought aloud, and unconsciously using an expression she had often heard on Mrs. Absalom's tongue. "Did you see that great gawk of a boy?" she went on, as Eugenia Claiborne came up. "He hasn't the least dignity."

"Well, you should be glad of that, Nan," Eugenia suggested.

"I? Well, please excuse me. If there is anything I admire in other people, it is dignity." She straightened herself up and assumed such a serious attitude that Eugenia became convulsed with laughter.

"What did you do to Gabriel, Nan, that he should be running away from you at such a rate? Or did he run because he saw me coming?" Before Nan could make any reply, Eugenia seized her by both elbows—"And, oh, Nan! you know the Yankee captain who is in command of the Yankee soldiers here? Well, his name is Falconer, and mother says he is our cousin. And would you believe it, she wanted to ask him to tea. I cried when she told me; I never was so angry in my life. Why, I wouldn't stay in the same house nor eat at the same table with one who is an enemy of my country."

"Nor I either," said Nan with emphasis. "But he's very handsome."

"I don't care if he is," cried the other impulsively. "He has been killing our gallant young men, and depriving us of our liberties, and he's here now to help the negroes lord it over us."

"Oh, now I know what Gabriel intends to do!" exclaimed Nan, but she refused to satisfy Eugenia's curiosity, much to that young lady's discomfort. "I must go," said Nan, kissing her friend good-bye. Eugenia stood watching her until she was out of sight, and wondered why she was in such a hurry.

Nan had changed greatly in the course of two years, and, in some directions, not for the better, as some of the older ones thought and said. They remembered how charming she was in the days when she threw all conventions to the winds, and was simply a wild, sweet little rascal, engaged in performing the most unheard-of pranks, and cutting up the most impossible capers. Until Margaret Gaither and Eugenia Claiborne came to Shady Dale, Nan had no girl-friends. All the others were either ages too old or ages too young, or disagreeable, and Nan had to find her amusements the best way she could.

Margaret Gaither and Eugenia Claiborne had a very subduing effect upon Nan. They had been brought up with the greatest respect for all the small formalities and conventions, and the attention they paid to these really awed Nan. The young ladies were free and unconventional enough when there was no other eye to mark their movements, but at table, or in company, they held their heads in a certain way, and they had rules by which to seat themselves in a chair, or to rise therefrom; they had been taught how to enter a room, how to bow, and how to walk gracefully, as was supposed, from one side of a room to the other. Nan tried hard to learn a few of these conventions, but she never succeeded; she never could conform to the rules; she always failed to remember them at the proper time; and it was very fortunate that this was so. The native grace with which she moved about could never have been imparted by rule; but there were long moments when her failure to conform weighed upon her mind, and subdued her.

This was a part of the change that Gabriel found in her. She could no longer, in justice to the rules of etiquette, seize Gabriel by the lapels of his coat and give him a good shaking when he happened to displease her, and she could no longer switch him across the face with her braided hair—that wonderful tawny hair, so fine, so abundant, so soft, and so warm-looking. No, indeed! the day for that was over, and very sorry she was for herself and for Gabriel, too.

And while she was going home, following in the footsteps of that young man (for Dorringtons' was on the way to Cloptons'), a thought struck her, and it seemed to be so important that she stopped still and clapped the palms of her hands together with an energy unusual to young ladies. Then she gathered her skirt firmly, drew it up a little, and went running along the road as rapidly as Gabriel had run. Fortunately, a knowledge of the rules of etiquette had not had the effect of paralysing Nan's legs. She ran so fast that she was wellnigh breathless when she reached home. She rushed into the house, and fell in a chair, crying:

"Oh, Nonny!"

CHAPTER TEN

The Troubles of Nan

"Why, what on earth ails the child?" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom. Nan was leaning back in the chair, her face very red, making an effort to fan herself with one little hand, and panting wildly. "Malindy!" Mrs. Absalom yelled to the cook, "run here an' fetch the camphire as you come! Ain't you comin'? The laws a massy on us! the child'll be cold and stiff before you start! Honey, what on earth ails you? Tell your Nonny. Has anybody pestered you? Ef they have, jest tell me the'r name, an' I'll foller 'em to the jumpin'-off place but what I'll frail 'em out. You Malindy! whyn't you come on? You'll go faster'n that to your own funeral."

But when Malindy came with the camphor, and a dose of salts in a tumbler, Nan waved her away. "I don't want any physic, Nonny," she said, still panting, for her run had been a long one; "I'm just tired from running. And, oh, Nonny! I have something to tell you."

"Well, my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom indignantly, withdrawing her arms from around Nan, and rising to her feet. "A little more, an' you'd 'a' had me ready for my coolin'-board. I ain't had such a turn—not sence the day a nigger boy run in the gate an' tol' me the Yankees was a-hangin' Ab. An' all bekaze you've hatched out some rigamarole that nobody on the green earth would 'a' thought of but you."

She fussed around a little, and was for going about the various unnecessary duties she imposed on herself; but Nan protested. "Please, Nonny, wait until I tell you." Thereupon Nan told as well as she could of the conversation she and Gabriel had overheard in town, and the recital gave Mrs. Absalom a more serious feeling than she had had in many a day. Her muscular arms, bare to the elbow, were folded across her ample bosom, and she seemed to be glaring at Nan with a frown on her face, but she was thinking.

"Well," she said with a sigh, "I knowed there was gwine to be trouble of some kind—old Billy Sanders went by here this mornin' as drunk as a lord."

"Drunk!" cried Nan with blanched face.

"Well, sorter tollerbul how-come-you-so. The last time old Billy was drunk, was when sesaytion was fetched on. Ev'ry time he runs a straw in a jimmy-john, he fishes up trouble. An' my dream's out. I dremp last night that a wooden-leg man come to the door, an' ast me for a pair of shoes. I ast him what on earth he wanted wi' a pair, bein's he had but one foot. He said that the foot he didn't have was constant a-feelin' like it was cold, an' he allowed maybe it'd feel better ef it know'd that he had a shoe ready for it ag'in colder weather."

"Oh, I hate him! I just naturally despise him!" cried Nan. When she was angry her face was pale, and it was very pale now.

"Why do you hate the wooden-leg man, honey? It was all in a dream," said Mrs. Absalom, soothingly.

"Oh, I don't know what you are talking about, Nonny!" exclaimed Nan, ready to cry. "I mean old Billy Sanders. And if I don't give him a piece of my mind when I see him. Now Gabriel will go to that place to-night, and he's nothing but a boy."

"A boy! well, I dunner where you'll find your men ef Gabriel ain't nothin' but a boy. Where's anybody in these diggin's that's any bigger or stouter? I wish you'd show 'em to me," remarked Mrs. Absalom.

"I don't care," Nan persisted; "I know just what Gabriel will do. He'll go to that place to-night, and—and—I'd rather go there myself."

"Well, my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom, with lifted eyebrows.

The pallor of Nan's face was gradually replaced by a warmer glow. "Now, Nonny! don't say a word—don't tease—don't tease me about Gabriel. If you do, I'll never tell you anything more for ever and ever."

"All this is bran new to me," Mrs. Absalom declared. "You make me feel, Nan, like I was in some strange place, talkin' wi' some un I never seed before. You ain't no more like yourself—you ain't no more like you used to be—than day is like night, an' I'm jest as sorry as I can be."

"That's what Gabriel says," sighed Nan. "He said he was sorry, and now you say you are sorry. Oh, Nonny, I don't want any one to be sorry for me."

"Well, then, behave yourself, an' be like you use to be, an' stop trollopin' aroun' wi' them highfalutin' gals downtown. They look like they know too much. All they talk about is boys, boys, boys, from mornin' till night; an' I noticed when they was spendin' a part of the'r time here that you was just as bad. It was six of one an' twice three of the rest. Now you know that ain't a sign of good health for gals to be eternally talkin' about boys, 'specially sech ganglin', lop-sided creeturs as we've got aroun' here."

"Where's Johnny?" asked Nan, who evidently had no notion of getting in a controversy with Mrs. Absalom on the subject of boys. "Johnny" was her name for her step-mother, whose surname of Dion had been changed to "Johns" the day after she arrived at Shady Dale. The story of little Miss Johns has been told in another place and all that is necessary to add to the record is the fact that she had managed to endear herself to the critical, officious, and somewhat jealous Mrs. Absalom. Mrs. Dorrington had the tact and the charm of the best of her race. She was Nan's dearest friend and only confidante, and though she was not many years the girl's senior, she had an influence over her that saved Nan from many a bad quarter of an hour.

Mrs. Dorrington was in her own room when Nan found her, sewing and singing softly to herself, the picture of happiness and content. Nan dropped on her knees beside her chair, and threw her arms impulsively around the little woman's neck.

"Tell me ever what it is, Nan, before you smother-cate me," said Mrs. Dorrington, smoothing the girl's hair. The two had a language of their own, which the elder had learned from the younger.

"It is the most miserable misery, Johnny. Do you remember what I told you about those people?"

"How could I forget, Nan?"

"Well, those people are going head foremost into trouble, and whatever happens, I want to be there."

"Oh, is that so? Well, it is too bad," said the little woman sympathetically. "Perhaps if you would say something about it—not too much, but just enough for me to get it through my thick numskull——"

Whereupon Nan told of all the fears by which she was beset, and of all the troubles that racked her mind, and the two had quite a consultation.

"You are not afraid for yourself; why should you be afraid for those people?" inquired Mrs. Dorrington, laying great stress on "those people," the name that Gabriel went by when Nan and Johnny were referring to him.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Nan, helplessly. "It isn't because of what you would guess if you knew no better. I have a very great friendship for those people; but it isn't the other feeling—the kind that you were telling me about. If it is—oh, if it is—I shall never forgive myself."

"In time—yes. It is quite easy to forgive yourself on account of those people. I found it so."

"Oh, don't! You make me feel as if I ought never to speak to myself."

"Then don't," said Mrs. Dorrington, calmly. "You can speak to me instead of to that ignorant girl."

"Oh, you sweetest!" cried Nan, hugging her step-mother; "I am going to have you for my doll."

"Very well, then," said Mrs. Dorrington, shrugging her shoulders; "but you will have some trouble on your hands—yes, more than those people give you."

"Johnny, you are my little mother, and you never gave me any trouble in your life. I am the one that is troublesome; I am troubling you now."

"Silly thing! will you be good?" cried Mrs. Dorrington, tapping Nan lightly on the cheek. "How can you trouble me when I don't know what you mean? You haven't told me."

"I thought you could guess as well as I can," replied Nan.

"About some things—yes; but not about this terrible danger that is to overcome those people."

Whereupon, Nan told Mrs. Dorrington of the conversation she and Gabriel had overheard. To this information she added her suspicions that Gabriel intended to do something desperate; and then she gave a very vivid description of the strange white man, of his pale and eager countenance, his glittering, shifty eyes, and his thin, cruel lips.

Instead of shuddering, as she should have done, Mrs. Dorrington laughed. "But I don't see what the trouble is," she declared. "That boy is ever so large; he can take care of himself. But if you think not, then ask him to tea."

Nan frowned heavily. "But, Johnny, tea is so tame. Think of rescuing a friend from danger by means of a cup of tea! Doesn't it seem ridiculous?"

"Of course it is," responded Mrs. Dorrington. "But it isn't half so ridiculous as your make-believe. Oh, Nan! Nan! when will you come down from your clouds?"

Now, Nan's world of make-believe was as natural to her as the persons and things all about her. No sooner had she guessed that it was Gabriel's intention to find out what the Union League was for, and, in a way, expose himself to some possible danger of discovery, than she carried the whole matter into her land of make-believe as naturally as a mocking-bird carries a flake of thistle-down to its nest. Once there, nothing could be more reasonable or more logical than the terrible danger to which Gabriel would be exposed. While it lasted, Nan's feeling of anxiety and alarm was both real and sincere. Mrs. Absalom could never enter into this world of Nan's; she was too practical and downright. And yet she had a ready sympathy for the girl's troubles and humoured her without stint, though she sometimes declared that Nan was queer and flighty.

Mrs. Dorrington, on the other hand, inheriting the sensitive and artistic temperament of Flavian Dion, her father, was able to enter heartily into the most of Nan's vagaries. Sometimes she humoured them, but more frequently she laughed at them as the girl grew older. Occasionally, in her twilight conversations with her father, whose gentleness and shyness kept him in the background, Mrs. Dorrington would deplore Nan's tendency to exploit her imagination.

"But she was born thus, my dear," Flavian Dion would reply, speaking the picturesque patois of New France. "It will either be her great misery, or her great happiness. How was it with me? Once it was my great misery, but now—you see how it is. Come! we will have some music, if Mademoiselle the Dreamer is willing."

And then they would go into the parlour, where, with Mrs. Dorrington at the piano, Flavian Dion with his violin, and Nan with her voice, which was rich and strong, they would render the beautiful folk-songs of France. Moreover, Flavian Dion had caught many of the plantation melodies, of which Nan knew the words, and when the French songs were exhausted, they would fall back on these. It frequently happened that Mademoiselle the Dreamer would add feet as well as voice to the negro melodies, especially if Tasma Tid were there to incite her, and the way that Nan reproduced steps and poses was both wonderful and inimitable.

The reader who takes the trouble to make inferences as he goes along, will perceive that Nan's solicitude for Gabriel was no compliment to him; it was not flattering to the heroism of a young man who was threatening to grow a moustache, for a young lady to believe, or even pretend to believe, that he needed to be rescued from some imaginary danger. Gabriel was strong enough to take a man's place at a log-rolling, and he would have had small relish for the information if he had been told that Nan Dorrington was planning to rescue him.

Let the simple truth be told. Gabriel was no hero in Nan's eyes. He was merely a friend and former comrade, who now was in sad need of some one to take care of him. That was her belief, and she would have shrunk from the idea that Gabriel would one day be her lover. She had quite other views. Yes, indeed! Her lover must be a man who had passed through some desperate experiences. He must be a hero with sword and plume, a cutter and slasher, a man who had a relish for bloodshed, such as she had read about in the romances she had appropriated from her father's library.

Nan had brought over from her childhood many queer dreams and fancies. Once upon a time, she had heard her elders talking of John A. Murrell, the notorious land-pirate and highwayman. The man was one of the coarsest and cruellest of modern ruffians, but about his name the common people had placed a halo of romance. It was said of him that he rescued beautiful maidens from their abductors, and restored them to their friends, and that he robbed the rich only to give to the poor. Sad to say, this ruffian was Nan's ideal hero.

And now, when she was racking her brains to invent some bold and simple plan for the rescue of Gabriel, her mind reverted to this ideal hero of her childhood.

"If you insist, Johnny, I'll ask Gabriel to tea," Nan remarked for the second time; "but, as you say, it is perfectly ridiculous. Whoever heard of rescuing persons by inviting them to supper?" She paused a moment, and then went on with a sigh that would have sounded very real in Mrs. Absalom's ears, but which simply brought a smile to Mrs. Dorrington's face—"Heigh-ho! What a pity John A. Murrell isn't alive to-day!"

"And who is this Mr. Murrell?" Mrs. Dorrington asked.

