made up of heart and conscience, felt that it would be wrong to keep her
in ignorance, but he couldn't make up his mind to be the bearer of bad
news; so it fell to Fanny's lot. But it seems that Margaret already
knew, and on that occasion Fanny had to do all the crying that was done.
Margaret had known it all along, and had only feigned ignorance in order
not to worry her mother. 'I have known it from the first,' she said.
'Please don't tell Nan.' But Nan had known it all along, and Fanny told
Margaret so. It is a pity about her father. If he was what he should be,
he'd be very proud of Margaret."
"His name was Bridlebin, or something of that kind, was it not?" Madame
Awtry asked.
"Something like that," replied Miss Puella. "The world is full of
trouble," she said after awhile, and her voice was as gentle as the
cooing of a dove--"so very full of trouble. I sometimes think that we
should have as much pity for those who are the cause of it as for those
who are the victims." Alas! Miss Puella was thinking of Waldron Awtry,
whose stormy spirit had passed away.
"That is the Christian spirit, certainly," said Waldron's mother, in her
firm, clear tones. "Let those live up to it who can!"
"The girl is in good hands," remarked Miss Puella, after a pause, "and
she should be happy. Neighbour Tomlin and Fanny fairly worship her."
"Yes, she's in good hands," responded Madame Awtry, "yet when she comes
here, which she is kind enough to do sometimes, it seems to me that I
can see trouble in her eyes. It is hard to describe, but it's such an
expression as you or I would have if we were dependent, and something
was wrong or going wrong with those on whom we depended. But it may be
merely my imagination."
"It certainly must be," Miss Puella declared, "for there is nothing
wrong or going wrong with Neighbour Tomlin and Fanny."
At this point the conversation ceased, and the two women sat silent,
each occupied with her own thoughts. Miss Puella wondered that Madame
Awtry could even imagine trouble at the Tomlin Place, while the Madame
was smiling grimly to herself, and pitying Miss Puella because she could
not perceive what the trouble really was. "What a world it is! what a
world!" Madame Awtry said to herself with a sigh.
And Bridalbin stood wondering at the freak of chance or circumstance
that had enabled him to hear two persons unknown to him discussing the
dependence of his daughter. "Dependent" was the word that grated on his
ear. He never thought of Providence--how few of us do!--he never dreamed
that his presence at that particular place at that particular moment was
to be the means of providing a sure remedy for the most serious trouble,
short of bereavement, that his daughter would ever be called on to face.
Bridalbin walked slowly in the direction of the Lumsden Place, which
having fewer trees around it could be dimly seen in the starlight.
Before he emerged from the denser shadows he heard the door open and
close, and then Gabriel came down the steps whistling, and was soon in
the thoroughfare. But, instead of going toward town, he turned and went
toward the fields. Following the road for a hundred yards or more he
soon came to the bars, which formed a sort of gateway to the rich
pastures of Bermuda, and, vaulting lightly over these, he was soon lost
to view, though the stars were shining as brightly as they could. He was
making his way toward his favourite Bermuda hill.
Now, Bridalbin knew enough about the topography of Shady Dale to know
that the path or roadway, leading from the bars across the Bermuda
fields, was a short cut to one of the highways that led from town past
the door of Mahlon Butts. He paused a moment, and then, more sedate than
Gabriel, climbed the bars and followed the path across the field. He
walked rapidly, for he was anxious to discover what course Gabriel had
taken. He crossed the fields and saw no one; he reached the highway,
and followed it for a quarter of a mile or more, but he could see no
sign of Gabriel.
And for a very good reason. That young man had followed the field-path
only a short distance. He had turned sharply, to the right, making for
the Bermuda hill, where, with no fear of the dewy dampness to disturb
him, he flung himself at full length on the velvety grass, and gulped
down great draughts of the cool, sweet air. He heard the sound of
Bridalbin's footsteps, as that worthy went rapidly along the path, and
he had a boy's mischievous impulse to hail the passer-by. But he was so
fond of the hill, and so jealous of his possession of the silence, the
night, and the remote stars, that he suppressed the impulse, and
Bridalbin went on his way, firm in the belief that Gabriel had crossed
the field to the public highway, and was now going in the direction of
Mahlon Butts's home. He believed it, and continued to believe it to his
dying day, though the only evidence he had was the hint conveyed in the
surmises of Hotchkiss.
