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.