programme that had arranged itself in his mind, and when he was through,
Major Perdue leaned back in his chair, and gazed with admiration at the
bland and child-like countenance of this Georgia cracker. The innocence
of childhood shone in Mr. Sanders's blue eyes.
"I swear, Mr. Sanders, I'm sorry I didn't have the pleasure of serving
with you in Virginia. If there is anything in this world that I like
it's a man with a head on him, and that's what you've got. You can count
on us if we are alive. I don't know how Bolivar feels about it, but I
feel that you have done me a great favour in thinking of me in
connection with this business. You couldn't pay either of us a higher
compliment."
"Tomlin expresses my views exactly," said Colonel Blasengame; "yet I
feel that one of us will be enough. It may be that your scheme will
fail, and that those who are engaged in it will have to take the
consequence. Now, I'd rather take 'em alone than to have Tumlin mixed up
with it."
"Fiddlesticks, Bolivar! you couldn't keep me out of it unless you had a
bench-warrant served on me five minutes before the train left, and if
you try that, I'll have one served on you. Now, don't forget to tell
Tidwell that I'll be glad to renew that dispute. I bear no malice, but
when it comes to a row, I don't need malice to keep my mind and my gun
in working order. I'm going down to Malvern to-morrow, and before I come
away, I'll have everything fixed. There are some details, you know, that
never occurred to you: the police, for instance. Well, the chief of
police is a very good friend of mine, and the major was Bolivar's
adjutant."
"Well, I thank the Lord for all his mercies!" cried Mr. Sanders; and he
meant what he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
_Nan and Margaret_
It was hinted in some of the early chapters of this chronicle that none
of the characters would turn out to be very heroic, but this was a
mistake. The chronicler had forgotten a few episodes that grew out of
the expedition of Cephas to Fort Pulaski--episodes that should have
stood out clear in his memory from the first. Cephas was very meek and
humble when he started on his expedition, so much so that there were
long moments when he would have given a large fortune, if he had
possessed it, to be safe at home with his mother. A hundred times he
asked himself why he had been foolish enough to come away from home, and
trust himself to the cold mercy of the world; and he promised himself
faithfully that if he ever got back home alive, he would never leave
there again.
Captain Falconer was very kind and attentive to the lad, but he was also
very inquisitive. He asked Cephas a great many artful questions, all
leading up to the message he was to deliver to Gabriel; but the
instructions he had received from Mr. Sanders made Cephas more than a
match for the Captain. When the lad came to the years of maturity, he
often wondered how a plain and comparatively ignorant countryman could
foresee the questions that were to be asked, and provide simple and
satisfactory answers to them; and the matter is still a mystery.
Well, Cephas was not a hero when he started, and if the truth is to be
told, he developed none of the symptoms until he had returned home
safely, accompanied by Mr. Sanders. Then he became the lion of the
village, and was sought after by old and young. All wanted to hear the
story of his wonderful adventures. He speedily became a celebrated
Cephas, and when he found that he was really regarded as a hero by his
schoolmates, and by some of the young women, he was quick to appropriate
the character. He became reticent; he went about with a sort of weary
and travel-worn look, as if he had seen everything that was worth
seeing, and heard everything that was worth hearing.
Now, what Cephas had seen and heard was bad enough. He could hardly be
brought to believe that the haggard and wild-eyed young fellow who
answered to Gabriel's name at the fort was the Gabriel that he had
known, and when he made up his mind that it really was Gabriel, he
couldn't hold the tears back. "Brace up, old man," said Gabriel. It was
then in a choking voice that Cephas delivered Mr. Sanders's message,
using the dog-latin which they both knew so well. And in that tongue
Gabriel told Cephas of the tortures to which he and his fellow-prisoners
had been subjected, of the horrors of the sweat-boxes, and the terrors
of the wrist-rack. So effective was the narrative that Gabriel rattled
off in the school tongue, that when he was ordered back to his solitary
cell, Cephas turned away weeping. He was no hero then; he was simply a
small boy with a tender heart.
There were grave faces at Shady Dale when Cephas told what he had seen
and heard. Major Tomlin Perdue, of Halcyondale, became almost savage
when he heard of the indignities to which the unfortunate young men had
been subjected. He wrote a card and published it in the _Malvern
Recorder_, and the card was so much to the purpose, and created such
indignation in the State, that the authorities at Washington took
cognisance thereof, and issued orders that there was to be no more
torture of the prisoners. This fact, however, was not known until months
afterward, and, meanwhile, the newspapers of Georgia were giving a wide
publicity to the cruelties which had been practised on the young men,
and radicalism became the synonym of everything that was loathsome and
detestable. Reprisals were made in all parts of the State, and as was to
be expected, the negroes were compelled to bear the brunt of all the
excitement and indignation.