Bridalbin finally abandoned his wild-goose chase, and returned to the
neighbourhood of Gabriel's home, where he waited and watched until his
engagement with Hotchkiss compelled him to abandon his post. The
business of the Union League was not very pressing that night, or it had
been dispatched with unusual celerity, for when Bridalbin reached the
old school-house, the Rev. Jeremiah, who had taken upon himself the
duties of janitor, was in the act of closing the doors.
"I been waitin' fer you, Mr. Borin'," said the Rev. Jeremiah, after he
had responded to Bridalbin's salutation. "De Honerbul Mr. Hotchkiss tol'
me ter tell you, in case I seed you, dat he gwine on home; an' he say
p'intedly dat dey's no need fer ter worry 'bout him, kaze eve'ything's
all right. Ez he gun it ter me, so I gin it ter you. You oughter been
here ter-night. Me an' Mr. Hotchkiss took an' put all de business thoo
'fo' you kin bat yo' eye; yes, suh, we did fer a fack."
"I'm very sorry he didn't wait for me," said Bridalbin.
As for Gabriel, he lay out on the Bermuda hill, contemplating himself
and the rest of the world. The stars rode overhead, all moving together
like some vast fleet of far-off ships. In the northwest, while Gabriel
was watching, a huge star seemed to break away from its companions and
rush hurtling toward the west, leaving a trail of white vapour behind
it. The illumination was but momentary. The Night was quick to snuff out
all lights but its own. Whatever might be taking place on the other side
of the world, Night had possession here, and proposed to maintain it as
long as possible. A bird might scream when Brother Fox seized it; a
mouse might squeak when Cousin Screech-Owl swooped down on noiseless
wing and seized it; Uncle Wind might rustle the green grass in search of
Brother Dust: nevertheless, the order of the hour was silence, and Night
was prompt to enforce it.
It is a fine night, Gabriel thought--and the Silence might have
answered, "Yes, a fine night and a fateful." It was a night that was to
leave its mark on many lives.
At supper, Gabriel's grandmother had informed him that three of his
friends had come by to invite him to accompany them to a country dance
on the further side of Murder Creek--a dance following a neighbouring
barbecue. These friends, his grandmother said, were Francis Bethune,
Paul Tomlin, and Jesse Tidwell. They had searched the town over for
Gabriel, and were disappointed at not finding him at home.
"Where do you hide yourself, Gabriel?" his grandmother had asked him.
"And why do you hide? This is not the first time by a dozen that your
friends have been unable to find you."
Gabriel shook his curly head and laughed. "Let me see, grandmother:
directly after dinner, I said my Latin and Greek lessons to Mr. Clopton.
Bethune was upstairs in his own room, for I heard him singing. After
that, I went into the library, and read for an hour or more. Then I
selected a book and went over the hill to the big poplar--you know where
it is--and there I stayed until dark."
"It is all very well to read and study, Gabriel, and I am sure I am glad
to know that you are doing both," said his grandmother, with a smile,
"but you must remember that there are social obligations which cannot be
ignored. You will have to go out into the world after awhile, and you
should begin to get in the habit of it now. You should not avoid your
friends. I don't mean, of course, that you should run after them, or
fling yourself at their heads; I wouldn't have you do that for the
world; but you shouldn't make a hermit of yourself. To be popular, you
should mix and mingle freely with your equals. I know how it was in my
day. I was not fond of society myself, but my mother always insisted
that I should sacrifice my own inclinations for the pleasure of others,
and in this way earn the only kind of popularity that is really
gratifying. And I really believe I was the most popular of all the
girls." The dear old lady tossed her head triumphantly.
