told Cephas here. When I was fetchin' my horse, Cephas, he comes up, an'
he says, 'Mr. Sanders, have you heard from Gabriel?' an' I says, 'No,
Cephas, we ain't had time for to git a word from 'em.' An' then he went
on to say, Cephas did, that he'd like mighty well to see Gabriel. I told
him that maybe we could fix it up so as he could see Gabriel. You can't
imagine how holp up the little chap was. To see him then, an' see him
now, you'd think it was another boy."
Captain Falconer looked at Cephas, and could see no guile. On the
contrary, he saw a freckled lad who appeared to be about ten years old;
he was really nearly fourteen. Cephas was so ugly that he was ugly when
he laughed, as he was doing now; but there was something about him that
attracted the attention of those who were older. It was a fact much
talked about that this freckled little boy never went with children of
his own age, but was always to be found with those much older. He was
Gabriel's chum when Gabriel wanted a chum; he went hunting with Francis
Bethune; and he could often be found at the store in which Paul Tomlin
was the chief clerk. He knew all the secrets of these young men, and
kept them, and they frequently advised with him about the young ladies.
But he was fonder of Gabriel than of all the rest, and he was also fond
of Nan, who had been kind to him in many ways. Cephas was one of those
ill-favoured little creatures, who astonish everybody by never
forgetting a favour. Gratitude ran riot in his small bosom, and he was
ever ready to sacrifice himself for his friends.
Seeing that Captain Falconer continued to look at him, Cephas hung his
head. He was only too conscious of his ugliness, and was very sensitive
about it. He wanted to be large and strong and handsome like Gabriel, or
dark and romantic-looking like Francis Bethune; and sometimes he was
very miserable because of the unkindness of fate or Providence in this
matter.
"And so you want to see your friends," said the Captain, very kindly.
Every feature of his face showed that his sympathies were keen. "They
are very far away, or will be when they get to their journey's end--too
far, I should think, for a little boy to travel."
"Maybe so," said Cephas, "but Gabriel had to go."
"I see," said the Captain; "wherever Gabriel goes, you are willing to
go?"
"Yes, sir," replied Cephas very simply.
"I hope Gabriel appreciates it," remarked Sarah Clopton.
"Oh, he does!" exclaimed Cephas. "Gabriel knows. Why, one day----" Then,
remembering the company he was in, he blushed, and refused to go on with
what he intended to say.
Seeing his embarrassment, Mr. Sanders came to his rescue. "What I want
to know, Captain, is this: if that little chap comes down to Savannah,
will you allow him to see Gabriel and talk to him?"
Again the Captain looked at the boy, and Cephas, catching a certain
humourous gleam in the gentleman's eye, began to smile. "Now, then,"
said Captain Falconer, with an answering smile, "how would you like to
go with me?"
"I think I would like it," replied Cephas, with a broad grin; "I think
that would be fine."
"And what does Mr. Sanders think of it?" the Captain asked.
"Well, I hadn't looked at it from that p'int of view," said Mr. Sanders.
"I 'lowed maybe that the best an' cheapest plan would be for me to take
the little chap down an' fetch him back."
"My opinion may not be worth much, Mr. Sanders," said Sarah Clopton,
"but I think it would be a shame to take that child so far away from
home. I don't believe his mother will allow him to go."
"That is a matter that was jest fixin' for to worry me," remarked Mr.
Sanders. "I could feel it kinder fermentin' in my mind, like molasses
turnin' to vinegar, an' now that you've fetched it to the top, Sarah,
we'll settle it before we go any furder. Come, Cephas; we'll go an' see
your mammy, an' see ef we can't coax her into lettin' you go. You'll
have to do your best, my son; I'll coax, an' you must wheedle."
As they went out, Cephas was laughing at Mr. Sanders's remark about
wheedling. The youngster was an expert in that business. He was his
mother's only child, and he had learned at a very early age just how to
manage her.
"What troubles me, Cephas," said Mr. Sanders, "is how you can git a
message to Gabriel wi'out lettin' the cat out'n the bag. He'll be
surrounder'd in sech a way that you can't git a word wi' 'im wi'out
tellin' the whole caboodle."
At that moment, Mr. Sanders heard a small voice cry out something like
this: "Phazasee! Phazasee! arawa ooya ingagog?"
To which jabbering Cephas made prompt reply: "Iya ingagog ota annysavvy
ota eesa gibbleable!"
