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."