"He was a fierce robber-chief," replied Nan, placidly. "He wore a big black beard, and a hat with a red feather in it. Over his left shoulder was a red sash, and he rode a big white horse. He carried two big pistols and a bowie-knife—Nonny can tell you all about him."

Whereupon, Mrs. Dorrington jumped from her chair, and made an effort to catch the young romancer; and in a moment, the laughter of the pursuer, and the shrieks of the pursued, when she thought she was in danger of being caught, roused the echoes in the old house. Mrs. Absalom, who was in the kitchen, laughed and shook her head. "I believe them two scamps will be children when they are sixty year old!"

But after awhile, when their romp was over, Nan suddenly discovered that she had been in very high spirits, and this, according to the constitution and by-laws of the land of make-believe, was an unpardonable offence, especially when, as now, a very dear friend was in danger. So she went out upon the veranda, and half-way down the steps, where she seated herself in an attitude of extreme dejection.

While sitting there, Nan suddenly remembered that she did have a grievance and a very real one. Tasma Tid was in a state of insurrection. She had not been permitted to accompany her young mistress when the latter visited her girl-friends, and for a long time she had been sulking and pouting. An effort had been made to induce Tasma Tid to make herself useful, but even the strong will of Mrs. Absalom collapsed when it found itself in conflict with the bright-eyed African.

Tasma Tid had been wounded in her tenderest part—her affections. Her sentiments and emotions, being primitive, were genuine. Her grief, when separated from Nan, was very keen. She refused to eat, and for the most part kept herself in seclusion, and no one was able to find her hiding-place. Now, when Nan threw herself upon the steps in an attitude of dejection, with her head on her arm, it happened that Tasma Tid was prowling about with the hope of catching a glimpse of her. The African, slipping around the house, suddenly came plump upon the object of her search. She stood still, and drew a long breath. Here was Honey Nan apparently in deep trouble. Tasma Tid crept up the steps as silently as a ghost, and sat beside the prostrate form. If Nan knew, she made no sign; nor did she move when the African laid a caressing hand on her hair. It was only when Tasma Tid leaned over and kissed Nan on the hand that she stirred. She raised her head, saying,

"You shouldn't do that, Tasma Tid; I'm too mean."

"How come you dis away, Honey Nan?" inquired the African in a low tone. "Who been-a hu't you?"

"No one," replied Nan; "I am just mean."

"'Tis ain't so, nohow. Somebody been-a hu't you. You show dem ter Tasma Tid—dee ain't hu't you no mo'."

"Where have you been? Why did you go away and leave me?"

"Nobody want we fer stay. You go off, an' den we go off. We go off an' walk, walk, walk in de graveyard—walk, walk, walk in de graveyard; an' den we go home way off yander in de woods."

"Home! why this is your home; it shall always be your home," cried Nan, touched by the forlorn look in Tasma Tid's eyes, and the despairing expression in her voice.

"No, no, Honey Nan; 'tis-a no home fer we when you drive we 'way fum foller you, when you shak-a yo' haid ef we come trot, trot 'hind you. We no want home lak dat. No, no, Honey Nan. We make home in de woods."

"Where is your home?" Nan inquired, full of curiosity.

"We take-a you dey when dem sun go 'way."

"Well, you must stay here," said Nan, emphatically. "You shall follow me wherever I go."

"You talk-a so dis time, Honey Nan; nex' time—" Tasma Tid ran down the steps, and went along the walk mimicking Nan's movements, shaking her frock first on one side and then on the other. Then she looked over her shoulder, turned around with a frown, stamped her foot and made menacing gestures with her hands. "Dat how 'twill be nex' time, Honey Nan."

Hearing Mrs. Absalom laughing, Nan conjectured that she had witnessed Tasma Tid's performance. "Nonny," she cried, "do I really walk that way, and finger my skirt so?"

"To a t," said Mrs. Absalom, laughing louder. "Ef she was a foot an' a half higher, I'd 'a' made shore it was you practisin' ag'in the time when you'll mince by the store where old Silas Tomlin's yearlin' is clerkin', or by the tavern peazzer, where Frank Bethune an' the rest of the loafers set at. It's among the merikels that Gabe Tolliver don't mix wi' that crowd. I reckon maybe it's bekaze he jest natchally too wuthless."

"Now, Nonny! I don't think you ought to make fun of me," protested Nan. "I am perfectly certain that I don't mince when I walk, and you are always complaining that I don't care how my clothes look."

"Go roun' to the kitchen, you black slink," exclaimed Mrs. Absalom, addressing Tasma Tid, "an' git your dinner! You've traipsed and trolloped until I bet you can gulp down all the vittles on the place."

"And when you have finished your dinner, come to my room," said Nan.

It was not often that Nan was to be found in her own room during the day, but now she remembered that she had promised to spend the night with Eugenia Claiborne; and how was she to invite Gabriel to tea, as Mrs. Dorrington had suggested? There was but one thing to do, and that was to break her engagement with Eugenia. She was of half a dozen minds what to say to her friend. She wrote note after note, only to destroy each one. She pulled her nose, stuck out her tongue, looked at the ceiling, and bit her thumb, but all to no purpose.

Tasma Tid, who had finished her dinner, sat on the floor eying Nan as an intelligent dog eyes its master, ready to respond to look, word or gesture. Finally, the African, seeing Nan's perplexity, made a suggestion.

"Make dem cuss-words come," she said. Tasma Tid had heard men use profane language when fretted or irritated, and she supposed that it was a remedy for troubles both small and large.

"Be jigged if I haven't a mind to," cried Nan, laughing at the African's earnestness.

But at last she flung her pen down, seized her hat, and, with an unspoken invitation to Tasma Tid, went out into the street, determined to go to the Gaither Place, where Eugenia lived, and present her excuses in person.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mr. Sanders in His Cups

When Nan came in sight of the court-house she saw a crowd of men and boys gazing at some spectacle on the side opposite her. Some were laughing, while others had serious faces. Among them she noticed Francis Bethune, and she also saw Gabriel, who was standing apart from the rest with a very gloomy countenance. Arriving near the crowd, she paused to discover what had excited their curiosity; and there before her eyes, seated on the court-house steps, was Mr. Billy Sanders, relating to an imaginary audience some choice incidents in his family history. His hat was off, and his face was very red.

As Nan listened, he was telling how his "pa" and "ma" had married in South Carolina, and had subsequently moved to Jasper County in Georgia. In coming away (according to Mr. Sanders's version), they had fetched a half dozen hogs too many, and maybe a cow or two that didn't belong to them. By-and-by the owners of the stock appeared in the neighbourhood where Mr. Sanders, Sr., had settled, found the missing property, and carried him away with them. They had, or claimed to have, a warrant, and they hustled the pioneer off to South Carolina, and put him in jail.

"Now, Sally Hart was Nancy's own gal," said Mr. Sanders, pausing to take a nip from a bottle he carried in his pocket. "She was a chip off'n the old block ef they ever was a block that had a chip. So Sally (that was ma) she went polin' off to Sou' Ca'liny. The night she got to whar she was agwine, she tore a hole in the side of the jail that you could 'a' driv a buggy through. Then she took poor pa by one ear, an' fetched him home. An' that ain't all. Arter she got him home, she took a rawhide an' liter'ly wore pa out. She said arterwards that she didn't larrup him for fetchin' the stock off, but for layin' up there in jail an' lettin' his crap spile. Well, that frailin' made a good Christian of pa. He j'ined the church, an' would 'a' been a preacher, but ma wouldn't let him. She allowed they'd be too much gaddin' about, an' maybe a little too much honeyin' up wi' the sisterin'. 'No,' says she, 'ef you want to do good prayin', pray whilst you're ploughin'. I'll look arter the hoein' myself,' says she."

Mr. Sanders was not regarded as a dangerous man in his cups, but on one well-remembered occasion he had fired into a crowd of men who were inclined to be too familiar, and since that day he had been given a wide berth when he took a seat on the court-house steps and began to recite his family history. While Nan stood there, Mr. Sanders drew a pistol from his pocket, and, smiling blandly, began to flourish it around. As he did so, Gabriel Tolliver sprang into the street and ran rapidly toward him. Some one in the crowd uttered a cry of warning. Seized by some blind impulse Nan ran after Gabriel. Francis Bethune caught her arm as she ran by him, but she wrenched herself from his grasp, and ran faster than ever.

"Stand back there!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders in an angry voice, raising his pistol. For one brief moment, the spectators thought that Gabriel was doomed, for he went on without wavering. But he was really in no danger. Mr. Sanders had mistaken him for some of the young men who had been taunting him as they stood at a safe distance. But when he saw who it was, he replaced the pistol in his pocket, remarking, "You ought to hang out your sign, Gabe. Ef I hadn't 'a' had on my furseein' specks, I'm afear'd I'd a plugged you."

At that moment Nan arrived on the scene, her anger at white heat. She caught her breath, and then stood looking at Mr. Sanders, with eyes that fairly blazed with scorn and anger. "Ef looks'd burn, honey, they wouldn't be a cinder left of me," said Mr. Sanders, moving uneasily. "Arter she's through wi' me, Gabriel, plant me in a shady place, an' make old Tar-Baby thar," indicating Tasma Tid, who had followed Nan—"make old Tar-Baby thar set on my grave, an' warm it up once in awhile. I leave you my Sunday shirts wi' the frills on 'em, Gabriel, an' my Sunday boots wi' the red tops; an' have a piece put in the Malvern paper, statin' that I was one of the most populous and public-sperreted citizens of the county. An' tell how I went about killin' jimson weeds an' curkle-burrs for my neighbours by blowin' my breath on 'em."

What Nan had intended to say, she left unsaid. Her feelings reacted while Mr. Sanders was talking, and she turned her back on him and began to cry. Under the circumstances, it was the very thing to do. Mr. Sanders's face fell. "I'll tell you the honest truth, Gabriel—I never know'd that anybody in the roun' world keer'd a continental whether I was drunk or sober, alive or dead; an' I'd lots ruther some un 'd stick a knife through my gizzard than to see that child cryin'."

He rose and went to Nan—he was not too tipsy to walk—and tried to lay his hand on her arm, but she whirled away from him. "Honey," he said, "what must I do? I'll do anything in the world you say."

"Go home and try to be decent," she answered.

"I will, honey, ef you an' Gabriel will go wi' me. I need some un for to keep the boogers off. You git on the lead side, honey, an' Gabriel, you be the off-hoss. Now, hitch on here"—he held out both elbows, so that each could take him by an arm—"an' when you're ready to start, give the word."

Nan dried her eyes as quickly as she could, but before she would consent to go with Mr. Sanders, insisted on searching him. She found a flask of apple-brandy, and hurled it against the side of the court-house.

"Nan," he said ruefully, "that's twice you've broke my heart in a quarter of an hour. Ain't there some way you can break Gabriel's?" He paused and sniffed the fumes of the apple-brandy. "It's a mighty good thing court ain't in session," he remarked, "bekaze the judge an' jury an' all the lawyers would come pourin' out for to smell at that wall there. You say they ain't no way for you to break Gabriel's heart, too?" he asked again, turning to Nan.

"I just know my eyes are a sight," she said in reply. "Are they red and swollen, Gabriel?"

"They are somewhat red, but——"

"But what?" she asked, as Gabriel paused.

"They are just as pretty as ever."

"Mr. Sanders, that is the first compliment he ever paid me in his life."

"You'll remember it longer on that account," said Mr. Sanders. "Gabriel is lazy-minded, but he'll brighten up arter awhile. Speakin' of fust an' last, an' things of that kind," he went on, "I reckon this is the fust time I ever come betwixt you children. I hope no harm's done."

"Well, sir," said Nan, addressing Gabriel with a pretty formality, "since you are kind enough to pay me a compliment, I'll be bold enough to ask you to take tea with me this evening; and I'll have no refusal."

Gabriel found himself in an awkward predicament. He felt bound to discover what part the Union League was playing. He had read of its sinister influence in other parts of the South, and he judged that the hour of its organisation at Shady Dale was the aptest time for such a discovery. He couldn't tell Nan what his plans were—he had no idea that she had already guessed them—and he hardly knew what to say. He was thoroughly uncomfortable. He was silent so long that Mr. Sanders had an opportunity to ask Nan if she hadn't made a remark to Gabriel.

"Yes; I asked him to tea," she replied in a low voice; "he has forgotten it by this time." But Nan well knew why Gabriel was silent; she was neither vexed nor surprised at his hesitation. Nevertheless, she must play her part.

"Give him time, Nan; give him time," said Mr. Sanders, consolingly. "Gabriel comes of a stuttering family. They say it took his grandma e'en about seven year to tell Dick Lumsden she'd have him. I lay Gabriel is composin' in his mind a flowery piece sorter like, 'Here's my heart, an' here's my hand; ef you ax me to tea, I'm your'n to command.'"

"I'm sorry I can't come, Nan, but I can't; and it's just my luck that you should invite me to-day," said Gabriel, finally.

"You have another engagement?" asked Nan.

"No, not an engagement," he replied.

"Well, you are going to do something very unnecessary and improper," said Nan, with the air and tone of a mature woman. "You are sure to get into trouble. Why don't you ask your Mr. Bethune to take your place, or at least go with you?"

"Why, you talk as if you knew what I am going to do," remarked Gabriel; "but you couldn't guess in a week."

At this point Mr. Sanders tried to stop in order to deliver an address. "I bet you—I bet you a seven-pence ag'in a speckled hen that Nan knows precisely what you're up to."

But Nan and Gabriel pulled him along in spite of his frequently expressed desire to "lay down in the road an' take a nap." "It's a shame," he said, "for a great big gal an' a great big boy to be harryin' a man as old as me. Why don't you ketch hands an' run to play? No, nothin' will do, but you must worry William H. Sanders, late of said county." He received no reply to this, and continued: "I'm glad I took too much, Gabriel, ef only for one thing. You know what I told you about Nan's temper—well, you've seed it for yourself. She's frailed Frank, she'd 'a' frailed me jest now ef you hadn't 'a' been on hand, an' she'll frail you out before long. She's jest turrible."

Mr. Sanders kept up his good-humour all the way home, and when he had been placed in charge of Uncle Plato, who knew how to deal with him, he said: "Now, fellers, I had a mighty good reason for restin' my mind. You cried bekase old Billy Sanders was drunk, didn't you, Nan? Well, I'm mighty glad you did. I never know'd before that a sob or two would make a Son of Temperance of a man; but that's what they'll do for me. Nobody in this world will ever see me drunk ag'in. So long!"

It may be said here that Mr. Sanders kept his promise. The events which followed required clear heads and steady hands for their shaping, but each crisis, as it arose, found Mr. Sanders, and a few others who acted with him, fully prepared to meet it, though there were times and occasions when he, as well as the rest, was overtaken by a profound sense of his helplessness. Some fell into melancholy, and some were overtaken by dejection, but Mr. Sanders never for a moment forgot to be cheerful.

"I don't suppose there is another girl in the country who would make such a spectacle of herself as I made to-day," said Nan, as she and Gabriel walked slowly in the direction of town.

"What do you mean?" inquired Gabriel.