"Ooya ibfa! Ooya ibfa!" jeered the small voice.
Mr. Sanders looked at Cephas in astonishment. "What kinder lingo is
that?" he asked.
"It's the way we school-children talk when we don't want anybody to know
what we are saying. Johnny asked me where I was going, and I told him I
was going to Savannah to see Gabriel."
"Did he know what you said?"
"Why, he couldn't help but know, but he didn't believe it; he said it
was a fib."
"Well, I'll be jigged!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Call that boy over
here."
Cephas turned around--they had passed the house where the little boy
lived--and called out: "Onnaja! Onnaja! Stermera Andersa antwasa ota
eesa ooya."
The small boy came running, though there was a doubtful look on his
face. He had frequently been the victim of Cephas's practical jokes.
Mr. Sanders questioned him closely, and he confirmed the interpretation
of the lingo which Cephas had given to Mr. Sanders.
"Do you mean to tell me," said Mr. Sanders to Cephas when they had
dismissed the small boy, "that this kinder thing has been goin' on right
under my nose, an' I not knowin' a word about it? How'd you pick up the
lingo?"
"Gabriel teached it to me," replied Cephas. "He talks it better than any
of the boys, and I come next." This last remark Cephas made with a
blush.
"Do I look pale, my son?" inquired Mr. Sanders, mopping his red face
with his handkerchief. Cephas gave a negative reply by shaking his head.
"Well, I may not look pale, but I shorely feel pale. You'll have to loan
me your arm, Cephas; I feel like Christopher Columbus did when he
discovered Atlanta, Ga."
"Why, he didn't discover Atlanta, Mr. Sanders," protested Cephas.
"He didn't!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Well, it was his own fault ef he
didn't. All he had to do was to read the country newspapers. But that's
neither here nor thar. Here I've been buttin' my head ag'in trees, an'
walkin' in my sleep tryin' for to study up some plan to git word to
Gabriel, an' here you walk along the street an' make me a present of the
very thing I want, an' I ain't even thanked you for it."
Cephas couldn't guess what Mr. Sanders was driving at, and he asked no
questions. His mind was too full of his proposed trip. When the
proposition was first broached to Cephas's mother, she scouted the idea
of allowing her boy to make the journey. He was all she had, and should
anything happen to him--well, the world wouldn't be the same world to
her. And it was so far away; why, she had heard some one say that
Savannah was right on the brink of the ocean--that great monster that
swallowed ships and men by the thousand, and was just as hungry
afterward as before. But Cephas began to cry, saying that he wanted to
see Gabriel; and Mr. Sanders told Gabriel's side of the story. Between
the two, the poor woman had no option but to say that she'd consider the
matter, and when a woman begins to consider--well, according to the
ancient philosophers, it's the same as saying yes.
The truth is, a great deal of pressure was brought to bear on Cephas's
mother, in one way and another. Meriwether Clopton called on her,
bringing Captain Falconer. She was not at all pleased to see the
Captain, and she made no effort to conceal her prejudice. "I never did
think that I'd speak to a man in that uniform," she said with a very red
face. But she was better satisfied when Meriwether Clopton told her that
the Captain was the son of his dearest friend, and that he was utterly
opposed to the radical policy.
The upshot of the matter was that, with many a sigh and some tears, she
gave her consent for her onliest, her dearest, and her bestest, to go on
the long journey. And then, after consenting, she was angry with herself
because she had consented. In short, she was as miserable and as anxious
as mother-love can make a woman, and poor Cephas never could understand
until he became a grown man, and had children of his own, how his mother
could make such a to-do over the opportunity that Providence had thrown
in his way. To tell the truth, he was almost irritated at the obstacles
and objections that the vivid imagination of his mother kept conjuring
up. She said he must be sure not to fall in the ocean, and he must keep
out of the way of the railroad trains. She cried silently all the time
she was packing his modest supply of clothes in a valise, and put some
tea-cakes in one corner, and a little Testament in the other.
It is no wonder that children who do not understand such feelings should
be impatient of them, and Cephas is to be excused if he watched the
whole proceeding with something like contempt for woman's weakness. But
he has bitterly regretted, oh, tens of thousands of times, that, instead
of standing aloof from his mother's feelings, he did not throw his arms
around her, and tell how much he appreciated her love, and how every
tear she shed for him was worth to him a hundred times more than a
diamond. But Cephas was a boy, and, being a boy, he could not rise
superior to his boy's nature.