"That's what Mr. Clopton says," remarked Gabriel; "but you know,
grandmother, your time was different from our time"--oh, these
youngsters who persist in reminding us of our fogyism--"and you were a
girl in those days, while I am a boy in these. I am lazy, I know; I can
loaf with a book all day long; but for the life of me, I can't do as
Bethune does. He doesn't read, and he doesn't study; he just dawdles
around, and calls on the girls, and talks with them by the hour. He used
to be in love with Nan (so Mr. Sanders says) and now he's in love with
Margaret Bridalbin; he's just crazy about her. Now, I'm not in love with
anybody"--"oh, Gabriel!" protested a still, small voice in his
bosom--"and if I were, I wouldn't dawdle around, and whittle on
dry-goods boxes, and go and sit for hours at a time with Sally, and
Susy, and Bessy, and Molly." Decidedly, Gabriel was coming out; here he
was with strong views of his own.
His grandmother laughed aloud at this, saying, "You are very much like
your grandfather, Gabriel. He was a very serious and masterful man. He
detested small-talk and tittle-tattle, and I was the only girl he ever
went with. But Francis Bethune is very foolish not to stick to Nan; she
is such a delightful girl. It would be very unfortunate indeed if those
two were not to marry."
If the dear old lady had not been so loyal to her sex, she would have
told Gabriel that Nan had visited her that very day, and had asked a
thousand and one questions about her old-time comrade. Indeed, Nan, with
that delightful spirit of unconventionality that became her so well, had
made bold to rummage through Gabriel's books and papers. She found one
sheet on which he had evidently begun a letter. It started out well, and
then stopped suddenly: "Dear Nan: I hardly know----" Then the attempt
was abandoned in despair, and on the lower part of the sheet was
scrawled: "Dearest Nan: I hardly know, in fact I don't know, and you'll
never know till Gabriel blows his horn." This sheet the fair forager
promptly appropriated, saying to herself "Boys are such funny
creatures."
The conversation between Gabriel and his grandmother, as has been said,
took place while they were eating their supper. The youngster was not
sorry that he was absent when his friends called for him. It was a long
ride to the Samples plantation, where the dance was to be, and a long,
long ride back home, when the fiddles were in their bags, the dancers
fagged out, and the fun and excitement all over and done with. The
Bermuda hill was good enough for Gabriel, unless he could arrange his
own dances, and have one partner--just one--from early candle-light till
the grey dawn of morning.
It was late when Gabriel returned from the Bermuda hill, later than he
thought, for he had completely lost himself in the solemn imaginings
that overtake and overwhelm a young man who is just waking up to the
serious side of existence, and on whose mind are beginning to dawn the
possibilities and responsibilities of manhood. Ah, these young men! How
lovable they are when they are true to themselves--when they try boldly
to live up to their own ideals!
Once in his room, Gabriel looked about for the book he had been reading
during the afternoon. It was his habit to read a quarter of an hour at
least--sometimes longer--before going to bed. But the book was not to be
found. This was surprising until he remembered that he had not entered
his bed-room since the dinner-hour; and then it suddenly dawned on his
mind that he had left the book at the foot of the big poplar.
Well! that was a pretty come-off for a young man who was inclined to be
proud of his careful and systematic methods. And the book was a borrowed
one, and very valuable--one of the early editions of Franklin's
autobiography, bound in leather. What would Meriwether Clopton think,
if, through Gabriel's carelessness, the dampness and the dew had injured
the volume, which, after Horace and Virgil, was one of Mr. Clopton's
favourites?
There was but one thing to be done, and that Gabriel was prompt to do.
He went softly downstairs, so as not to disturb his grandmother, and
made his way to the big poplar, where he was fortunate enough to find
the book. Thanks to the sheltering arms of the tree, and the
leaf-covered ground, the volume had sustained no damage.
As Gabriel recovered the book, and while he was examining it, he heard a
chorus of whistlers coming along the road. Mingled with the whistling
chorus were the various sounds made by a waggon drawn by horses. Gabriel
judged that the waggon contained the young men who had been to the dance
at the Samples plantation, and in this his judgment turned out to be
correct. The young men were in a double-seated spring waggon, drawn by
two horses. They drew up in response to Gabriel's holla, and he climbed
into the waggon.
"Well, what in the name of the seven stars are you doing out here in the
woods at this time of night?" cried Jesse Tidwell, and he laughed with
humourous scorn when Gabriel told him.
"But the book belongs to Bethune's grandfather," explained Gabriel. "It
might have been ruined by rain, or by the damp night-air, if left out
until morning. If it had been my own book, perhaps I'd have trusted to
luck."