"You know well enough," replied Nan. "Why, think of a young woman rushing across the public square in the face of a crowd, and doing as I did! I'll be the talk of the town. What is your opinion?"

"Well, considering who the man was, and everything, I think it was very becoming in you," replied Gabriel.

"Oh, thank you!" said Nan. "Under the circumstances, you could say no less. You have changed greatly, Gabriel, since Eugenia Claiborne began to make eyes at you. You seem to think it is a mark of politeness to pay compliments right and left, and to agree with everybody. No doubt, if an invitation to tea had come from further up the street, you would have found some excuse for accepting."

Nan's logic was quite feminine, but Gabriel took no advantage of that fact. "I'm sorry I can't come, Nan, and I hope you'll not be angry."

"Angry! why should I be angry?" Nan exclaimed. "An invitation to tea is not so important."

"But this one is important to me," said Gabriel. "It is the first time you have asked me, and I hope it won't be the last."

Nan said nothing more until she bade Gabriel good-bye at her father's gate. He thought she was angry, while she was wondering if he considered her bold.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Caught in a Corner

It was no difficult matter for Nan Dorrington to infer what course of action Gabriel intended to pursue. The Union Leagues established in the South under the auspices of the political department of the Freedman's Bureau had already excited the suspicion of the whites. The reputation they instantly achieved was extremely sinister, and they had become the source of much uneasiness. There was an air of mystery about them which, however pleasing it might be to the negroes, was not at all relished by those who had been made the victims of radical legislation. There were wild rumours to the effect that the object of these leagues was to organise the negroes and prepare them for an armed attack on the whites.

These rumours were to be seen spread out in the newspapers, and were to be heard wherever people gathered together. Nan was familiar with them, and, while both she and Gabriel were possibly too young to harbour all the anxieties entertained by their elders, they nevertheless took a very keen interest in the situation; and it was not less keen because it had curiosity for its basis.

Gabriel had no sooner digested the purport of the conversation to which he had listened than he made up his mind to unravel, if he could, the mystery of the Union League, and to discover what part the new-comer, the companion of the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin, proposed to play. It was characteristic of the lad that he should act promptly. When he left Nan so unceremoniously, he ran to the Clopton Place to report what he had heard to Mr. Sanders, but he found that worthy citizen in no condition to give him aid, or even advice. Meriwether Clopton chanced to be in consultation with some gentleman from Atlanta, and could not be seen, while Francis Bethune was said to be in town somewhere.

It was then that Gabriel made up his mind that he would act alone. He knew the old school-house in which the league was to be organised, as well as he knew his own home. It had formerly been called the Shady Dale Male Academy, and its reputation, before the war, had gone far and wide. Gabriel had spent many a happy hour there, and some that were memorably unpleasant, especially during the term that a school-master by the name of McManus wielded the rod. Among the things that Gabriel remembered was the fact that the space under the stairway—the building had two stories—was boarded up so as to form a large closet, where the pupils deposited their extra coats and wraps, as well as their lunches. The closet had also been used as a reformatory for refractory pupils, and this was one reason why Gabriel remembered it so well; he had spent numerous uncomfortable hours there at a time when darkness and isolation had real terrors for him.

The building had been abandoned by the whites during the war, and was for a time used as a hospital. At the close of the war it was turned over to the negroes, who established there a flourishing school, which was presided over by a native Southerner, an old gentleman whom the war had stripped of this world's goods.

Gabriel thought it best to begin operations before the sun went down. He made a detour wide enough to place the school-house between him and Shady Dale, so that if by any chance his movements should attract attention he would have the appearance of approaching the building quite by accident. Under the circumstances, it was perhaps fortunate that he took this precaution, for when he drew near the school-house, the Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin was standing in the back door flourishing a broom.

"Hello, Jeremiah!" said Gabriel by way of salutation. "What's up now?"

"Good-evenin', Mister Gabe," responded the Rev. Jeremiah. "Dey been havin' some plasterin' done in my chu'ch, suh, an' we 'lowd we'd hol' pra'r-meetin' here ter-night. An' I'll tell you why, suh: You know mighty well how we coloured folks does—we ain't got nothin' fer ter hide, an' we couldn't hide it ef we did had sump'n. Well, suh, dem mongst us what got any erligion is bleeze ter show it; when de sperret move um, dey bleeze ter let one an'er know it; an' in dat way, suh, dey do a heap er movin' 'bout. Dey rastles wid Satan, ez you may say, when dey gits in a weavin' way; an' I wuz fear'd, suh, dat dey mought shake de damp plasterin' down."

"But you have no pulpit here," suggested Gabriel, who associated a pulpit with all religious gatherings.

"So much de better, suh," replied the Rev. Jeremiah. "Ef you wuz ter come ter my chu'ch, you'd allers see me come down when I gits warmed up. Dey ain't no pulpit big nuff for me long about dat time. No, suh; I'm bleeze ter have elbow-room, an' I'm mighty glad dey ain't no pulpit in here. But whar you been, Mr. Gabe?" inquired the Rev. Jeremiah, craftily changing the subject.

"Just walking about in the woods and fields," answered Gabriel.

"'Twant no use fer ter ax you, suh; you been doin' dat sence you wuz big nuff ter clime a fence. Ef you wan't wid Miss Nan, you wuz by yo'se'f. I uv seed you many a day, suh, when you didn't see me. You wuz wid Miss Nan dis ve'y day." The Rev. Jeremiah dropped his head to one side, and smiled a knowing smile. "Oh, you needn't be shame un it, suh," the negro went on as the colour slowly mounted to Gabriel's face. "I uv said it befo' an' I'll say it ag'in, an' I don't keer who hears me—Miss Nan is boun' ter make de finest 'oman in de lan'. An' dat ain't all, suh: when I hear folks hintin' dat she's gwine ter make a match wid Mr. Frank Bethune, sez I, 'Des keep yo' eye on Mr. Gabe'; dat zackly what I sez."

"Oh, the dickens and Tom Walker!" exclaimed Gabriel impatiently; "who's been talking of the affairs of Miss Dorrington in that way?"

"Why, purty nigh eve'ybody, suh," remarked the Rev. Jeremiah, smacking his lips. "What white folks say in de parlour, you kin allers hear in de kitchen."

After firing this homely truth at Gabriel, the Rev. Jeremiah went to work with his broom and made a great pretence of sweeping and moving the benches about. The lad followed him in, and looked about him with interest. It was the first time he had revisited the old school-house since he was a boy of ten, and he was pleased to find that there had been few changes. The desk at which he had sat was intact. His initials, rudely carved, stared him in the face, and there, too, was the hole he had cut in the seat. He remembered that this was a dungeon in which he had imprisoned many a fly. These mute evidences of his idleness seemed to be as solid as the hills. Between those times and the present, the wild and furious perspective of war lay spread out, and Gabriel could imagine that the idler who had hacked the desk belonged to another generation altogether.

He went to the blackboard, found a piece of chalk, and wrote in a large, bold hand: "Rev. Jeremiah Tomlin will lecture here to-night, beginning at early candle-light."

The Rev. Jeremiah, witnessing the performance, had his curiosity aroused: "What is de word you uv writ, suh?" he inquired, and when Gabriel had read it off, the negro exclaimed, "Well, suh! You put all dat down, an' it didn't take you no time; no, suh, not no time. But I might uv speckted it, bekase I hear lots er talk about how smart you is on all sides—dey all sesso."

"Does Tasma Tid belong to your church?" Gabriel inquired with a most innocent air.

"Do which, suh?" exclaimed Rev. Jeremiah, pausing with his broom suspended in the air. When Gabriel repeated his inquiry, the Rev. Jeremiah drew a deep breath, his nostrils dilated, and he seemed to grow several inches taller. "No, suh, she do not; no, suh, she do not belong ter my chu'ch. You kin look at her, suh, an' see de mark er de Ol' Boy on her. She got de hoodoo eye, suh; an' de blue gums dat go long wid it, an' ef she wuz ter jine my chu'ch, she'd be de only member."

It was very clear to Gabriel that nothing was to be gained by remaining, so he bade the Rev. Jeremiah good-bye, and went toward Shady Dale. When he was well out of sight, the negro approached the blackboard, and, with the most patient curiosity, examined the inscription or announcement that Gabriel had written. With his forefinger, he traced over the lines, as if in that way he might absorb the knowledge that was behind the writing. Then, stepping back a few paces, he viewed the writing critically. Finally he shook his head doubtfully, exclaiming aloud: "Dat's whar dey'll git us—yes, suh, dat's whar dey sho' will git us."

After which, he carefully closed the doors of the school-house and followed the path leading to Shady Dale—the path that Gabriel had taken. The Rev. Jeremiah mumbled as he walked along, giving oral utterance to his thoughts, but in a tone too low to reveal their import. He had taken a step which it was now too late to retrace. He was not a vicious negro. In common with the great majority of his race—in common, perhaps with the men of all races—he was eaten up by a desire to become prominent, to make himself conspicuous. Generations of civilisation (as it is called) have gone far to tone down this desire in the whites, and they manage to control it to some extent, though now and then we see it crop out in individuals. But there had been no toning down of the Rev. Jeremiah's egotism; on the contrary, it had been fed by the flattery of his congregation until it was gross and rank.

It was natural, therefore, under all the circumstances, that the Rev. Jeremiah should become the willing tool of the politicians and adventurers who had accepted the implied invitation of the radical leaders of the Republican Party to assist in the spoliation of the South. The Rev. Jeremiah, once he had been patted on the back, and addressed as Mr. Tomlin by a white man, and that man a representative of the Government, was quite ready to believe anything he was told by his new friends, and quite as ready to aid them in carrying out any scheme that their hatred of the South and their natural rapacity could suggest or invent.

Therefore, let it not be supposed that the Rev. Jeremiah, as he went along the path, mumbling out his thoughts, was expressing any doubt of the wisdom or expediency of the part he was expected to play in arraying the negroes against the whites. No; he was simply putting together as many sonorous phrases as he could remember, and storing them away in view of the contingency that he would be called on to address those of his race who might be present at the organisation of the Union League. He had been very busy since his conference with the agent of the Freedman's Bureau, and, in one way and another, had managed to convey information of the proposed meeting to quite a number of the negroes; and in performing this service he was careful that a majority of those notified should be members of his church—negroes with whom his influence was all-powerful. But he had also invited Uncle Plato, Clopton's carriage-driver, Wiley Millirons, and Walthall's Jake, three of the worthiest and most sensible negroes to be found anywhere.

While the Rev. Jeremiah, full of his own importance, and swelling with childish vanity, was making his way toward Neighbour Tomlin's, on whose lot he had a house, rent free, there were other plotters at work. In addition to Gabriel Tolliver, Nan Dorrington was a plotter to be reckoned with, especially when she had as her copartner Tasma Tid, who was as cunning as some wild thing.

When the day was far spent, or, as Mrs. Absalom would say, "along to'rds the shank of the evenin'," Nan and Tasma Tid went wandering out of town in the direction of the school-house. The excuse Nan had given at home was that she wanted to see Tasma Tid's hiding-place. As they passed Tomlin's, they saw the Rev. Jeremiah splitting wood for his wife, who was the cook. At sight of Jeremiah, Tasma Tid began to laugh, and she laughed so long and so loud that the parson paused in his labours and looked at her. He took off his hat and bowed to Nan, whereupon Tasma Tid raised her hand above her head, and indulged in a series of wild gesticulations, which, to the Rev. Jeremiah, were very mysterious and puzzling. He shook his head dubiously, and mopped his face with a large red handkerchief.

"What are you trying to do to Jeremiah?" inquired Nan, as they went along.

"Him fool nigger. We make him dream bad dream," responded Tasma Tid curtly.

The two were in no hurry. They sauntered along leisurely, and, although the sun had not set, by the time they had entered the woods in which the school-house stood, the deep shadows of the trees gave the effect of twilight to the scene. Tasma Tid led Nan to the old building, and told her to wait a moment. The African crawled under the house, and then suddenly reappeared at the back door, near which Nan stood waiting. Tasma Tid had crawled under the house, and lifted a loose plank in the floor of the closet, making her entrance in that way. The front door was locked and the key was safe in the pocket of the Rev. Jeremiah, but the back door was fastened on the inside, and Tasma Tid had no trouble in getting it open.

It is fair to say that Nan hesitated before entering. Some instinct or presentiment held her a moment. She was not afraid; her sense of fear had never developed itself; it was one of the attributes of human nature that was foreign to her experience; and this was why some of her actions, when she was younger, and likewise when she was older, were inexplicable to the rest of her sex, and made her the object of criticism which seemed to have good ground to go upon. Nan hesitated with her foot on the step, but it was not her way to draw back, and she went in. Tasma Tid refastened the door very carefully, and then turned and led the way toward the closet. The room was not wholly dark; one or two of the shutters had fallen off, and in this way a little light filtered in. Nan followed Tasma Tid to the closet, the door of which was open.

"Dis-a we house," said Tasma Tid; "dis-a de place wey we live at."

"Why did you come here?" Nan asked.

"We had no nurrer place; all-a we frien' gone; da's why."

What further comment Nan may have made cannot even be guessed, for at that moment there was a noise at one of the windows; some one was trying to raise the sash. Nan and Tasma Tid held their breath while they listened, and then, when they were sure that some one was preparing to enter the building, the African closed the closet door noiselessly, and pulled Nan after her to the narrowest and most uncomfortable part of the musty and dusty place—the space next the stairway, where it was so low that they were compelled to sit flat on the floor.

The intruder, whoever he might be, crawled cautiously through the window—they could hear the buttons of his coat strike against the sill—and leaped lightly to the floor. He lowered the window again, and then, after tiptoeing about among the benches, came straight to the closet. As Tasma Tid had not taken time to fasten it on the inside, the door was easily opened. Dark as it was, Nan and the African could see that the intruder was a man, but, beyond this, they could distinguish nothing. Nan and her companion would have breathed freer if recognition had been possible, for the new-comer was Gabriel, who had determined to take this method of discovering the aim and object of the Union League.

Once in the closet, Gabriel took pains to make the inside fastenings secure. It was one of the whims of Mr. McManus, the school-master, who had so often caused Gabriel's head and the blackboard to meet, that the fastenings of this closet should be upon the inside. It tickled his humour to feel that a refractory boy should be his own jailer, able, and yet not daring, to release himself until the master should rap sharply on the door.

Gabriel was less familiar with these fastenings than he had formerly been, and he fumbled about in the dark for some moments before he could adjust them to his satisfaction. He made no effort to explore the closet, taking for granted that it could have no other occupant. This was fortunate for Nan, for if he had moved about to any extent, he would inevitably have stumbled over the African and her young mistress, who were crouched and huddled as far under the stairway as they could get.

Gabriel stood still a moment, as if listening, and then he sat flat on the floor, and stretched out his legs with a sigh of relief. After that there was a long period of silence, during which Nan had a fine opportunity to be very sorry that she had ever ventured out on such a fool's errand. "If I get out of this scrape," she thought over and over again, "I'll never be a tomboy; I'll never be a harum-scarum girl any more." She had no physical fear, but she realised that she was placed in a very awkward position.

