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."