It was arranged that Cephas was to go to Savannah with Captain Falconer,
and return with Mr. Sanders, who would take advantage of the occasion to
settle up some old business with the firm that had acted as factor for
Meriwether Clopton before the war. The arrangement took place when Mr.
Sanders returned home after his visit to Cephas's mother, and was of
course conditional on her consent, which was not obtained at once.
Mr. Sanders was shrewd enough not to dwell too much on the plight of the
young men on his return. By some method of his own, he seemed to sweep
the whole matter from his mind, and both he and Meriwether Clopton
addressed themselves to such topics as they imagined the Federal Captain
would find interesting; and in this they were seconded by Sarah Clopton,
whom Robert Toombs declared to be one of the finest conversationalists
of her time when she chose to exert her powers. But for the softness
and fine harmony of her features, her face would have been called
masculine. Her countenance was entirely responsive to her emotions, and
it was delightful to watch the eloquent play of her features. Captain
Falconer fell quickly under the spell of her conversation, for one of
its chiefest charms was the ease with which she brought out the best
thoughts of his mind--thoughts and views that were a part of his inner
self.
It was the same at dinner, where, without monopolising the talk, she led
it this way and that, but always in channels that were congenial and
pleasing to the Captain, and that enabled him to appear at his best. In
honour of his guest, Meriwether Clopton brought out some fine old claret
that had lain for many years undisturbed in the cellar.
"Thank you, Sarah," said Mr. Sanders, when the hostess pressed him to
have a glass, "I'll not trouble you for any to-day. I've made the
acquaintance of that claret. It ain't sour enough for vinegar, nor
strong enough for liquor; it's a kind of a cross betwixt a second
drawin' of tea an' the syrup of squills; an' no matter how hard you hit
it it'll never hit you back. It's lots too mild for a Son of Temp'rance
like me. No; gi' me a full jug an' a shuck-pen to crawl into, an' you
may have all the wine, red or yaller."
But the fine old claret was thoroughly enjoyed by those who could
appreciate the flower of its age and the flavour of its vintage; and
when dinner was over, and Captain Falconer was on his way to camp, he
felt that, outside of his own home, he had never had such a pleasant
experience.
In the course of a few days orders came from Atlanta for Captain
Falconer to turn over the command of the detachment to the officer next
in rank, and proceed to Malvern, where he would find further
instructions awaiting him. When the time came for Cephas to be off with
the Captain, you may well believe that his mother saw all sorts of
trouble ahead for him. She had dreamed some very queer dreams, she said,
and she was very sure that no good would follow. And at the last moment,
she would have taken Cephas from the barouche which had come for him, if
the driver, following the instructions of Mr. Sanders, had not whipped
up his horses, and left the lady standing in the street.
As for Cephas, he found that parting from his mother was not such a fine
thing after all. He watched her through a mist of tears, and waved his
handkerchief as long as he could see her; and then after that he was the
loneliest little fellow you have ever seen. He refused to eat the extra
tea-cake that his mother had put in the pocket of his jacket, and made
up his mind to be perfectly miserable until he got back home. But, after
all, boys are boys, and the feeling of loneliness and dejection wore
away after awhile, and before he had gone many miles, what with making
the acquaintance of the driver, who was a private soldier, and getting
on friendly terms with Captain Falconer, he soon arrived at the point
where he relished his tea-cake, and when this had been devoured, he felt
as if travelling was the most delightful thing in the world, especially
if a fellow has been intrusted with a tremendous secret that nobody else
in the world knew besides Mr. Sanders and himself.
For as soon as Mr. Sanders discovered that the Captain would be willing
to have Cephas go along, he had taken the little chap in hand, and
thoroughly impressed upon his mind everything he wanted him to say to
Gabriel, and he was not satisfied until Cephas had written the message
out in the dog-latin of the school-children, and had learned it by
heart. Mr. Sanders also impressed on the little lad's mind the
probability that the Captain would be curious as to the nature of the
message; and he gave Cephas a plausible answer for every question that
an inquisitive person could put to him, and made him repeat these
answers over and over again. In fact, Cephas was compelled to study as
hard as if he had been in school, but he relished the part he was to
play, and learned it with a zest that was very pleasing to Mr. Sanders.
Only an hour before he was to leave with the Captain, Mr. Sanders went
to Cephas's home, and made him repeat over everything he had been
taught, and the glibness with which the little lad repeated the answers
to the questions was something wonderful in so small a chap.