She was devoured with curiosity to know whether the intruder really was Gabriel. She hoped it was, and the hope caused her to blush in the dark. She knew she was blushing; she felt her ears burn—for what would Gabriel think if he knew that she was crouching on the floor, not more than an arm's length from him? Why, naturally, he would have no respect for her. How could he? she asked herself.

As for Gabriel, he was sublimely unconscious of the fact that he was not alone. Once or twice he fancied he heard some one breathing, but he was a lad who was very close to nature, and he knew how many strange and varied sounds rise mysteriously out of the most profound silence; and so, instead of becoming suspicious, he became drowsy. He made himself as comfortable as he could, and leaned against the wall, pitting his patience against the loneliness of the place and the slow passage of time.

Being a healthy lad, Gabriel would have gone to sleep then and there, but for a mysterious splutter and explosion, so to speak, which went off right at his elbow, as he supposed. He was in that neutral territory between sleeping and waking and he was unable to recognise the sound that had startled him; and it would have remained a mystery but for the fact that a sneeze is usually accompanied by its twin. Nan had for some time felt an inclination to sneeze, and the more she tried to resist it the greater the inclination grew, until finally, it culminated in the spluttering explosion that had aroused Gabriel. This was followed by a sneeze which he had no difficulty in recognising.

The fact that some unknown person was a joint occupant of the closet upset him so little that he was surprised at himself. He remained perfectly quiet for awhile, endeavouring to map out a course of action, little knowing that Nan Dorrington was chewing her nails with anger a few feet from where he sat.

"Who are you?" he asked finally. He spoke in a firm low tone.

In another moment Nan's impulsiveness would have betrayed her, but Tasma Tid came to her rescue.

"Huccum you in we house? Whaffer you come dey? How you call you' name?"

"Oh, shucks! Is that you, Tiddy Me Tas?"—this was the way Gabriel sometimes twisted her name. "I thought you were the booger-man. You'd better run along home to your Miss Nan. She says she wants to see you. What are you hiding out here for anyway?"

"We no hide, Misser Gable. 'Tis-a we house, dis. Honey Nan no want we; she no want nobody. She talkin' by dat Misser Frank what live-a down dey at Clopton. Dee got cake, dee got wine, dee got all de bittle dee want."

Tasma Tid told this whopper in spite of the fact that Nan was giving her warning nudges and pinches.

"Yes, I reckon they are having a good time," said Gabriel gloomily. "Miss Nan gave me an invitation, but I couldn't go." It was something new in Nan's experience to hear Gabriel call her Miss Nan, and she rather relished the sensation it gave her. She was now ready to believe that she was really and truly a young lady.

"Whaffer you ain't gone down dey?" inquired Tasma Tid. "Ef you kin come dis-a way, you kin go down dey."

"I was obliged to come here," responded Gabriel.

"Shoo! dem fib roll out lak dey been had grease on top um," exclaimed Tasma Tid derisively. "Who been ax you fer come by dis way? 'Tis-a we house, dis. You better go, Misser Gable; go by dat place wey Honey Nan live, an' look in de blin' wey you see dat Misser Frank, and dat Misser Paul Tomlin, an' watch um how dee kin make love. Maybe you kin fin' out how fer make love you'se'f."

Gabriel laughed uneasily. "No, Tiddy Me Tas—no love-making for me. I'm either too old or too young, I forget which."

They ceased talking, for they heard footsteps outside, and the sound of voices. Presently some one opened the door, and it seemed from the noise that was made, the shuffling of feet, and the repressed tones of conversation, that a considerable number of negroes had responded to the Rev. Jeremiah's invitation.

The first-comers evidently lit a candle, for a phantom-like shadow of light trickled through a small crack in the closet door, and a faint, but unmistakable, odour of a sulphur match readied Gabriel's nostrils. There were whispered consultations, and a good deal of muffled and subdued conversation, but every word that was distinctly enunciated was clearly heard in the sound-box of a closet. But suddenly all conversation ceased, and complete silence took possession of those present.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Union League Organises

The silence was presently broken by a very clear and distinct voice, which both Nan and Gabriel recognised as that of the stranger whom they had overheard talking to the Rev. Jeremiah.

"Before we proceed to the business that has called us together," said the voice, "it is best that we should come to some clear understanding. I am not here in my own behalf. I have nothing to lose except my life, and nothing to gain but the betterment of those who have been released from the horrors of slavery. Very few of you know even my name, but the very fact that I am here with you to-night should go far to reassure you. It is sufficient to say that I represent the great party that has given you your freedom. That fact constitutes my credentials."

"Bless God!" exclaimed the Rev. Jeremiah, piously. He rolled the word "credentials" under his tongue, and resolved to remember it and bring it out in one of his sermons. The stranger had a very smooth and pleasing delivery. There was a sort of Sunday-school cadence to his voice well calculated to impress his audience. The language he employed was far above the heads of those to whom he spoke, but his persuasive tone, and his engaging manner carried conviction. The great majority of the negroes present were ready to believe what he said whether they understood it or not.

"My name," he went on, "is Gilbert Hotchkiss, and I belong to a family that has been striving for more than a generation to bring about the emancipation of the negroes. My father worked until the day of his death for the abolition of slavery; and now that slavery has been abolished, I, with thousands of devoted women and men whom you have never seen and doubtless never will see, have begun the work of uplifting the coloured people in order that they may be placed in a position to appreciate the benefits that have been conferred on them, and enable them to enjoy the fruits of freedom. It is a great work, a grand work, and all we ask is the active co-operation and assistance of the coloured people themselves."

These were the words of Mr. Hotchkiss, the philanthropist; but now Mr. Hotchkiss, the politician, took his place, and there was an indefinable change in the tone of his voice.

"There is no need to ask," he said, "why we do not, in this great work of uplifting the coloured race, ask the assistance of those who were lately in rebellion against the best and the greatest Government on which the sun ever shone. It would be foolish and unreasonable to expect their assistance. They fought to destroy the Union, and they were defeated; they fought to perpetuate slavery, and they failed. More than that, there is every reason to believe that they will refuse to abide by the results of the war. They are very quiet now, but they are merely waiting their opportunity. With our troops withdrawn, and with the Republican Party weakened by opposition, what is to prevent your late masters from placing you back in slavery? Could we expect anything less from those who have been brought up to believe that slavery is a divine institution?"

"You hear dat, people?" cried the Rev. Jeremiah.

"You cannot help believing," continued Mr. Hotchkiss, "that your former masters would force the chains of slavery on you if they could; all they lack is the opportunity; and if you are not careful, they will find an opportunity, or make one. Slavery was profitable to them once, and it would be profitable again. There is one fact you should never forget," said the speaker, warming up a little. "It is a most stupendous fact, namely: that every dollar's worth of property in all this Southern land has been earned by the labour of your hands and by the sweat of your brows. It has been earned by you, not once, but many times over. You have earned every dollar that has ever circulated here. The lands, the houses, the stock, and all the farm improvements are a part of the fruits of negro labour; and when right and justice prevail, this property, or a very large part of it, will be yours."

This statement was received with demonstrations of approval, one of the audience exclaiming: "You sho' is talkin' now, boss!"

"But how are right and justice to prevail? Only by the constant and continued success of the party of which the martyred Lincoln was the leader. The mission of that party has not yet been fulfilled. First, it made you freemen. Then it went a step further, and made you citizens and voters. Should you sustain it by your votes, it will take still another step, and give you an opportunity to reap some of the fruits of your toil, as well as the toil of the unfortunates who pined away and died or who were starved under the infamous system of slavery."

"Ain't it de trufe!" exclaimed the Rev. Jeremiah fervently.

"We have met here to-night to organise a Union League," continued Mr. Hotchkiss. "The object of this league is to bring about a unity of purpose and action among its members, to give them opportunities to confer together, and to secure a clear understanding. No one knows what will happen. Your former masters are jealous of your rights; they will try by every means in their power to take these rights away from you. They will employ both force and fraud, and the only way for you to meet and overcome this danger is to organise. Ten men who understand one another and act together are more powerful than a hundred who act as individuals. You must be as wise as serpents, but not as harmless as doves. Your rights have been bought for you by the blood of thousands of martyrs, and you must defend them. If necessary arm yourselves. Yea! if necessary apply the torch."

There was a certain air of plausibility about this harangue, a degree of earnestness, that impressed Gabriel, and he does not know to this day whether this ill-informed emissary of race hatred and sectional prejudice really believed all that he said. Who shall judge? Certainly not those who remember the temper of those times, the revengeful attitude of the radical leaders at the North, and the distorted fears of those who suddenly found themselves surrounded by a horde of ignorant voters, pliant tools in the hands of unscrupulous carpet-baggers.

Hotchkiss brought his remarks to a close, and then proceeded to read the constitution and by-laws of the proposed Union League, under which, he explained, hundreds of leagues had been organised. Each one who desired to become a member was to make oath separately and individually that he would not betray the secrets of the league, nor disclose the signs and passwords, nor tolerate any opposition to the Republican Party, nor have any unnecessary dealings with rebels and former slave-holders. He was to keep eyes and ears open, and report all important developments to the league.

"We are now ready, I presume, for the ceremonies to begin," remarked Mr. Hotchkiss. "First we will elect officers of the league, and I suggest that the Honourable Jeremiah Tomlin be made President."

"Dat's right!" "He sho is de man!" "No needs fer ter put dat ter de question!" were some of the indorsements that came from various parts of the room.

The Rev. Jeremiah was immensely tickled by the title of Honourable that had been so unexpectedly bestowed on him. He hung his head with as much modesty as he could summon, and, bearing in mind his calling, one might have been pardoned for suspecting that he was offering up a brief prayer of thanksgiving. He rose in his place, however, passed the back of his hand across his mouth, paused a moment, and then began:

"Mr. Cheer, I thank you an' deze friends might'ly fer de renomination er my name, an' de gener'l endossments er de balance er deze gentermen. So fur, so good. But, Mr. Cheer, 'fo' we gits right spang down ter business, I moves dat some er de br'ers be ax'd fer ter give der idee er dis plan which have been laid befo' us by our hon'bul frien'. I moves dot we hear fum Br'er Plato Clopton, ef so be de sperret is on him fer ter gi' us his sesso."

Uncle Plato, taken somewhat by surprise, was slow in responding, but when he rose, he presented a striking figure. He was taller than the average negro, and there was a simple dignity—an air of gentility and serene affability—in his attitude and bearing that attracted the attention of Mr. Hotchkiss. The Rev. Jeremiah was still standing, and Uncle Plato, after bowing gracefully to Mr. Hotchkiss, turned with a smile to the negro who had called on him.

"You know mighty well, Br'er Jerry, dat I ain't sech a talker ez ter git up an' say my say des dry so, an' let it go at dat. Howsomever, I laid off ter say sump'n, an' I ain't sorry you called my name. In what's been said dey's a heap dat I 'gree wid. I b'lieve dat de cullud folks oughter work tergedder, an' stan tergedder fer ter he'p an' be holped. But when you call on me fer ter turn my back on my marster, an' go to hatin' 'im, you'll hatter skuzen me. You sho will."

"He ain't yo' marster now, Br'er Plato, an' you know it," said the Rev. Jeremiah.

"I know dat mighty well," replied Uncle Plato, "but ef it don't hurt my feelin's fer ter call him dat it oughtn't ter pester yuther people. How it may be wid you all, I dunno; but me an' my marster wus boys tergedder. We useter play wid one an'er, an' fall out an' fight, an' I've whipped him des ez many times ez he ever whipped me—an' he'll tell you de same."

"But all this," suggested Mr. Hotchkiss coldly, "has nothing to do with the matter in hand. The coloured race is facing conditions that amount to a crisis—a crisis that has no parallel in the world's history."

"Dat is suttinly so!" the Rev. Jeremiah ejaculated, though he had but a dim notion of what Hotchkiss was talking about.

"They have been made citizens," pursued the organiser, "and it is their duty to demand all their rights and to be satisfied with nothing less. The best men of our party believe that the rebels are still rebellious, and that they will seize the first opportunity to re-enslave the coloured people."

"Ah-yi!" exclaimed the Rev. Jeremiah triumphantly.

"Does you reely b'lieve, Br'er Jerry, dat Pulaski Tomlin will ever try ter put you back in slav'ry?" asked Uncle Plato.

The inquiry was a poser, and the Rev. Jeremiah was unable to make any satisfactory reply. Perceiving this, Mr. Hotchkiss came to the rescue. "You must bear in mind," he blandly remarked, "that this is not a question of one person here and another person there. It concerns a whole race. Should all the former slave-owners of the South succeed in reclaiming their slaves, Mr. Tomlin and Mr. Clopton would be compelled by public sentiment to reclaim theirs. If they refused to do so, their former slaves would fall into the hands of new masters. It is not a question of individuals at all."

"Well, suh, we'll fin' out atter awhile dat we'll hatter do like de white folks. Eve'y tub'll hatter stan' on its own bottom. I'm des ez free now ez I wuz twenty year ago——"

"I can well believe that, after what you have said," Mr. Hotchkiss interrupted.

The tone of his voice was as smooth as velvet, but his words carried the sting of an imputation, and Uncle Plato felt it and resented it. "Yes, suh,—an' I wuz des ez free twenty year ago ez you all will ever be. My marster has been good ter me fum de work go. I ain't stayin' wid 'im bekaze he got money. Ef him an' Miss Sa'ah di'n'a have a dollar in de worl', an no way ter git it, I'd work my arms off fer 'm. An' ef I 'fused ter do it, my wife'd quit me, an' my chillun wouldn't look at me. But I'll tell you what I'll do: when my marster tu'ns his back on me I'll tu'n my back on him."

"I'm really sorry that you persist in making this question a personal one when it affects all the negroes now living and millions yet to be born," said Mr. Hotchkiss.

"Well, suh, le's look at it dat away," Uncle Plato insisted. "Spoz'n you ban' tergedder like dis, an' try ter tu'n de white folks ag'in you, an' dey see what you up ter, an' tu'n der backs, den what you gwine ter do? You got ter live here an' you got ter make yo' livin' here. Is you gwine ter cripple de cow dat gives de cream?"

Uncle Plato paused and looked around. He saw at once that he was in a hopeless minority, and so he reached for his hat. "I'm mighty glad ter know you, suh," he said to Mr. Hotchkiss, with a bow that Chesterfield might have envied, "but I'll hatter bid you good-night." With that, he went out, followed by Wiley Millirons and Walthall's Jake, much to the relief of the Rev. Jeremiah, who proceeded to denounce "white folks' niggers," and to utter some very violent threats.

Then, in no long time, the Union League was organised. Those in the closet failed to hear the words that constituted the ceremony of initiation. Only low mutterings came to their ears. But the ceremony consisted of a lot of mummery well calculated to impress the simple-minded negroes. After a time the meeting adjourned, the solitary candle was blown out, and the last negro departed.

Gabriel waited until all sounds had died away, and then, with a brief good-night to Tasma Tid, he opened the closet door, slipped out, and was soon on his way home. But before he was out of the dark grove, some one went flitting by him—in fact, he thought he saw two figures dimly outlined in the darkness; yet he was not sure—and presently he thought he heard a mocking laugh, which sounded very much as if it had issued from the lips of Nan Dorrington. But he was not sure that he heard the laugh, and how, he asked himself, could he imagine that it was Nan Dorrington's even if he had heard it? He told himself confidentially, the news to go no further, that he was a drivelling idiot.