The tale that Cephas told to Mr. Sanders was modest when compared to the
inventions that occurred to his mind after he found how easy it was to
be a hero. Though he pretended to be heartily tired of the whole
subject, there was nothing that tickled him more than to be cornered by
a crowd of his schoolmates and comrades, all intent on hearing anew the
awful recital which Cephas had prepared after his return.
One of the first to seek Cephas out was Nan Dorrington, and this was
precisely what the young hero wanted. He was very cold and indifferent
when Nan besought him to tell her all about his trip. How did he enjoy
himself? and didn't he wish he was back at home many a time? And what
did Paul and Jesse have to say? Ah, Cephas had his innings now!
"I didn't see Paul and Jesse," replied Cephas, "and I didn't see Francis
Bethune."
"Did they have them hid?" asked Nan.
"I don't know. The one I saw was in a black dungeon. I couldn't hardly
see his face, and when I did see it, I was sorry I saw it." Cephas
leaned back against the fence with the air of a fellow who has seen too
much. Nan was dying to ask a hundred questions about the one Cephas had
seen, but she resented his indifferent and placid attitude. All heroes
are placid and indifferent when they discuss their deeds, but they
wouldn't be if the public in general felt toward them as Nan felt toward
Cephas. The only reason she didn't seize the little fellow and give him
a good shaking was the fact that she was dying to hear all he had to say
about his visit, and all about Gabriel.
Gradually Cephas thawed out. One or the other had to surrender, and the
small boy had no such incentive to silence as Nan had. His pride was not
involved, whereas Nan would have gone to the rack and suffered herself
to be pulled to pieces before she would have asked any direct questions
about Gabriel.
"I'm mighty sorry I went," said Cephas finally, and then he stopped
short.
"Why?" inquired Nan.
"Oh, well--I don't know exactly. I thought I would find everybody just
like they were before they went away, but the one I saw looked like a
drove of mules had trompled on him. He didn't have on any coat, and his
shirt was torn and dirty, and his face looked like he had been sick a
month. His eyes were hollow, and had black circles around them."
"Did he say anything?" asked Nan in a low tone.
"Yes, he said, 'Brace up, old man.'"
"Was that all?"
"And then he asked if anybody had sent him any word, and I said, 'Nobody
but Mr. Sanders'; and then he said, 'I might have known that he wouldn't
forget me.'" Cephas could see Nan crushing her handkerchief in her hand,
and he enjoyed it immensely.
"Was he angry with any one?" Nan asked.
"Why, when did anybody ever hear of his being angry with any one he
thought was a friend?" exclaimed Cephas scornfully. Nan writhed at this,
and Cephas went on. "He had been tied up by the wrists, and then he had
been put in a sweat-box, and nearly roasted--yes, by grabs! pretty nigh
cooked."
"Why, you didn't tell his grandmother that," said Nan.
"Well, I should say not!" exclaimed Cephas. "What do you take me for? Do
you reckon I'd tell that to anybody that cared anything for him? Why, I
wouldn't tell his grandmother that for anything in the world, and if she
was to ask me about it, I'd deny it."
This arrow went home. Cephas had the unmixed pleasure of seeing Nan turn
pale. "I think you are simply awful," she gasped. "You are cruel, and
you are unkind. You know very well that I care something for Gabriel.
Haven't we been friends since we were children together? Do you suppose
I have no feelings?"
"I know what you said when I told you I was going to see Gabriel."
"What was that?" inquired Nan.
"Why, you said, 'Well, what is that to me?'" exclaimed Cephas. He
twisted his face awry, and mimicked Nan's voice with considerable
success, only he made it more spiteful than that charming young woman
could have done.
"Yes, I did say that, but didn't I go to your house, and tell you what
to say to Gabriel?"
Cephas laughed scornfully. "Did you think I was going to swallow the
joke that you and that Claiborne girl hatched up between you? Do you
reckon I'm fool enough to tell Gabriel that you'll die if he don't come
home soon?"
"You didn't tell him, then?"
"No, I didn't," replied Cephas. "I would cut off one of my fingers
before I'd let him know that there were people here at home making fun
of him."