"Don't git lonesome, Cephas," was the parting injunction of Mr. Sanders.
"Don't forgit that I'll be on the train when the whistle blows. I'm
gwine to start right off. You may not see me, but I'll not be far off.
Keep a stiff upper lip, an' don't git into no panic. The whole thing is
gwine through like it was on skids, an' the skids greased."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
_Cephas Has His Troubles_
Usually there is a yawning gulf between youth and old age; but in the
case of Mrs. Lumsden and Nan Dorrington, it was spanned by the
simplicity and tenderness common to both. Whether any of the ancients or
moderns have mentioned the fact, it is hardly worth while to inquire,
but good-humour is a form of tenderness. Those who are easy to laugh are
likewise ready to be sorry, and they have a fund of sympathy to draw on
whenever the necessity arises. Simplicity and tenderness connect the
highest wisdom with the deepest ignorance, and find the elements of
brotherhood where the intellect is unable to discern it. It was
simplicity and tenderness that bridged the gulf of years that lay
between the old gentlewoman and the young girl. Age can find no comfort
for itself unless it can make terms with youth. Where it stands alone,
depending upon the respect that should belong to what is venerable,
there is something gruesome about it. It quenches the high spirits of
children and young people, and chills their enthusiasm. All that it does
for them is to give notorious advertisement to the complexion to which
they must all come at last. "You see these wrinkled and flabby
features, this gray hair, these faded and watery eyes, these shaking
limbs and trembling hands: well, this is what you must come to." And,
indeed, it is an object lesson well calculated to sober and subdue the
giddy.
Now, age had dealt very gently with Gabriel's grandmother; it became her
well. Her white hair was even more beautiful now than it had been when
she was young, as Meriwether Clopton often declared. Her eyes were
bright, and all her sympathies were as keenly alive as they had been
fifty years before. She had kept in touch with Gabriel and the young
people about her, and none of her faculties had been impaired. She was
the gentlest of gentlewomen.
Once Nan had asked her--"Grandmother Lumsden, what is the perfume I
smell every time I come here? You have it on your clothes."
"Life Everlasting, my dear." For one brief and fleeting instant, Nan had
the odd feeling that she could see millions and millions of years into
the future. Life Everlasting! She caught her breath. But the vision or
feeling was swept away by the placid voice of Mrs. Lumsden. "I believe
you and Gabriel call it rabbit tobacco," she explained.
Nan had a great longing to be with Mrs. Lumsden the moment she heard
that Gabriel had been spirited away by the strong arm of the Government.
She felt that she would be more comfortable there than at home.
"My dear, what put it into that wise little head of yours to come and
comfort an old woman?" Mrs. Lumsden asked, when Meriwether Clopton and
Miss Fanny Tomlin had taken their departure. She was still sitting close
to Nan, caressing her hand.
"I thought you would be lonely with Gabriel gone, and I just made up my
mind to come. I was afraid until I reached the door, and then I wasn't
afraid any more. If you don't want me, I'll soon find it out."
"I can't tell you how glad I am, Nan, to have you here; and I can guess
your feelings. No doubt you were shocked to hear that Francis Bethune
had been taken with the rest." The dear old lady had the knack of
clinging to her ideas.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Grandmother Lumsden. I care no
more for Mr. Bethune than I do for the others--perhaps not so much."
"I don't know why it is," said Mrs. Lumsden, "but I have always looked
forward to the day when you and Francis would be married."
"I've heard you talk that way before, and I've often wondered why you
did it."
"Oh, well! perhaps it is one of my foolish dreams," said Mrs. Lumsden
with a sigh.
"Your father's plantation and that of Francis's grandfather are side by
side, and I have thought it would be romantic for the heirs to join
hands and make the two places one."
"I can't see anything romantic in that, Grandmother Lumsden. It's like a
sum in arithmetic."
"Well, you must allow old people to indulge in their dreams, my dear.
When you are as old as I am, and have seen as much of life, you will
have different ideas about romance."
"I hope, ma'am, that your next dream will be truer," said Nan, almost
playfully.
That night, Nan lay awake for a long time. At last she slipped out of
bed, felt her way around it, and leaned over and kissed Gabriel's
grandmother. In an instant she felt the motherly arms of the old
gentlewoman around her.
"Is that the way you do, when Gabriel comes and kisses you in the
night?" whispered Nan wistfully.
"Yes, yes, my dear--many times."