As Gabriel went along he soon forgot his momentary impressions as to the two figures in the dark and the laugh that had seemed to come floating back to him. The suave and well-modulated voice of Mr. Hotchkiss rang in his ears. He had but one fault to find with the delivery: Mr. Hotchkiss dwelt on his r's until they were as long as a fishing-pole, and as sharp as a shoemaker's awl. Though these magnified r's made Gabriel's flesh crawl, he had been very much impressed by the address, only part of which has been reported here. Boylike, he never paused to consider the motives or the ulterior purpose of the speaker. Gabriel knew of course that there was no intention on the part of the whites to re-enslave the negroes; he knew that there was not even a desire to do so. He knew, too, that there were many incendiary hints in the address—hints that were illuminated and emphasised more by the inflections of the speaker's voice than by the words in which they were conveyed. In spite of the fact that he resented these hints as keenly as possible, he could see the plausibility of the speaker's argument in so far as it appealed to the childish fears and doubts and uneasiness of the negroes. If anything could be depended on, he thought, to promote a spirit of incendiarism among the negroes such an address would be that thing.

If Gabriel had attended some of the later meetings of the league, he would have discovered that the address he had heard was a milk-and-water affair, compared with some of the harangues that were made to the negroes in the old school-house.

All that Gabriel had heard was duly reported to Meriwether Clopton, and to Mr. Sanders, and in a very short time all the whites in the community became aware of the fact that the negroes were taking lessons in race-hatred and incendiarism, and as a natural result, Hotchkiss became a marked man. His comings and goings were all noted, so much so that he soon found it convenient as well as comfortable to make his head-quarters in the country, at the home of Judge Mahlon Butts, whose Union principles had carried him into the Republican Party. The Judge lived a mile and a half from the corporation line, and Mr. Hotchkiss's explanation for moving there was that the exercise to be found in walking back and forth was necessary to his health.

Uncle Plato was very much surprised the next day to be called into the house where Mr. Sanders was sitting with Meriwether Clopton and Miss Sarah in order that they might shake hands with him.

"I want to shake your hand, Plato," said his old master. "I've always thought a great deal of you, but I think more of you to-day than ever before."

"And you must shake hands with me, Plato," remarked Sarah Clopton.

"Well, sence shakin' han's is comin' more into fashion these days, I reckon you'll have to shake wi' me," declared Mr. Sanders.

"I declar' ter gracious I dunner whedder you all is makin' fun er me or not!" exclaimed Uncle Plato. "But sump'n sholy must 'a' happened, kaze des now when I wuz downtown Mr. Alford call me in his sto' an' 'low, 'Plato, when you wanter buy anything, des come right in, money er no money, kaze yo' credit des ez good in here ez de best man in town.' I dunner what done come over eve'ybody." He went away laughing.

Nevertheless, Uncle Plato was more seriously affected by the schemes of Mr. Hotchkiss than any other inhabitant of Shady Dale. He had been a leader in the Rev. Jeremiah's church, and up to the day of the organisation of the Union League, had wielded an influence among the negroes second only to that of the Rev. Jeremiah himself. But now all was changed. He soon found that he would have to resign his deaconship, for those whom he had regarded as his spiritual brethren were now his enemies—at any rate they were no longer his friends.

But Uncle Plato had one consolation in his troubles, and that was the strong indorsement and support of Aunt Charity, his wife, who was the cook at Clopton's, famous from one end of the State to the other for her biscuits and waffles. Uncle Plato had been somewhat dubious about her attitude, for the negro women had developed the most intense partisanship, and some of them were loud in their threats, going much further than the men. No doubt Aunt Charity would have taken a different course had she been in her husband's place, if only for the sake of her colour, as she called her race. She was very fond of her own white folks, but she had her prejudices against the rest.

When Uncle Plato reached home and told his wife what he had said and done, she drew a long breath and looked at him hard for some time. Then she took up her pipe from the chimney-corner, remarking, "Well, what you done, you done; dar's yo' supper."

Uncle Plato had a remarkably good appetite, and while he ate, Aunt Charity sat near a window and looked out at the stars. She was getting together in her mind a supply of personal reminiscences, of which she had a goodly store. Presently, she began to shake with laughter, which she tried to suppress. Uncle Plato mistook the sound he heard for an evidence of grief, and he spoke up promptly:

"I declar' ef I'd 'a' know'd I wuz gwine ter hurt yo' feelings, I'd 'a' j'ined in wid um den an' dar. An' 'taint too late yit. I kin go ter Br'er Jerry an' tell him whilst I ain't change my own min' I'll j'ine in wid um druther dan be offish an' mule-headed."

"No you won't! no you won't! no you won't!" exclaimed Aunt Charity. "I mought 'a' done diffunt, an' I mought 'a' done wrong. We'll hatter git out'n de church, ef you kin call it a church, but dat ain't so mighty hard ter do. Yit, 'fo' we does git out I'm gwine ter preach ol' Jerry's funer'l one time—des one time. Dat what make me laugh des now; I was runnin' over in my min' how I kin raise his hide. Some folks got de idee dat kaze I'm fat I'm bleeze ter be long-sufferin'; but you know better'n dat, don't you?"

"Well, I know dis," said Uncle Plato, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "when you git yo' dander up you kin talk loud an' long."

"Miss Sa'ah done tol' me dat when I git mad, I kin keep up a conversation ez long ez de nex' one," remarked Aunt Charity, with real pride. "An' den dar's dat hat Miss Sa'ah gi' me; I laid off ter w'ar it ter church nex' Sunday, but now—well, I speck I better des w'ar my head-hankcher, kaze dey's sho gwine ter be trouble ef any un um look at me cross-eyed."

"You gwine, is you?" Uncle Plato asked.

"Ef I live," replied Aunt Charity, "I'm des ez good ez dar right now. An' mo' dan dat, you'll go too. 'Tain't gwineter be said dat de Clopton niggers hung der heads bekaze dey stood by der own white folks. Ef it's said, it'll hatter be said 'bout some er de yuthers."

"I'll go," said Uncle Plato, "but I hope I won't hatter frail Br'er Jerry out."

"Now, dat's right whar we gits crossways," Aunt Charity declared. "I hope you'll hatter frail 'im out."

Fortunately, Uncle Plato had no excuse for using his walking-cane on the Rev. Jeremiah, when Sunday came. None of the church-members made any active show of animosity. They simply held themselves aloof. Aunt Charity had her innings, however. When services were over, and the congregation was slowly filing out of the building, followed by the Rev. Jeremiah, she remarked loud enough for all to hear her:

"Br'er Jerry, de nex' time you want me ter cook pullets fer dat ar Lizzie Gaither, des fetch um 'long. I'll be glad ter 'blige you."

As the Rev. Jeremiah's wife was close at hand, the closing scenes can be better imagined than described. In this chronicle the veil of silence must be thrown over them.

It may be said, nevertheless, that Uncle Plato and his wife felt very keenly the awkward position in which they were placed by the increasing prejudice of the rest of the negroes. They were both sociable in their natures, but now they were practically cut off from all association with those who had been their very good friends. It was a real sacrifice they had to make. On the other hand, who shall say that their firmness in this matter was not the means of preventing, at least in Shady Dale, many of the misfortunes that fell to the lot of the negroes elsewhere? There can hardly be a doubt that their attitude, firm and yet modest, had a restraining influence on some of the more reckless negroes, who, under the earnest but dangerous teachings of Hotchkiss and his fellow-workers, would otherwise have been led into excesses which would have called for bloody reprisals.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nan and Her Young Lady Friends

Nan Dorrington found a pretty howdy-do at her house when she reached home the night the Union League was organised. The members of the household were all panic-stricken when the hours passed and Nan failed to return. Ordinarily, there would have been no alarm whatever, but a little after dark, Eugenia Claiborne, accompanied by a little negro girl, came to Dorrington's to find out why Nan had failed to keep her engagement. She had promised to take supper with Eugenia, and to spend the night.

It will be remembered that Nan was on her way to present her excuses to Eugenia when the spectacle of Mr. Sanders, tipsy and talkative, had attracted her attention. She thought no more of her engagement, and for the time being Eugenia was to Nan as if she had never existed. Meanwhile, the members of the Dorrington household, if they thought of Nan at all, concluded that she had gone to the Gaither Place, where Eugenia lived. But when Miss Claiborne came seeking her, why that put another face on affairs. Eugenia decided to wait for her; but when the long minutes, and the half hours and the hours passed, and Nan failed to make her appearance, Mrs. Absalom began to grow nervous, and Mrs. Dorrington went from room to room with a very long face. She could have made a very shrewd guess as to Nan's whereabouts, but she didn't dare to admit, even to herself, that the girl had been so indiscreet as to go in person to the rescue of Gabriel.

They waited and waited, until at last Mrs. Dorrington suggested that something should be done. "I don't know what," she said, "but something; that would be better than sitting here waiting."

Mrs. Absalom insisted on keeping up an air of bravado. "The child's safe wherever she is. She's been a rippittin' 'round all day tryin' to git old Billy Sanders sober, an' more'n likely she's sot down some'rs an' fell asleep. Ef folks could sleep off the'r sins, Nan'd be a saint."

"But wherever she is, she isn't here," remarked Mrs. Dorrington, tearfully; "and here is where she should be. I wonder what her father will say when he comes?" Dr. Dorrington had gone to visit a patient in the country.

"Perhaps she went with him," Eugenia suggested.

"No fear of that," said Mrs. Absalom. "Ridin' in a gig is too much like work for Nan to be fond of it. No; she's some'rs she's got no business, an' ef I could lay my hand on her, I'd jerk her home so quick, her head would swim worse than old Billy Sanders's does when he's full up to the chin."

After awhile, Eugenia said she had waited long enough, but Mrs. Dorrington looked at her with such imploring eyes that she hesitated. "If you go," said the lady, "I will feel that Nan is not coming, but as long as you stay, I have hope that she will run in any moment. She is with that Tasma Tid, and I think it is terrible that we can't get rid of that negro. I have never been able to like negroes."

"Well, you needn't be too hard on the niggers," declared Mrs. Absalom. "Everything they know, everything they do, everything they say—everything—they have larnt from the white folks. Study a nigger right close, an' you'll ketch a glimpse of how white folks would look an' do wi'out the'r trimmin's."

"Oh, perhaps so," assented Mrs. Dorrington, with a little shrug of the shoulders which said a good deal plainer than words, "You couldn't make me believe that."

Just as Dr. Dorrington drove up, and just as Mrs. Absalom was about to get her bonnet, for the purpose, as she said, of "scouring the town," Nan came running in out of breath. "Oh, such a time as I've had!" she exclaimed. "You'll not be angry with me, Eugenia, when you hear all! Talk of adventures! Well, I have had one at last, after waiting all these years! Don't scold me, Nonny, until you know where I've been and what I've done. And poor Johnny has been crying, and having all sorts of wild thoughts about poor me. Don't go, Eugenia; I am going with you in a moment—just as soon as I can gather my wits about me. I am perfectly wild."

"Tell us something new," said Mrs. Absalom drily. "Here we've been on pins and needles, thinkin' maybe some of your John A. Murrells had rushed into town an' kidnapped you, an' all the time you an' that slink of a nigger have been gallivantin' over the face of the yeth. I declare ef Randolph don't do somethin' wi' you they ain't no tellin' what'll become of you."

But Dr. Dorrington was not in the humour for scolding; he rarely ever was; but on that particular night less so than ever. For one brief moment, Nan thought he was too angry to scold, and this she dreaded worse than any outbreak; for when he was silent over some of her capers she took it for granted that his feelings were hurt, and this thought was sufficient to give her more misery than anything else. But she soon discovered that his gravity, which was unusual, had its origin elsewhere. She saw him take a tiny tin waggon, all painted red, from his pocket and place it on the mantel-piece, and both she and Mrs. Dorrington went to him.

"Oh, popsy! I'm so sorry about everything! He didn't need it, did he?"

"No, the little fellow has no more use for toys. He sent you his love, Nan. He was talking about you with his last breath; he remembered everything you said and did when you went with me to see him. He said you must be good."

Now, if Nan was a heroine, or anything like one, it would never do to say that she hid her face in her hands and wept a little when she heard of the death of the little boy who had been her father's patient for many months. In the present state of literary criticism, one must be very careful not to permit women and children to display their sensitive and tender natures. Only the other day, a very good book was damned because one of the female characters had wept 393 times during the course of the story. Out upon tears and human nature! Let us go out and reform some one, and leave tears to the kindergarten, where steps are taking even now to dry up the fountains of youth.

Nevertheless, Nan cried a little, and so did Eugenia Claiborne, when she heard the story of the little boy who had suffered so long and so patiently. The news of his death tended to quiet Nan's excitement, but she told her story, and, though the child's death took the edge off Nan's excitement, the story of her adventure attracted as much attention as she thought it would. She said nothing about Gabriel, and it was supposed that only she and Tasma Tid were in the closet; but the next morning, when Dr. Dorrington drove over to Clopton's to carry the information, he was met by the statement that Gabriel had told of it the night before. A little inquiry developed the fact that Gabriel had concealed himself in the closet in order to discover the mysteries of the Union League.

Dorrington decided that the matter was either very serious or very amusing, and he took occasion to question Nan about it. "You didn't tell us that Gabriel was in the closet with you," he said to Nan.

"Well, popsy, so far as I was concerned he was not there. He certainly has no idea that I was there, and if he ever finds it out, I'll never speak to him again. He never will find it out unless he is told by some one who dislikes me. Outside of this family," Nan went on with dignity, "not a soul knows that I was there except Eugenia Claiborne, and I'm perfectly certain she'll never tell any one."

Dorrington thought his daughter should have a little lecture, and he gave her one, but not of the conventional kind. He simply drew her to him and kissed her, saying, "My precious child, you must never forget the message the little boy sent you. About the last thing he said was, 'Tell my Miss Nan to be dood.' And you know, my dear, that it is neither proper nor good for my little girl to be wandering about at night. She is now a young lady, and she must begin to act like one—not too much, you know, but just enough to be good."

Now, you may depend upon it, this kind of talk, accompanied by a smile of affection, went a good deal farther with Nan than the most tremendous scolding would have gone. It touched her where she was weakest—or, if you please, strongest—in her affections, and she vowed to herself that she would put off her hoyden ways, and become a demure young lady, or at least play the part to the best of her ability.

Eugenia Claiborne declared that Nan had acted more demurely in the closet than she could have done, if, instead of Gabriel, Paul Tomlin had come spying on the radicals where she was. "I don't see how you could help saying something. If I had been in your place, and Paul had come in there, I should certainly have said something to him, if only to let him know that I was as patriotic as he was." Miss Eugenia had grand ideas about patriotism.