"You missed it to-night, Tolliver," said Francis Bethune. "Feel
Samples"--his name was Felix--"was considerably put out because you
didn't come. And the girls--Tolliver, when did you get acquainted with
them? They all know you. Nelly Kendrick tossed her head and turned up
her nose, and said that a dance wasn't a dance unless Mr. Tolliver was
present. Tidwell, who was the red-headed girl that raved so about
Tolliver's curls?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Jesse Tidwell, "that was Amy Rowland. If she wasn't
the belle of the ball, I'll never want any more money in this world.
It's no use for Gabriel to blow his horn, when he has all the girls in
that part of the country to blow it for him. My son, when and where did
you come to know all these young ladies?"
"Why, I used to go out there to church with Mr. Sanders, and sometimes
with Mrs. Absalom. There are some fine people in that settlement."
"Fine!" exclaimed Jesse Tidwell, with real enthusiasm; "why, split silk
is as coarse as gunny-bagging by the side of those girls. I told 'em I
was coming back. 'You must!' they declared, 'and be sure and bring Mr.
Tolliver!'" Young Tidwell mimicked a girl's voice with such ridiculous
completeness that his companions shouted with laughter. "There's another
thing you missed, Tolliver," he went on. "Feel Samples has a cow that
gives apple-brandy, and old Burrel Bohannon, the one-legged fiddler,
must have milked her dry, for along about half-past ten he kind of
rolled his eyes, and fetched a gasp, and wobbled out of his chair, and
lay on the floor just as if he was stone dead."
In a short time the young men had reached the tavern, where the team and
vehicle belonged. As they drew up in front of the door, Jesse Tidwell,
continuing and completing his description of the condition of Burrel
Bohannon, exclaimed: "Yes, sir, he fell and lay there. He may have
kicked a time or two, and I think he mumbled something, but he was as
good as dead."
Bridalbin, restless and uneasy, had been wandering about the town, and
he came up just in time to hear this last remark. At that moment, a
negro issued from the tavern with a lantern, and Bridalbin was not at
all surprised to see Gabriel Tolliver with the rest; and he wondered
what mischief the young men had been engaged in. Some one had been badly
hurt or killed. That much he could gather from Tidwell's declaration;
but who?
He went to his lodging and to bed in a very uncomfortable frame of
mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
_The Fate of Mr. Hotchkiss_
Mr. Hotchkiss, after leaving the Union League, had decided not to wait
for his co-worker, whom he knew as Boring. So far as he was concerned,
he had no fears. He knew, of course, that he was playing with fire, but
what of that? He had the Government behind him, and he had two companies
of troops within call. What more could any man ask? More than that, he
was doing what he conceived to be his duty. He belonged to that large
and pestiferous tribe of reformers, who go through the world without
fixed principles. He had been an abolitionist, but he was not of the
Garrison type. On the contrary, he thought that Garrison was a
time-server and a laggard who needed to be spurred and driven. He was
one of the men who urged John Brown to stir up an insurrection in which
innocent women and children would have been the chief sufferers; and he
would have rejoiced sincerely if John Brown had been successful. He
mistook his opinions for first principles, and went on the theory that
what he thought right could not by any possibility be wrong. He belonged
to the Peace Society, and yet nothing would have pleased him better
than an uprising of the blacks, followed by the shedding of innocent
blood.
In short, there were never two sides to any question that interested
Hotchkiss. He held the Southern people responsible for American slavery,
and would have refused to listen to any statement of facts calculated to
upset his belief. He was narrow-minded, bigoted, and intensely in
earnest. Some writer, Newman, perhaps, has said that a man will not
become a martyr for the sake of an opinion; but Newman probably never
came in contact with the whipper-snappers of Exeter Hall, or their
prototypes in this country--the men who believe that philanthropy, and
reform, and progress generally are worthless unless it be accompanied by
strife, and hate, and, if possible, by bloodshed. You find the type
everywhere; it clings like a leech to the skirts of every great
movement. The Hotchkisses swarm wherever there is an opening for them,
and they always present the same general aspect. They are as productive
of isms as a fly is of maggots, and they live and die in the belief that
they are promoting the progress of the world; but if their success is to
be measured by their operations in the South during the reconstruction
period, the world would be much better off without them. They succeeded
in dedicating millions of human beings to misery and injustice, and
warped the minds of the whites to such an extent that they thought it
necessary to bring about peace and good order by means of various acute
forms of injustice and lawlessness.