Nan gazed at Cephas as if she suspected him of a joke. But she saw that
he was very much in earnest. "I'm glad you didn't tell him," she said
finally. Then she laughed, saying, "Cephas, I really did think you had a
little sense."
"I have sense enough not to hurt the feelings of them that like me," the
boy replied. And he went on his way, trying to reconcile the Nan
Dorrington who used to be so kind to him with the Nan Dorrington who was
flirting and flitting around with long skirts on. He failed, as older
and more experienced persons have failed.
But you may be sure that he felt himself no less a hero because Nan
Dorrington had hinted that he had no sense. He knew where the lack of
sense was. After awhile, when interested persons ceased to run after him
to get all the particulars of his visit to Fort Pulaski, he threw
himself in their way, and when the details of his journey began to pall
on the appetite of his friends, he invented new ones, and in this way
managed to keep the centre of the stage for some time. When he could no
longer interest the older folk, he had the school-children to fall back
upon, and you may believe that he caused the youngsters to sit with
open-mouthed wonder at the tales he told. The fact that he stammered a
little, and sometimes hesitated for a word, made not the slightest
difference with his audience of young people.
There was one fact that bothered Cephas. He had been told that Francis
Bethune was in love with Margaret Gaither, and he knew that the young
man was a constant caller at Neighbour Tomlin's, where Margaret lived.
Indeed, he had carried notes to her from the young man, and had
faithfully delivered the replies. He judged, therefore, as well as a
small boy can judge, that there was some sort of an understanding
between the two, and he itched for the opportunity to pour the tale of
his adventures into Margaret's ears. He loitered around the house, and
threw himself in Margaret's way when she went out visiting or shopping.
She greeted him very kindly on each particular occasion, but not once
did she betray any interest in Francis Bethune or his fellow-prisoners.
When Nan met Cephas, on the occasion of the interview which has just
been reported, she was on her way to Neighbour Tomlin's to pay a visit
to Margaret, and thither she went, after giving Cephas the benefit of
her views as to his mental capacity. Margaret happened to be out at the
moment, but Miss Fanny insisted that Nan should come in anyhow.
"Margaret will be back directly," Miss Fanny said; "she has only gone to
the stores to match a piece of ribbon. Besides, I want to talk to you a
little while. But good gracious! what is the matter with you? I expected
cheerfulness from you at least, but what do I find? Well, you and
Margaret should live in the same house; they say misery loves company.
Here I was about to ask you why Margaret is unhappy, and I find you
looking out of Margaret's eyes. Are you unhappy, too?"
"No, Aunt Fanny, I'm not unhappy; I'm angry. I don't see why girls
should become grown. Why, I was always in a good humour until I put on
long skirts, and then my troubles began. I can neither run nor play; I
must be on my dignity all the time for fear some one will raise her
hands and say, 'Do look at that Nan Dorrington! Isn't she a bold piece?'
I never was so tired of anything in my life as I am of being grown. I
never will get used to it."
"Oh, you'll get in the habit of it after awhile, child," said Miss
Fanny. "But I never would have believed that Nan Dorrington would care
very much for what people said."
"Oh, it isn't on my account that I care," remarked Nan, with a toss of
her head, "but I don't want my friends to have their feelings hurt by
what other people say. If there is anything in this world I detest it is
dignity--I don't mean Margaret's kind, because she was born so and can't
help it--but the kind that is put on and taken off like a summer bonnet.
If I can't be myself, I'll do like Leese Clopton did, I'll go into a
convent."
"Well, you certainly would astonish the nuns when you began to cut some
of your capers," Miss Fanny declared.
"Am I as bad as all that? Tell me honestly, Aunt Fanny, now while I am
in the humour to hear it, what do I do that is so terrible?"
"Honestly, Nan, you do nothing terrible at all. Not even Miss Puella
Gillum could criticise you."
"Why, Miss Puella never criticises any one. She's just as sweet as she
can be."
"Well, she's an old maid, you know, and old maids are supposed to be
critical," said Miss Fanny. "I'll tell you where all the trouble is,
Nan: you are sensitive, and you have an idea that you must behave as
some of the other girls do--that you must hold your hands and your head
just so. If you would be yourself, and forget all about etiquette and
manners, you'd satisfy everybody, especially yourself."
"Why, that is what worries me now; I do forget all about those things,
and then, all of a sudden, I realise that I am acting like a child, and
a very noisy child at that, and then I'm afraid some one will make
remarks. It is all very miserable and disagreeable, and I wish there
wasn't a long skirt in the world."