"Oh, if it had been Paul instead of Gabriel I would have made myself known," said Nan; "but Gabriel——"

"I don't see what the difference is when it comes to making yourself known to any one in the dark, especially to a friend," remarked Eugenia. "For my part, horses couldn't have dragged me in that awful place. I'm sure you must be very brave, to make up your mind to go there. Weren't you frightened to death?"

"Why there was nothing to frighten any one," said Nan; "not even rats."

"Ooh!" cried Eugenia with a shiver. "Why of course there were rats in that dark, still place. I wouldn't go in there in broad daylight."

This conversation occurred while Nan was visiting Eugenia, and in the course thereof, Nan was given to understand that her friend thought a good deal of Paul Tomlin. As soon as Nan grasped the idea that Eugenia was trying to convey—there never was a girl more obtuse in love-matters—she became profuse in her praises of Paul, who was really a very clever young man. As Mrs. Absalom had said, it was not likely that he would ever be brilliant enough to set the creek on fire, but he was a very agreeable lad, entirely unlike Silas Tomlin, his father.

If Eugenia thought that Nan would exchange confidences with her, she was sadly mistaken. Nan had a horror of falling in love, and when the name of Gabriel was mentioned by her friend, she made many scornful allusions to that youngster.

"But you know, Nan, that you think more of Gabriel than you do of any other young man," said Eugenia. "You may deceive yourself and him, but you can't deceive me. I knew the moment I saw you together the first time that you were fond of him; and when I was told by some one that you were to marry Mr. Bethune, I laughed at them."

"I'm glad you did," replied Nan. "I care no more for Frank Bethune than for Gabriel. I'll tell you the truth, if I thought I was in love with a man, I'd hate him; I wouldn't submit to it."

"Well, you have been acting as if you hate Gabriel," suggested Eugenia.

"Oh, I don't like him half as well as I did when we were playfellows. I think he's changed a great deal. His grandmother says he's timid, but to me it looks more like conceit. No, child," Nan went on with an affectation of great gravity; "the man that I marry must be somebody. He must be able to attract the attention of everybody."

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to move away from this town, or remain an old maid," said the other. "Or it may be that Gabriel will make a great man. He and Paul belong to a debating society here in town, and Paul says that Gabriel can make as good a speech as any one he ever heard. They invited some of the older men not long ago, and mother heard Mr. Tomlin say that Gabriel would make a great orator some day. Paul thinks there is nobody in the world like Gabriel. So you see he is already getting to be famous."

"But will he ever wear a red feather in his hat and a red sash over his shoulder?" inquired Nan gravely. She was reverting now to the ideal hero of her girlish dreams.

"Why, I should hope not," replied Eugenia. "You don't want him to be the laughing-stock of the people, do you?"

"Oh, I'm not anxious for him to be anything," said Nan, "but you know I've always said that I never would marry a man unless he wore a red feather in his hat, and a red sash over his shoulder."

"When I was a child," remarked Eugenia, "I always said I would like to marry a pirate—a man with a long black beard, a handkerchief tied around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes, and a shining sword in one hand and a pistol in the other."

"Oh, did you?" cried Nan, snuggling closer to her friend. "Let's talk about it. I am beginning to be very old, and I want to talk about things that make me feel young again."

But they were not to talk about their childish ideals that day, for a knock came on the door, and Margaret Gaither was announced—Margaret, who seemed to have no ideals, and who had confessed that she never had had any childhood. She came in dignified and sad. Her face was pale, and there was a weary look in her eyes, a wistful expression, as if she desired very much to be able to be happy along with the rest of the people around her.

The two girls greeted her very cordially. Both were fond of her, and though they could not understand her troubles, she had traits that appealed to both. She could be lively enough on occasion, and there was a certain refinement of manner about her that they both tried to emulate—whenever they could remember to do so.

"I heard Nan was here," she said, with a beautiful smile, "and I thought I would run over and see you both together."

"That is a fine compliment for me," Eugenia declared.

"Miss Jealousy!" retorted Margaret, "you know I am over here two or three times a week—every time I can catch you at home. But I wish you were jealous," she added with a sigh. "I think I should be perfectly happy if some one loved me well enough to be jealous."

"You ought to be very happy without all that," said Nan.

"Yes, I know I should be; but suppose you were in my shoes, would you be happy?" She turned to the girls with the gravity of fate itself. As neither one made any reply, she went on: "See what I am—absolutely dependent on those who, not so very long ago, were entire strangers. I have no claims on them whatever. Oh, don't think I am ungrateful," she cried in answer to a gesture of protest from Nan. "I would make any sacrifice for them—I would do anything—but you see how it is. I can do nothing; I am perfectly helpless. I—but really, I ought not to talk so before you two children."

"Children! well, I thank you!" exclaimed Eugenia, rising and making a mock curtsey. "Nan is nearly as old as you are, and I am two days older."

"No matter; I have no business to be bringing my troubles into this giddy company; but as I was coming across the street, I happened to think of the difference in our positions. Talk about jealousy! I am jealous and envious. Yes, and mean; I have terrible thoughts sometimes. I wouldn't dare to tell you what they are."

"I know better," said Nan; "you never had a mean thought in your life. Aunt Fanny says you are the sweetest creature in the world."

"Don't! don't tell me such things as that, Nan. You will run me wild. There never was another woman like Aunt Fanny. And, oh, I love her! But if I could get away and become independent, and in some way pay them back for all they have done for me, and for all they hope to do, I'd be the happiest girl in the world."

"I think I know how you feel," said Nan, with a quick apprehension of the situation; "but if I were in your place, and couldn't help myself, I wouldn't let it trouble me much."

"Very well said," Mrs. Claiborne remarked, as she entered the room. "Nan, you are becoming quite a philosopher. And how is Margaret?" she inquired, kissing that blushing maiden on the check.

"I am quite well, I thank you, but I'd be a great deal better if I thought you hadn't heard my foolish talk."

"I heard a part of it, and it wasn't foolish at all. The feeling does you credit, provided you don't carry it too far. You are alone too much; you take your feelings too seriously. You must remember that you are nothing but a child; you are just beginning life. You should cultivate bright thoughts. My dear, let me tell you one thing—if Pulaski Tomlin had any idea that you had such feelings as you have expressed here, he would be miserable; he would be miserable, and you would never know it. You said something about gratitude; well if you want to show any gratitude and make those two people happy, be happy yourself—and if you can't really be happy, pretend that you are happy. And the first thing you know, it will be a reality. Now, I have had worse troubles than ever fell to your portion and if I had brooded over them, I should have been miserable. Your lot is a very fortunate one, as you will discover when you are older."

This advice was very good, though it may have a familiar sound to the reader, and Margaret tried hard for the time being to follow it. She succeeded so well that her laughter became as loud and as joyous as that of her companions, and when she returned home, her countenance was so free from care and worry that both Neighbour Tomlin and his sister remarked it, and they were the happier for it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Silas Tomlin Scents Trouble

One day—it was a warm Saturday, giving promise of a long hot Sunday to follow—Mr. Sanders was on his way home, feeling very blue indeed. He had been to town on no particular business—the day was a half-holiday with the field-hands—and he had wandered about aimlessly, making several unsuccessful efforts to crack a joke or two with such acquaintances as he chanced to meet. He had concluded that his liver was out of order, and he wondered, as he went along, if he would create much public comment and dissatisfaction if he should break his promise to Nan Dorrington by purchasing a jug of liquor and crawling into the nearest shuck-pen. It was on this warm Saturday, the least promising of all days, as he thought, that he stumbled upon an adventure which, for a season, proved to be both interesting and amusing.

He was walking along, as has been said, feeling very blue and uncomfortable, when he heard his name called, and, turning around, saw a negro girl running after him. She came up panting and grinning.

"Miss Ritta say she wish you'd come dar right now," said the girl. "I been runnin' an' hollin atter you tell I wuz fear'd de dogs 'd take atter me. Miss Ritta say she want to see you right now."

The girl was small and very slim, bare-legged and good-humoured. Mr. Sanders looked at her hard, but failed to recognise her; nor had he the faintest idea as to the identity of "Miss Ritta." The girl bore his scrutiny very well, betraying a tendency to dance. As Mr. Sanders tried in vain to place her in his memory, she slapped her hands together, and whirled quickly on her heel more than once.

"You're a way yander ahead of me," he remarked, after reflecting awhile. "I reckon I've slipped a cog some'rs in my machinery. What is your name?"

"I'm name Larceeny. Don't you know me, Marse Billy? I use ter b'long ter de Clopton Cadets, when Miss Nan was de Captain; but I wan't ez big den ez I is now. I been knowin' you most sence I was born."

"What is your mammy's name?"

"My mammy name Creecy," replied the girl, grinning broadly. "She cookin' fer Miss Ritta."

Mr. Sanders remembered Creecy very well. She had belonged to the Gaither family before the war. "Where do you stay?" he inquired. He was not disposed to admit, even indirectly, that he didn't know every human being in the town.

"I stays dar wid Miss Ritta," replied Larceeny. "I goes ter de do', an' waits on Miss Nugeeny."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, with a smile of satisfaction. Here was a clew. Miss Nugeeny must be Eugenia Claiborne, and Miss Ritta was probably her mother.

"Miss Ritta say she wanter see you right now," insisted Larceeny. "When she seed you on de street, you wuz so fur, she couldn't holla at you, an' time she call me outer de gyarden, you wuz done gone. I wuz at de fur een' er de gyarden, pickin' rasbe'ies, an' I had ter drap ever'thing."

"Do you pick raspberries with your mouth?" inquired Mr. Sanders, with a very solemn air.

"Is my mouf dat red?" inquired Larceeny, with an alarmed expression on her face. She seized her gingham apron by the hem, and, using the underside, proceeded to remove the incriminating stains, remarking, "I'm mighty glad you tol' me, kaze ef ol' Miss Polly had seed dat—well, she done preach my funer'l once, an' I don't want ter hear it no mo'."

Mr. Sanders, following Larceeny, proceeded to the Gaither Place, and was ushered into the parlour, where, to his surprise, he found Judge Vardeman, of Rockville, one of the most distinguished lawyers of the State. Mr. Sanders knew the Judge very well, and admired him not only on account of his great ability as a lawyer, but because of the genial simplicity of his character. They greeted each other very cordially, and were beginning to discuss the situation—it was the one topic that never grew stale during that sad time—when Mrs. Claiborne came in; she had evidently been out to attend to some household affairs.

"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Sanders," she said. "I have sent for you at the suggestion of Judge Vardeman, who is a kinsman of mine by marriage. He is surprised that you and I are not well acquainted; but I tell him that in such sad times as these, it is a wonder that one knows one's next-door neighbours."

Mr. Sanders made some fitting response, and as soon as he could do so without rudeness, closely studied the countenance of the lady. There was a vivacity, a gaiety, an archness in her manner that he found very charming. Her features were not regular, but when she laughed or smiled, her face was beautiful. If she had ever experienced any serious trouble, Mr. Sanders thought, she had been able to bear it bravely, for no marks of it were left on her speaking countenance. "Give me a firm faith and a light heart," says an ancient writer, "and the world may have everything else."

"I have sent for you, Mr. Sanders," said the lady, laughing lightly, "to ask if you will undertake to be my drummer."

"Your drummer!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Well, I've been told that I have a way of blowin' my own horn, when the weather is fine and the spring sap is runnin', but as for drummin', I reely hain't got the knack on it."

"Oh, I only want you to do a little talking here and there, and give out various hints and intimations—you know what I mean. I am anxious to even up matters with a friend of yours, who, I am afraid, isn't any better than he should be."

While the lady was talking, Mr. Sanders was staring at a couple of crayon portraits on the wall. He rose from his seat, walked across the room, and attentively studied one of the portraits. It depicted a man between twenty-five and thirty-five.

"Well, I'll be jigged!" he exclaimed as he resumed his seat. "Ef that ain't Silas Tomlin I'm a Dutchman!"

"Why, I shouldn't think you would recognise him after all these years," the lady said, smiling brightly. "Don't you think the portrait flatters him?"

"Quite a considerbul," replied Mr. Sanders; "but Silas has got p'ints about his countenance that a coat of tar wouldn't hide. Trim his eyebrows, an' give him a clean, close shave, an' he's e'en about the same as he was then. An' ef I ain't mighty much mistaken, the pictur' by his side was intended to be took for you. The feller that took it forgot to put the right kind of a sparkle in the eye, an' he didn't ketch the laugh that oughter be hov'rin' round the mouth, like a butterfly tryin' to light on a pink rose; but all in all, it's a mighty good likeness."

"Now, don't you think I should thank Mr. Sanders?" said the lady, turning to Judge Vardeman. "It has been many a day since I have had such a compliment. Actually, I believe I am blushing!" and she was.

"It wasn't much of a compliment to the artist," the Judge suggested.

"Well, when it comes to paintin' a purty 'oman," remarked Mr. Sanders, "it's powerful hard for to git in all the p'ints. A feller could paint our picturs in short order, Judge. A couple of kags of pink paint, a whitewash brush, an' two or three strokes, bold an' free, would do the business."

The Judge's eye twinkled merrily, and Mrs. Claiborne laughingly exclaimed, "Why, you'd make quite an artist. You certainly have an eye for colour."

Thereupon Judge Vardeman suggested to Mrs. Claiborne that she begin at the beginning, and place Mr. Sanders in possession of all the facts necessary to the successful carrying out of the plan she had in view. It was a plan, the Judge went on to say, that he did not wholly indorse, bordering, as it did, on frivolity, but as the lady was determined on it, he would not advise against it, as the results bade fair to be harmless.

It must have been quite a story the lady had to tell Mr. Sanders, for the sun was nearly down when he came from the house; and it must have been somewhat amusing, too, for he came down the steps laughing heartily. When he reached the sidewalk, he paused, looked back at the closed door, shook his head, and threw up his hands, exclaiming to himself, "Bless Katy! I'm powerful glad I ain't got no 'oman on my trail. 'Specially one like her. Be jigged ef she don't shake this old town up!"

He heard voices behind him, and turned to see Eugenia Claiborne and Paul Tomlin walking slowly along, engaged in a very engrossing conversation. Mr. Sanders looked at the couple long enough to make sure that he was not mistaken as to their identity, and then he went on his way.

He had intended to go straight home, but, yielding to a sudden whim or impulse, he went to the tavern instead. This old tavern, at a certain hour of the day, was the resort of all the men, old and young, who desired to indulge in idle gossip, or hear the latest news that might be brought by some stray traveller, or commercial agent, or cotton-buyer from Malvern. For years, Mr. Woodruff, the proprietor—he had come from Vermont in the forties, as a school-teacher—complained that the hospitality of the citizens was enough to ruin any public-house that had no gold mine to draw upon. But, after the war, the tide, such as it was, turned in his favour, and by the early part of 1868, he was beginning to profit by what he called "a pretty good line of custom," and there were days in the busy season when he was hard put to it to accommodate his guests in the way he desired.

During the spring and summer months, there was no pleasanter place than the long, low veranda of Mr. Woodruff's tavern, and it was very popular with those who had an idle hour at their disposal. This veranda was much patronised by Mr. Silas Tomlin, who, after the death of his wife, had no home-life worthy of the name. Silas was not socially inclined; he took no part in the gossip and tittle-tattle that flowed up and down the veranda. The most interesting bit of news never caused him to turn his head, and the raciest anecdote failed to bring a smile to his face. Nevertheless, nothing seemed to please him better than to draw a chair some distance away from the group of loungers, yet not out of ear-shot, lean back against one of the supporting pillars, close his eyes and listen to all that was said, or dream his own dreams, such as they might be.