"Oh, I am so glad!" the words exhaled from the girl's lips in a
long-drawn, trembling sigh. Then she went back to her place in bed, and
soon both the comforter and the comforted were sound asleep.
As has been hinted, the moment Mr. Sanders discovered there was some
slight chance of getting a message to Gabriel, he became one of the
busiest men in Shady Dale, though his industry was not immediately
apparent to his friends and neighbours. Among those whom he took
occasion to see was Mr. Tidwell, whose son Jesse was among the
prisoners.
"Gus," said Mr. Sanders, without any ceremony, "you remember the row you
come mighty nigh havin' wi' Tomlin Perdue, not so many years ago?"
"Yes; I remember something of it," replied Mr. Tidwell. He was a man who
ordinarily went with his head held low, as though engaged in deep
thought. When spoken to he straightened up, and thereby seemed to add
several inches to his height.
"Well, it's got to be done over ag'in," remarked Mr. Sanders. "It
happened in Malvern, didn't it?"
"Yes, in the depot," replied Mr. Tidwell. "We were both on our way to
Atlanta, and the Major misunderstood something I had said."
"Egzackly! Well, it must be done over ag'in."
Mr. Tidwell lowered his head and appeared to reflect. Then he
straightened up again, and his face was very serious. "Mr. Sanders, has
Tomlin Perdue been dropping his wing about that fuss? Has he been making
remarks?"
"Oh, I reckon not," replied Mr. Sanders cheerfully. "But I've got a
mighty good reason for axin' you about it. Come in your office, Gus, an'
I'll tell you all I know, an' it won't take me two minnits."
They went in and closed the door, and remained in consultation for some
time. While they were thus engaged, Silas Tomlin came to the door, tried
the bolt, and finding that it would not yield, walked restlessly up and
down, preyed upon by many strange and conflicting emotions. He had
evidently gone through much mental suffering. His face was drawn and
haggard, and his clothes were shabbier than ever. He took no account of
time, but walked up and down, waiting for Mr. Tidwell to come out, and
as he walked he was the victim both of his fears and his affections. One
moment, he heartily wished that he might never see his son again; the
next he would have given everything he possessed to have the boy back,
and hear once more the familiar, "Hello, father!"
After awhile, Mr. Sanders and Mr. Tidwell came forth from the lawyer's
office. They appeared to be in fine humour, for both were laughing, as
though some side-splitting joke had just passed between them.
"There's no doubt about it, Mr. Sanders," Lawyer Tidwell was saying,
"you ought to be a major-general!"
"I declare, Tidwell!" exclaimed Silas, with something like indignation,
"I don't see how you can go around happy and laughing under the
circumstances. You do like you could fetch your son back with a laugh. I
wish I could fetch Paul back that way."
"Well, he'd stay whar he is, Silas," said Mr. Sanders, with a benevolent
smile, "ef his comin' back had to be brung about by any hilarity from
you. Why, you ain't laughed but once sence you was a baby, an' when you
heard the sound of it you set up a howl that's lasted ever sence."
"If you think, Silas, that crying will bring the boys back," said Mr.
Tidwell, "I'll join you in a crying-match, and stand here and boohoo
with you just as long as you want to."
"I just called by to see if you had heard any news," remarked Silas,
taking no offence at the sarcastic utterances of the two men. "I am just
obliged to get some news. I am on pins: I can't sleep at night; and my
appetite is gone."
Mr. Sanders looked at the man's haggard face, and immediately became
serious and sympathetic. "Well, I tell you, Silas, you needn't worry
another minnit. The only one amongst 'em that's in real trouble is
Gabriel Tolliver. I've looked into the case from A to Izzard, an' that's
the way it stan's."
"That is perfectly true," assented Mr. Tidwell. "We can account for the
movements of all the boys on the night of the killing except those of
Tolliver; and he is in considerable danger. By the way, Silas, you said
some time ago--oh, ever so long ago--that you would bring me a copy of
_Blackwood's Magazine_. You remember there was a story in it you wanted
me to read."
"No, I--well, I tried to find it; I hunted for it high and low; but I
haven't been able to put my hands on it. But I've had so much trouble of
one kind and another, that I clean forgot it. I'm glad you mentioned it;
I'll try to find it again."
"Well, as a lawyer," said Mr. Tidwell, somewhat significantly--or so it
seemed to Silas--"I don't charge you a cent for telling you that your
case wouldn't stand a minnit."