Mr. Hotchkiss was absolutely sincere in believing that the generation
of Southern whites who were his contemporaries were personally
responsible for slavery in this country, and for all the wrongs that he
supposed had been the result of that institution. He felt it in every
fibre of his cultivated but narrow mind, and he went about elated at the
idea that he was able to contribute his mite of information to the
negroes, and breed in their minds hatred of the people among whom they
were compelled to live. If there had been a Booker Washington in that
day, he would have been denounced by the Hotchkisses as a traitor to his
race, and an enemy of the Government, just as they denounced and
despised such negroes as Uncle Plato.
Hotchkiss went along the road in high spirits. He had delivered a
blistering address to the negroes at the meeting of the league, and he
was feeling happy. His work, he thought, was succeeding. Before he
delivered his address, he had initiated Ike Varner, who was by all odds
the most notorious negro in all that region. Ike was a poet in his way;
if he had lived a few centuries earlier, he would have been called a
minstrel. He could stand up before a crowd of white men, and spin out
rhymes by the yard, embodying in this form of biography the weak points
of every citizen. Some of his rhymes were very apt, and there are men
living to-day who can repeat some of the extemporaneous satires composed
by this negro. He had the reputation among the blacks of being an
uncompromising friend of the whites. In the town, he was a privileged
character; he could do and say what he pleased. He was a fine cook, and
provided possum suppers for those who sat up late at night, and
ice-cream for those who went to bed early. He tidied up the rooms of the
young bachelors, he sold chicken-pies and ginger-cakes on public days,
and Cephas, whose name was mentioned at the beginning of this chronicle,
is willing to pay five dollars to the man or woman who can bake a
ginger-cake that will taste as well as those that Ike Varner made. He
was a happy-go-lucky negro, and spent his money as fast as he made it,
not on himself, but on Edie, his wife, who was young, and bright, and
handsome. She was almost white, and her face reminded you somehow of the
old paintings of the Magdalene, with her large eyes and the melancholy
droop of her mouth. Edie was the one creature in the world that Ike
really cared for, and he had sense enough to know that she cared for him
only when he could supply her with money. Yet he watched her like a
hawk, madly jealous of every glance she gave another man; and she gave
many, in all directions. Ike's jealousy was the talk of the town among
the male population, and was the subject for many a jest at his expense.
His nature was such that he could jest about it too, but far below the
jests, as any one could see, there was desperation.
In spite of all this, Ike was the most popular negro in the town. His
wit and his good-humour commended him to the whole community. He had
moved his wife and his belongings into the country, two or three miles
from town, on the ground that the country is more conducive to health.
Ike's white friends laughed at him, but the negro couldn't see the joke.
Why should a negro be laughed at for taking precautions of this sort,
when there is a whole nation of whites that keeps its women hid, or
compels them to cover their faces when they go out for a breath of fresh
air? The fact is that Ike didn't know what else to do, and so he sent
his handsome wife into exile, and went along to keep her company.
Nevertheless, all his interests were within the corporate limits of
Shady Dale, and he was compelled by circumstances to leave Edie to pine
alone, sometimes till late at night. Whether Edie pined or not, or
whether she was lonely, is a question that this chronicler is not called
on to discuss.
Now, the fact of Ike's popularity with the whites had struck Mr.
Hotchkiss as a very unfavourable sign, and he set himself to work to
bring about a change. He sent some of the negro leaders to talk with
Ike, who sent them about their business in short order. Then Mr.
Hotchkiss took the case in hand, and called on Ike at his house. The two
had an argument over the matter, Ike interspersing his remarks with
random rhymes which Hotchkiss thought very coarse and crude. At the
conclusion of the argument, Hotchkiss saw that the negro had been
laughing at him all the way through, and he resented this attitude more
than another would. He went away in a huff, resolved to leave the negro
with his idols.