Mr. Sanders was well aware of Silas Tomlin's tavern habits, and this was what induced him to turn his feet in that direction. He expected to find Silas there at this particular hour and he was not disappointed. Silas was sitting aloof from the crowd, his chair leaning against one of the columns, his legs crossed, his eyes closed, and his hands folded in his lap. But for an occasional nervous movement of his thin lips, and the twitching of his thumbs, he might have served as a model for a statue of Repose. As a matter of fact, all his faculties were alert.

The crowd of loungers was somewhat larger than usual, having been augmented during the day by three commercial agents and a couple of cotton-buyers. Lawyer Tidwell was taking advantage of the occasion to expound and explain several very delicate and intricate constitutional problems. Mr. Tidwell was a very able man in some respects, and he was a very good talker, although he wanted to do all the talking himself. He lowered his voice slightly, as he saw Mr. Sanders, but kept on with his exposition of our organic law.

"Hello, Mr. Sanders!" said one of the cotton-buyers, taking advantage of a momentary pause in Mr. Tidwell's monologue; "how are you getting on these days?"

"Well, I was gittin' on right peart tell to-day, but this mornin' I struck a job that's made me weak an' w'ary."

"You're looking mighty well, anyhow. What has been the trouble to-day?"

"Why, I'll tell you," responded Mr. Sanders, with a show of animation. "I've been gwine round all day tryin' to git up subscriptions for to build a flatform for Gus Tidwell. Gus needs a place whar he can stand an' explutterate on the Constitution all day, and not be in nobody's way."

"Well, of course you succeeded," remarked Mr. Tidwell, good-naturedly.

"Middlin' well—middlin' well. A coloured lady flung a dime in the box, an' I put in a quarter. In all, I reckon I've raised a dollar an' a half. But I reely believe I could 'a' raised a hunderd dollars ef I'd 'a' told 'em whar the flatform was to be built."

"Where is that?" some one inquired.

"In the pine-thicket behind the graveyard," responded Mr. Sanders, so earnestly and promptly that the crowd shouted with laughter. Even Mr. Tidwell, who was "case-hardened," as Mrs. Absalom would say, to Mr. Sanders's jokes, joined in with the rest.

"Gus is a purty good lawyer," said Mr. Sanders, lifting his voice a little to make sure that Silas Tomlin would hear every syllable of what he intended to say; "but he'll never be at his best till he finds out that the Constitution, like the Bible, can be translated to suit the idees of any party or any crank. But I allers brag on Gus because I believe in paternizin' home industries. Howsomever, between us boys an' gals, an' not aimin' for it to go any furder, there's a lawyer in town to-day—an' maybe he'll be here to-morrow—who knows more about the law in one minnit than Gus could tell you in a day and a half. An' when it comes to explutterations on p'ints of constitutional law, Gus wouldn't be in it."

"Is that so? What is the gentleman's name?" asked Mr. Tidwell.

"Judge Albert Vardeman," replied Mr. Sanders. "Now, when you come to talk about lawyers, you'll be doin' yourself injustice ef you leave out the name of Albert Vardeman. He ain't got much of a figure—he's shaped somethin' like a gourdful of water—but I tell you he's got a head on him."

"Is the Judge really here?" Mr. Tidwell asked. "I'd like very much to have a talk with him."

"I don't blame you, Gus," remarked Mr. Sanders, "you can git more straight p'ints from Albert Vardeman than you'll find in the books. He's been at Mrs. Claiborne's all day; I reckon she's gittin' him to ten' to some law business for her. They's some kinder kinnery betwixt 'em. His mammy's cat ketched a rat in her gran'mammy's smokehouse, I reckon. We've got more kinfolks in these diggin's, than they has been sence the first generation arter Adam."

At the mention of Mrs. Claiborne's name Silas Tomlin opened his eyes and uncrossed his legs. This movement caused him to lose his balance, and his chair fell from a leaning position with a sharp bang.

"What sort of a dream did you have, Silas?" Mr. Sanders inquired with affected solicitude. "You'd better watch out; Dock Dorrin'ton says that when a man gits bald-headed, it's a sign that his bones is as brittle as glass. He found that out on one of his furrin trips."

"Don't worry about me, Sanders," replied Silas. He tried to smile.

"Well, I don't reckon you could call it worry, Silas, bekaze when I ketch a case of the worries, it allers sends me to bed wi' the jimmyjon. I can be neighbourly wi'out worryin', I hope."

"For a woman with a grown daughter," remarked Mr. Tidwell, speaking his thoughts aloud, as was his habit, "Mrs. Claiborne is well preserved—very well preserved." Mr. Tidwell was a widower, of several years' standing.

"Why, she's not only preserved, she's the preserves an' the preserver," Mr. Sanders declared. "To look in her eye an' watch her thoughts sparklin' like fire, to watch her movements, an' hear her laugh, not only makes a feller young agin, but makes him glad he's a-livin'. An' that gal of her'n—well, she's a thoroughbred. Did you ever notice the way she holds her head? I never see her an' Nan Dorrington together but what I'm sorry I never got married. I'd put up wi' all the tribulation for to have a gal like arry one on 'em."

Mr. Sanders paused a moment, and then turned to Silas Tomlin. "Silas, I think Paul is fixin' for to do you proud. As I come along jest now, him an' Jinny Claiborne was walkin' mighty close together. They must 'a' been swappin' some mighty sweet secrets, bekaze they hardly spoke above a whisper. An' they didn't look like they was in much of a hurry."

While Mr. Sanders was describing the scene he had witnessed, exaggerating the facts to suit his whimsical humour, Silas Tomlin sat bold upright in his chair, his eyes half-shut, and his thin lips working nervously. "Paul knows which side his bread is buttered on," he snapped out.

"Bread!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, pretending to become tremendously excited; "bread! shorely you must mean poun'-cake, Silas. And whoever heard of putting butter on poun'-cake?"

When the loungers began to disperse, some of them going home, and others going in to supper in response to the tavern bell, Mr. Silas Tomlin called to Lawyer Tidwell, and the two walked along together, their homes lying in the same direction.

"Gus," said Silas, somewhat nervously, "I want to put a case to you. It's purely imaginary, and has probably never happened in the history of the world."

"You mean what we lawyers call a hypothetical case," remarked Mr. Tidwell, in a tone that suggested a spacious and a tolerant mind.

"Precisely," replied Mr. Silas Tomlin, with some eagerness. "I was readin' a tale in an old copy of Blackwood's Magazine the other day, an' the whole business turned on just such a case. The sum and substance of it was about this: A man marries a woman and they get along together all right for awhile. Then, all of a sudden she takes a mortal dislike to the man, screams like mad when he goes about her, and kicks up generally when his name is mentioned. He, being a man of some spirit, and rather touchy at best, finally leaves her in disgust. Finally her folks send him word that she is dead. On the strength of that information, he marries again, after so long a time. All goes well for eighteen or twenty years, and then suddenly the first wife turns up. Now what, in law, is the man's status? Where does he stand? Is this woman really his wife?"

"Why, certainly," replied Mr. Tidwell. "His second marriage is no marriage at all. The issue of such a marriage is illegitimate."

"That's just what I thought," commented Silas Tomlin. "But in the tale, when the woman comes back, and puts in her claim, the judge flings her case out of court."

"That was in England," Mr. Tidwell suggested.

"Or Scotland—I forget which," Silas Tomlin replied.

"Well, it isn't the law over here," Mr. Tidwell declared confidently. They walked on a little way, when the lawyer suddenly turned to Silas and said: "Mr. Tomlin, will you fetch that magazine in to-morrow? I want to see the ground on which the woman's case was thrown out. It's interesting, even if it is all fiction. Perhaps there was some technicality."

"All right, Gus; I'll fetch it in to-morrow."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Silas Tomlin Finds Trouble

When Silas Tomlin reached home, he found his son reading a book. No word of salutation passed between them; Paul simply changed his position in the chair, and Silas grunted. They had no confidences, and they seemed to have nothing in common. As a matter of fact, however, Silas was very fond of this son, proud of his appearance—the lad was as neat as a pin, and fairly well-favoured,—and proud of his love for books. Unhappily, Silas was never able to show his affection and his fair-haired son never knew to his dying day how large a place he occupied in his father's heart. Miserly Silas was with money, but his love for his son was boundless. It destroyed or excluded every other sentiment or emotion that was in conflict with it. His miserliness was for his son's sake, and he never put away a dollar without a feeling of exultation; he rejoiced in the fact that it would enable his son to live more comfortably than his father had cared to live. Silas loved money, not for its own sake, but for the sake of his son.

Mrs. Absalom would have laughed at such a statement. The social structure of the Southern people, and the habits and traditions based thereon, were of such a character that a great majority could not be brought to believe that it was possible for parsimony to exist side by side with any of the finer feelings. All the conditions and circumstances, the ability to command leisure, the very climate itself, promoted hospitality, generosity, open-handedness, and that fine spirit of lavishness that seeks at any cost to give pleasure to others. Popular opinion, therefore, looked with a cold and suspicious eye on all manifestations of selfishness.

But Silas Tomlin's parsimony, his stinginess, had no selfish basis. He was saving not for himself, but for his son, in whom all his affections and all his ambitions were centered. He had reared Paul tenderly without displaying any tenderness, and if the son had speculated at all in regard to the various liberties he had been allowed, or the indulgent methods that had been employed in his bringing up, he would have traced them to the carelessness and indifference of his father, rather than to the ardent affection that burned unseen and unmarked in Silas's bosom.

He had never, by word or act, intentionally wounded the feelings of his son; he had never thrown himself in the path of Paul's wishes. There was a feeling in Shady Dale that Silas was permitting his son to go to the dogs; whereas, as a matter of fact, no detective was ever more alert. Without seeming to do so, he had kept an eye on all Paul's comings and goings. When the lad's desires were reasonable, they were promptly gratified; when they were unreasonable, their gratification was postponed until they were forgotten. Books Paul had in abundance. Half of the large library of Meredith Tomlin had fallen to Silas, and the other half to Pulaski Tomlin, and the lad had free access to all.

Paul was very fond of his Uncle Pulaski and his Aunt Fanny, and he was far more familiar with these two than he was with his father. His association with his uncle and aunt was in the nature of a liberal education. It was Pulaski Tomlin who really formed Paul's character, who gathered together all the elements of good that are native to the mind of a sensitive lad, and moulded them until they were strong enough to outweigh and overwhelm the impulses of evil that are also native to the growing mind. Thus it fell out that Paul was a young man to be admired and loved by all who find modest merit pleasing.

When his father arrived at home on that particular evening, as has been noted, Paul was reading a book. He changed his position, but said nothing. After awhile, however, he felt something was wrong. His father, instead of seating himself at the table, and consulting his note-book, walked up and down the floor.

"What is wrong? Are you ill?" Paul asked after awhile.

"No, son; I am as well in body as ever I was; but I'm greatly troubled. I wish to heaven I could go back to the beginning, and tell you all about it; but I can't—I just can't."

Paul also had his troubles, and he regarded his father gloomily enough. "Why can't you tell me?" he asked, somewhat impatiently. "But I needn't ask you that; you never tell me anything. I heard something to-day that made me ashamed."

"Ashamed, Paul?" gasped his father.

"Yes—ashamed. And if it is true, I am going away from here and never show my face again."

Silas fell, rather than leaned, against the mantel-piece, his face ghastly white. He tried to say, "What did you hear, Paul?" His lips moved, but no sound issued from his throat.

"Two or three persons told me to-day," Paul went on, "that they had heard of your intention to join the radicals, and run for the legislature. I told each and every one of them that it was an infernal lie; but I don't know whether it is a lie or not. If it isn't I'll leave here."

Silas Tomlin's heart had been in his throat, as the saying is, but he gulped it down again and smiled faintly. If this was all Paul had heard, well and good. Compared with some other things, it was a mere matter of moonshine. Paul took up his book again, but he turned the leaves rapidly, and it was plain that he was impatiently waiting for further information.

At last Silas spoke: "All the truth in that report, Paul, is this—It has been suggested to me that it would be better for the whites here if some one who sympathises with their plans, and understands their interests, should pretend to become a Republican, and make the race for the legislature. This is what some of our best men think."

"What do you mean by our best men, father?"

"Why, I don't know that I am at liberty to mention names even to you, Paul," said Silas, who had no notion of being driven into a corner. "And then, on the other hand, the white Republicans are not as fond of the negroes as they pretend to be. And if they can't get some native-born white man to run, who do you reckon they'll have to put up as a candidate? Why, old Jerry, Pulaski's man of all work."

"Well, what of it?" Paul asked with rising indignation. "Jerry is a great deal better than any white man who puts himself on an equality with him."

"Have you met Mr. Hotchkiss?" asked Silas. "He seems to be a very clever man."

"No, I haven't met him and I don't want to meet him." Paul rose from his seat, and stood facing his father. He was a likely-looking young man, tall and slim, but broad-shouldered. He had the delicate pink complexion that belongs to fair-haired persons. "This is a question, father, that can't be discussed between us. You beat about the bush in such a way as to compel me to believe the reports I have heard are true. Well, you can do as you like; I'll not presume to dictate to you. You may disgrace yourself, but you sha'n't disgrace me."

With that, the high-strung young fellow seized his hat, and flung out of the house, carrying his book with him. He shut the door after him with a bang, as he went out, demonstrating that he was full of the heroic indignation that only young blood can kindle.

Silas Tomlin sank into a chair, as he heard the street-door slammed. "Disgrace him! My God! I've already disgraced him, and when he finds it out he'll hate me. Oh, Lord!" If the man's fountain of tears had not been dried up years before, he would have wept scalding ones.

An inner door opened and a negro woman peeped in. Seeing no one but Silas, she cried out indignantly, "Who dat slammin' dat front do'? You'll break eve'y glass in de house, an' half de crock'ry-ware in de dinin'-room, an' den you'll say I done it."

"It was Paul, Rhody; he was angry about something."

The negro woman gave an indignant snort. "I don't blame 'im—I don't blame 'im; not one bit. Ain't I been tellin' you how 'twould be? Ain't I been tellin' you dat you'd run 'im off wid yo' scrimpin' an' pinchin'? But 'tain't dat dat run'd 'im off. It's sump'n wuss'n dat. He ain't never done dat away befo'. Ef dat boy ain't had de patience er Job, he'd 'a' been gone fum here long ago."

Rhody came into the room where she could look Silas in the eyes. He regarded her with curiosity, which appeared to be the only emotion left him. Certainly he had never seen his cook and aforetime slave in such a tantrum. What would she say and do next?

"Home!" she exclaimed in a loud voice. Then she turned around and deliberately inspected the room as if she had never seen it before. "An' so dis is what you call Home—you, wid all yo' money hid away in holes in de groun'! Dis de kinder place you fix up fer dat boy, an' him de onliest one you got! Well!" Rhody's indignation could only be accounted for on the ground that she had overheard the whole conversation between father and son.

