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."