"Well, when you get as old as I am," sighed Miss Fanny, "you won't mind
little things like that. Margaret is coming now. I'll leave you with
her. Try to find out why she is unhappy. Pulaski is nearly worried to
death about it, and so am I."
Margaret Gaither came in as sedately as an old woman. She was very fond
of Nan, and greeted her accordingly. Whatever her trouble was, it had
made no attack on her health. She had a fine color, and her eyes were
bright; but there was the little frown between her eyebrows that had
attracted the attention of Gabriel, and it gave her a troubled look.
"If you'll tell me something nice and pleasant," she said to Nan, "I'll
be under many obligations to you. Tell me something funny, or if you
don't know anything funny, tell me something horrible--anything for a
change. I saw Cephas downtown; that child has been trying for days to
tell me of his adventures, and I have been dying to hear them. But I
keep out of his way; I am so perverse that I refuse to give myself that
much pleasure. Oh, if you only knew how mean I am, you wouldn't sit
there smiling. I hear that the dear boys are having a good deal of
trouble. Well, it serves them right; they had no business to be boys.
They should have been girls; then they would have been perfectly happy
all the time. Don't you think so, sweet child?"
Nan regarded her friend with astonishment. She had never heard her talk
in such a strain before. "Why, what is the matter with you, Margaret?
You know that girls can be as unhappy as boys; yes, and a thousand times
more so."
"Oh, I'll never believe it! never!" cried Margaret. "Why, do you mean to
tell me that any girl can be unhappy? You'll have to prove it, Nan;
you'll have to give the name, and furnish dates, and then you'll have to
give the reason. Do you mean to insinuate that you intend to offer
yourself as the horrible example? Fie on you, Nan! You're in love, and
you mistake that state for unhappiness. Why, that is the height of
bliss. Look at me! I'm in love, and see how happy I am!"
"I know one thing," said Nan, and her voice was low and subdued, "if you
go on like that, you'll frighten me away. Do you want to make your best
friends miserable?"
"Why, certainly," replied Margaret. "What are friends for? I should
dislike very much to have a friend that I couldn't make miserable. But
if you think you are going to run away, come up to my room and we'll
lock ourselves in, and then I know you can't get away."
"Now, what is the matter?" Nan insisted, when they had gone upstairs,
and were safe in Margaret's room. She had seized her friend in her arms,
and her tone was imploring.
"I don't think I can tell you, Nan; you would consider me a fool, and I
want to keep your good opinion. But I can tell you a part of my
troubles. He wants me to marry Francis Bethune! Think of that!" She
paused and looked at Nan. "Well, why don't you congratulate me?"
"I'll never believe that," said Nan, decisively. "Did he say that he
wanted you to marry Frank Bethune?" The "he" in this case was Pulaski
Tomlin.
"Well, he didn't insist on it; he's too kind for that. But Francis has
been coming here very often, until our friends in blue gave him a
much-needed rest, and I suppose I must have been going around looking
somewhat gloomy; you know how I am--I can't be gay; and then he asked me
what the trouble was, and finally said that Francis would make me a good
husband. Why, I could have killed myself! Think of me, in this house,
and occupying the position I do!"
Such heat and fury Nan had never seen her friend display before. "Why,
Margaret!" she cried, "you don't know what you are saying. Why, if he or
Aunt Fanny could hear you, they would be perfectly miserable. I don't
see how you can feel that way."
"No, you don't, and I hope you never will!" exclaimed Margaret. "Nobody
knows how I feel. If I could, I would tell you--but I can't, I can't!"
"Margaret," said Nan, in a most serious tone, "has he or Aunt Fanny
ever treated you unkindly?" Nan was prepared to hear the worst.
"Unkindly!" cried Margaret, bursting into tears; "oh, I wish they would!
I wish they would treat me as I deserve to be treated. Oh, if he would
treat me cruelly, or do something to wound my feelings, I would bless
him."
Margaret had led Nan into a strange country, so to speak, and she knew
not which way to turn or what to say. Something was wrong, but what? Of
all Nan's acquaintances, Margaret was the most self-contained, the most
evenly balanced. Many and many a time Nan had envied Margaret's
serenity, and now here she was in tears, after talking as wildly as some
hysterical person.
"Come home with me, Margaret," cried Nan. "Maybe the change would do you
good."