"Why, you never said anything about it before," remarked Silas Tomlin.

"No, I didn't, an' I wouldn't say it now, ef dat boy hadn't 'a' foun' out fer hisse'f what kinder daddy he got."

"Blast your black hide! I'll knock your brains out if you talk that way to me!" exclaimed Silas Tomlin, white with anger.

"Well, I bet you nobody don't knock yo' brains out," remarked Rhody undismayed. "An' while I'm 'bout it, I'll tell you dis: Yo' supper's in dar in de pots an' pans; ef you want it you go git it an' put on de table, er set flat on de h'ath an' eat it. Dat chile's gone, an' I'm gwine."

"You dratted fool!" Silas exclaimed, "you know Paul hasn't gone for good. He'll come back when he gets hungry, and be glad to come."

"Is you ever seed him do dis away befo' sence he been born?" Rhody paused and waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. "No, you ain't! no, you ain't! You don't know no mo' 'bout dat chile dan ef he want yone. But I—me—ol' Rhody—I know 'im. I kin look at 'im sideways an' tell ef he feelin' good er bad er diffunt. What you done done ter dat chile? Tell me dat."

But Silas Tomlin answered never a word. He sat glowering at Rhody in a way that would have subdued and frightened a negro unused to his ways. Rhody started toward the kitchen, but at the door leading to the dining-room she paused and turned around. "Oh, you got a heap ter answer fer—a mighty heap; an' de day will come when you'll bar in mind eve'y word I been tellin' you 'bout dat chile fum de time he could wobble 'roun' an' call me mammy."

With that she went out. Silas heard her moving about in the back part of the house, but after awhile all was silence. He sat for some time communing with himself, and trying in vain to map out some consistent course of action. What a blessing it would be, he thought, if Paul would make good his threat, and go away! It would be like tearing his father's heart-strings out, but better that than that he should remain and be a witness to his own disgrace, and to the bitter humiliation of his father.

Silas had intended to warn his son that he was throwing away his time by going with Eugenia Claiborne—that marriage with her was utterly impossible. But it was a very delicate subject, and, once embarked in it, he would have been unable to give his son any adequate or satisfactory reason for the interdiction. Many wild and whirling thoughts passed through the mind of Silas Tomlin, but at the end, he asked himself why he should cross the creek before he came to it?

The reflection was soothing enough to bring home to his mind the fact that he had had no supper. Unconsciously, and through force of habit, he had been waiting for Rhody to set the small bell to tinkling, as a signal that the meal was ready, but no sound had come to his ears. He rose to investigate. A solitary candle was flaring on the dining-table. He went to the door leading to the kitchen and called Rhody, but he received no answer.

"Blast your impudent hide!" he exclaimed, "what are you doing out there? Why don't you put supper on the table?"

He would have had silence for an answer, but for the barking of a nearby neighbour's dog. He went into the kitchen, and found the fire nearly out, whereupon he made dire threats against his cook, but, in the end, he was compelled to fish his supper from the pans as best he could.

When he had finished he looked at the clock, and was surprised to find that it was only a little after eight. During the course of an hour and a half, he seemed to have lived and suffered a year and a half. The early hour gave him an opportunity to display one of his characteristic traits. It had never been his way to run from trouble. When a small boy, if his nurse told him the booger-man was behind a bush, he always insisted on investigating. The same impulse seized him now. If this Mrs. Claiborne proposed to make any move against him—as he inferred from the hints which the jovial Mr. Sanders had flung at his head—he would beard the lioness in her den, and find out what she meant, and what she wanted.

Silas was prompt to act on the impulse, and as soon as he could make the house secure, he proceeded to the Gaither Place. His knock, after some delay, was answered by Eugenia. The girl involuntarily drew back when she saw who the visitor was. "What is it you wish?" she inquired.

"If your mother is at home, please ask her if she will see Silas Tomlin on a matter of business."

Eugenia left the door open, and in a moment, from one of the rear rooms came the sound of merry, unrestrained laughter, which only ceased when some one uttered a warning "Sh-h!"

Eugenia returned almost immediately, and invited the visitor into the parlour, saying, "It is rather late for business, mamma says, but she will see you."

Silas seated himself on a sofa, and had time to look about him before the lady of the house came in. It was his second visit to Mrs. Claiborne, and he observed many changes had taken place in the disposition of the furniture and the draperies. He noted, too, with a feeling of helpless exasperation, that his own portrait hung on the wall in close proximity to that of Rita Claiborne. He clenched his hands with inward rage. "What does this she-devil mean?" he asked himself, and at that moment, the object of his anger swept into the room. There was something gracious, as well as graceful, in her movements. She had the air of a victor who is willing to be magnanimous.

"What is your business with me?" she asked with lifted eyebrows. There was just the shadow of a smile hovering around her mouth. Silas caught it, and looking into a swinging mirror opposite, he saw how impossible it was for a man with a weazened face and a skull-cap to cope with such a woman as this. However, he had his indignation, his sense of persecution, to fall back upon.

"I want to know what you intend to do," said Silas. There was a note of weakness and helplessness in his voice. "I want to know what to expect. I'm tired of leading a dog's life. I hear you have been colloguing with lawyers."

"Do you remember your first visit here?" inquired Mrs. Claiborne very sweetly. If she was an enemy, she certainly knew how to conceal her feelings. "Do you remember how wildly you talked—how insulting you were?"

"I declare to you on my honour that I never intended to insult you," Silas exclaimed.

"Why, all your insinuations were insulting. You gave me to understand that my coming here was an outrage—as if you had anything to do with my movements. But you insisted that my coming here was an attack on you and your son. When and where and how did I ever do you a wrong?"

"Why didn't you—didn't—" Silas tried hard to formulate his wrongs, but they were either so many or so few that words failed him.

"Did I desert you when you were ill and delirious? Did I put faith in an anonymous letter and believe you to be dead?" The lady spoke with a calmness that seemed to be unnatural and unreal.

For a little while, Silas made no reply, but sat like one dazed, his eyes fixed on the crayon portrait of himself. "Did you hang that thing up there for Paul to see it and ask questions about it?" he asked, after awhile.

"I hung it there because I chose to," she replied. "Judge Vardeman thinks it is a very good likeness of you, but I don't agree with him. Do you think it does you justice?" she asked.

"And then there's Paul," said Silas, ignoring her question. "Do you propose to let him go ahead and fall in love with the girl?"

"Paul is not my son," the lady calmly answered.

"But the girl is your daughter," Silas insisted.

"I shall look after her welfare, never fear," said the lady.

"But suppose they should take a notion to marry; what would you do to stop 'em?"

"Oh, well, that is a question for the future," replied the lady, serenely. "It will be time enough to discuss that matter when the necessity arises."

Her composure, her indifference, caused Silas to writhe and squirm in his chair, and she, seeing the torture she was inflicting, appeared to be very well content.

"I didn't come to argue," said Silas presently. "I came for information; I want to know what you intend to do. I don't ask any favours and I don't want any; I'm getting my deserts, I reckon. What I sowed that I'm reaping."

"Ah!" the lady exclaimed softly, and with an air of satisfaction. "Do you really feel so?" She leaned forward a little, and there was that in her eyes that denoted something else besides satisfaction; compassion shone there. Her mood had not been a serious one up to this point, but she was serious now, and Silas could but observe how beautiful she was. "Do you really feel that I would be justified if I confirmed the suspicions you have expressed?"

"So far as I am concerned, you'd be doing exactly right," said Silas bluntly. "But what about Paul?"

"Well, what about Paul?" Mrs. Claiborne asked.

"Well, for one thing, he's never done you any harm. And there's another thing," said Silas rising from his seat: "I'd be willing to have my body pulled to pieces, inch by inch, and my bones broken, piece by piece, to save that boy one single pang."

He stood towering over the lady. For once he had been taken clean out of himself, and he seemed to be transfigured. Mrs. Claiborne rose also.

"Paul is a very good young man," she said.

"Yes, he is!" exclaimed Silas. "He never had a mean thought, and he has never been guilty of a mean action. But that would make no difference in my feelings. It would be all the same to me if he was a thief and a scoundrel or if he was deformed, or if he was everything that he is not. No matter what he was or might be, I would be willing to live in eternal torment if I could know that he is happy."

His face was not weazened now. It was illuminated with his love for his son, the one passion of his life, and he was no longer a contemptible figure. The lady refixed her eyes upon him, and wondered how he could have changed himself right before her eyes, for certainly, as it seemed to her, this was not the mean and shabby figure she had found in the parlour when she first came in. She sighed as she turned her eyes away.

"Do you remember what I told you on the occasion of your first visit?" she inquired very seriously. "You were both rude and disagreeable, but I said that I'd not trouble you again, so long as you left me alone."

"Well, haven't I left you alone?" asked Silas.

"What do you call this?" There was just the shadow of a smile on her face.

"That's a fact," said Silas after a pause. "But I just couldn't help myself. Honestly I'm sorry I came. I'm no match for you. I must bid you good-night. I hardly know what's come over me. If I've worried you, I'm truly sorry."

"One of these days," she said very kindly, as she accompanied him to the door, "I'll send for you. At the proper time I'll give you some interesting news."

"Well, I hope it will be good news; if so, it will be the first I have heard in many a long day. Good-night."

The lady closed the door, and returned to the parlour and sat down. "Why, I thought he was a cold-blooded, heartless creature," she said to herself. Then, after some reflection she uttered an exclamation and clasped her hands together. Suppose he were to make way with himself! The bare thought was enough to keep the smiles away from the face of this merry-hearted lady for many long minutes. Finally, she caught a glimpse of herself in the swinging mirror. She snapped her fingers at her reflection, saying, "Pooh! I wouldn't give that for your firmness of purpose!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rhody Has Something to Say

Now, all this time, while the mother was engaged with Silas, Eugenia, the daughter, was having an experience of her own. When Rhody, Silas Tomlin's cook and housekeeper, discovered that Paul had left the house in a fit of anger, she knew at once that something unusual had occurred, and her indignation against Silas Tomlin rose high. She was familiar with every peculiarity of Paul's character, and she was well aware of the fact that behind his calm and cool bearing, which nothing ever seemed to ruffle, was a heart as sensitive and as tender as that of a woman, and a temper hot, obstinate and unreasonable when aroused.

So, without taking time to serve Silas's supper, she went in search of Paul. She went to the store where he was the chief clerk, but the doors were closed; she went to the tavern, but he was not to be seen; and she walked along the principal streets, where sometimes the young men strolled after tea. There she met a negro woman, who suggested that he might be at the Gaither Place. "Humph!" snorted Rhody, "how come dat ain't cross my mind? But ef he's dar dis night, ef he run ter dat gal when he in trouble, I better be layin' off ter cook some weddin' doin's."

There wasn't a backyard in the town that Rhody didn't know as well as she knew her own, and she stood on no ceremony in entering any of them. She went to the Gaither Place, swung back the gate, shutting it after her with a bang, and stalked into the kitchen as though it belonged to her. At the moment there was no one in sight but Mandy, the house-girl, a bright and good-looking mulatto.

"Why, howdy, Miss Rhody!" she exclaimed, in a voice that sounded like a flute. "What wind blowed you in here?"

"Put down dem dishes an' wipe yo' han's," said Rhody, by way of reply. The girl silently complied, expressing no surprise and betraying no curiosity. "Now, den, go in de house, an' ax ef Paul Tomlin is in dar," commanded Rhody. "Ef he is des tell 'im dat Mammy Rhody want ter see 'im."

"I hope dey ain't nobody dead," suggested Mandy with a musical laugh. "I'm lookin' out for all sorts er trouble, because I've had mighty funny dreams for three nights han'-runnin'. Look like I can see blood. I wake up, I do, cryin' an' feelin' tired out like de witches been ridin' me. Then I drop off to sleep, an' there's the blood, plain as my han'."

She went on in the house and Rhody followed close at her heels. She was determined to see Paul if she could. She was very willing for Silas Tomlin to be drawn through a hackle; she was willing to see murder done if the whites were to be the victims; but Paul—well, according to her view, Paul was one of a thousand. She had given him suck; she had fretted and worried about him for twenty years; and she couldn't break off her old habits all at once. She had listened to and indorsed the incendiary doctrines of the radical emissary who pretended to be representing the government; she had wept and shouted over the strenuous pleadings of the Rev. Jeremiah; but all these things were wholly apart from Paul. And if she had had the remotest idea that they affected his interests or his future, she would have risen in the church and denounced the carpet-bagger and his scalawag associates, and likewise the Rev. Jeremiah.

When Mandy, closely followed by Rhody, went into the house, she heard voices in the parlour, but Eugenia was in the sitting-room reading by the light of a lamp.

"Miss Genia," said the girl, "is Mr. Paul here?"

"Why do you ask?" inquired Eugenia.

"They-all cook wanter speak with him." At this moment, Eugenia saw the somewhat grim face of Rhody peering over the girl's shoulder.

"Paul isn't here," said the young lady, rising with a vague feeling of alarm. "What is the matter?" And then, feeling that if there was any trouble, Rhody would feel freer to speak when they were alone together, Eugenia dismissed Mandy, and followed to see that the girl went out. "Now, what is the trouble, Rhody? Mr. Silas Tomlin is in the parlour talking to mother."

Rhody opened her eyes wide at this. "He in dar? What de name er goodness he doin' here?" Eugenia didn't know, of course, and said so. "Well, he ain't atter no good," Rhody went on; "you kin put dat down in black an' white. Dat man is sho' ter leave a smutty track wharsomever he walk at. You better watch 'im; you better keep yo' eye on 'im. Is he yever loant yo' ma any money?"

"Why, no," replied Eugenia, laughing at the absurdity of the question. "What put that idea in your head?"

"Bekaze dat's his business—loanin' out a little dab er money here an' a little dab dar, an' gittin' back double de dab he loant," said Rhody. "Deyer folks in dis county, which he loant um money, an' now he got all de prop'ty dey yever had; an' deyer folks right here in dis town, which he loant um dat ar Conferick money when it want wuff much mo dan shavin's, an' now dey got ter pay 'im back sho nuff money. I hear 'im sesso. Oh, dat's him! dat's Silas Tomlin up an' down. You kin take a thrip an' squeeze it in yo' han' tell it leave a print, an' hol' it up whar folks kin see it, an' dar you got his pictur'; all it'll need will be a frame. He done druv Paul 'way fum home."

She spoke with some heat, and really went further than she intended, but she was swept away by her indignation. She was certain, knowing Paul as well as she did, that he had left the house in a fit of anger at something his father had said or done and she was equally as certain that he would have to be coaxed back.

"Surely you are mistaken," said Eugenia. "It is too ridiculous. Why, Paul—Mr. Paul is——" She paused and stood there blushing.

Gabriel Tolliver: A Story of Reconstruction

GABRIEL TOLLIVER

A Story of Reconstruction

By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Author of "Uncle Remus," "The Making of a Statesman," etc.

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.NEW YORK1902

Copyright, 1902, byJOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Published, October, 1902 R

ToJames Whitcomb Riley

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