"I thank you, Nan. You are as good as you can be; you are almost as good
as the people here; but I can't go. I can't leave this house for any
length of time until I leave it for good. I'd be wild to get back; my
misery fascinates me; I hate it and hug it."
"I am sure that I don't understand you at all," said Nan, in a tone of
despair.
"No, and you never will," Margaret affirmed. "To understand you would
have to feel as I do, and I hope you may be spared that experience all
the days of your life."
After awhile Nan decided that Margaret would be more comfortable if she
were alone, and so she bade her friend good-bye, and went downstairs,
where she found Miss Fanny awaiting her somewhat impatiently.
"Well, what is the trouble, child?" she asked.
Nan shook her head. "I don't know, Aunt Fanny, and I don't believe she
knows herself."
"But didn't she give you some hint--some intimation? I don't want to be
inquisitive, child; but if she's in trouble, I want to find some remedy
for it. Pulaski is in a terrible state of mind about her, and I am
considerably worried myself. We love her just as much as if she were our
own, and yet we can't go to her and make a serious effort to discover
what is worrying her. She is proud and sensitive, and we have to be very
careful. Oh, I hope we have done nothing to wound that child's
feelings."
"It isn't that," replied Nan. "I asked her, and she said that you
treated her too kindly."
"Well," sighed Miss Fanny, "if she won't confide in us, she'll have to
bear her troubles alone. It is a pity, but sometimes it is best."
And then there came a knock on the door, and it was so sudden and
unexpected that Nan gave a jump.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
_Bridalbin Finds His Daughter_
"They's a gentleman out there what says he wanter see Miss Bridalbin,"
said the house-girl who had gone to the door. "I tol' him they wan't no
sech lady here, but he say they is. It's that there Mr. Borin'," the
girl went on, "an' I didn't know if you'd let him go in the parlour."
"Yes, ask him in the parlour," said Miss Fanny, "and then go upstairs
and tell Miss Margaret that some one wants to see her."
"Oh, yessum!" said the house-girl with a laugh; "it's Miss Marg'ret; I
clean forgot her yuther name."
"The rascal certainly has impudence," remarked Miss Fanny. "Pulaski
should know about this." Whereupon, she promptly called Neighbour Tomlin
out of the library, and he came into the room just as Margaret came
downstairs.
"Wait one moment, Margaret," he said. "It may be well for me to see what
this man wants--unless----" He paused. "Do you know this Boring?"
"No; I have heard of him. I have never even seen him that I know of."
"Then I'll see him first," said Neighbour Tomlin. He went into the
parlour, and those who were listening heard a subdued murmur of voices.
"What is your business with Miss Bridalbin?" Neighbour Tomlin asked,
ignoring the proffered hand of the visitor.
"I am her father."
Neighbour Tomlin stood staring at the man as if he were dazed.
Bridalbin's face bore the unmistakable marks of alcoholism, and he had
evidently prepared himself for this interview by touching the bottle,
for he held himself with a swagger.
Neighbour Tomlin said not a word in reply to the man's declaration. He
stared at him, and turned and went back into the sitting-room where he
had left the others.
"Why, Pulaski, what on earth is the matter?" cried Miss Fanny, as he
entered the room. "You look as if you had seen a ghost." And indeed his
face was white, and there was an expression in his eyes that Nan thought
was most piteous.
"Go in, my dear," he said to Margaret. "The man has business with you."
And then, when Margaret had gone out, he turned to Miss Fanny. "It is
her father," he said.
"Well, I wonder what's he up to?" remarked Miss Fanny. There was a touch
of anger in her voice. "She shan't go a step away from here with such a
creature as that."
"She is her own mistress, sister. She is twenty years old," replied
Neighbour Tomlin.
"Well, she'll be very ungrateful if she leaves us," said Miss Fanny,
with some emphasis.
"Don't, sister; never use that word again; to me it has an ugly sound.
We have had no thought of gratitude in the matter. If there is any debt
in the matter, we are the debtors. We have not been at all happy in the
way we have managed things. I have seen for some time that Margaret is
unhappy; and we have no business to permit unhappiness to creep into
this house." So said Neighbour Tomlin, and the tones of his voice seemed
to issue from the fountains of grief.
"Well, I am sure I have done all I could to make the poor child happy,"
Miss Fanny declared.
"I am sure of that," said Neighbour Tomlin. "If any mistake has been
made it is mine. And yet I have never had any other thought than to make
Margaret happy."