It will be remembered that Nan was on her way to present her excuses to Eugenia when the spectacle of Mr. Sanders, tipsy and talkative, had attracted her attention. She thought no more of her engagement, and for the time being Eugenia was to Nan as if she had never existed. Meanwhile, the members of the Dorrington household, if they thought of Nan at all, concluded that she had gone to the Gaither Place, where Eugenia lived. But when Miss Claiborne came seeking her, why that put another face on affairs. Eugenia decided to wait for her; but when the long minutes, and the half hours and the hours passed, and Nan failed to make her appearance, Mrs. Absalom began to grow nervous, and Mrs. Dorrington went from room to room with a very long face. She could have made a very shrewd guess as to Nan's whereabouts, but she didn't dare to admit, even to herself, that the girl had been so indiscreet as to go in person to the rescue of Gabriel.
They waited and waited, until at last Mrs. Dorrington suggested that something should be done. "I don't know what," she said, "but something; that would be better than sitting here waiting."
Mrs. Absalom insisted on keeping up an air of bravado. "The child's safe wherever she is. She's been a rippittin' 'round all day tryin' to git old Billy Sanders sober, an' more'n likely she's sot down some'rs an' fell asleep. Ef folks could sleep off the'r sins, Nan'd be a saint."
"But wherever she is, she isn't here," remarked Mrs. Dorrington, tearfully; "and here is where she should be. I wonder what her father will say when he comes?" Dr. Dorrington had gone to visit a patient in the country.
"Perhaps she went with him," Eugenia suggested.
"No fear of that," said Mrs. Absalom. "Ridin' in a gig is too much like work for Nan to be fond of it. No; she's some'rs she's got no business, an' ef I could lay my hand on her, I'd jerk her home so quick, her head would swim worse than old Billy Sanders's does when he's full up to the chin."
After awhile, Eugenia said she had waited long enough, but Mrs. Dorrington looked at her with such imploring eyes that she hesitated. "If you go," said the lady, "I will feel that Nan is not coming, but as long as you stay, I have hope that she will run in any moment. She is with that Tasma Tid, and I think it is terrible that we can't get rid of that negro. I have never been able to like negroes."
"Well, you needn't be too hard on the niggers," declared Mrs. Absalom. "Everything they know, everything they do, everything they say—everything—they have larnt from the white folks. Study a nigger right close, an' you'll ketch a glimpse of how white folks would look an' do wi'out the'r trimmin's."
"Oh, perhaps so," assented Mrs. Dorrington, with a little shrug of the shoulders which said a good deal plainer than words, "You couldn't make me believe that."
Just as Dr. Dorrington drove up, and just as Mrs. Absalom was about to get her bonnet, for the purpose, as she said, of "scouring the town," Nan came running in out of breath. "Oh, such a time as I've had!" she exclaimed. "You'll not be angry with me, Eugenia, when you hear all! Talk of adventures! Well, I have had one at last, after waiting all these years! Don't scold me, Nonny, until you know where I've been and what I've done. And poor Johnny has been crying, and having all sorts of wild thoughts about poor me. Don't go, Eugenia; I am going with you in a moment—just as soon as I can gather my wits about me. I am perfectly wild."
"Tell us something new," said Mrs. Absalom drily. "Here we've been on pins and needles, thinkin' maybe some of your John A. Murrells had rushed into town an' kidnapped you, an' all the time you an' that slink of a nigger have been gallivantin' over the face of the yeth. I declare ef Randolph don't do somethin' wi' you they ain't no tellin' what'll become of you."
But Dr. Dorrington was not in the humour for scolding; he rarely ever was; but on that particular night less so than ever. For one brief moment, Nan thought he was too angry to scold, and this she dreaded worse than any outbreak; for when he was silent over some of her capers she took it for granted that his feelings were hurt, and this thought was sufficient to give her more misery than anything else. But she soon discovered that his gravity, which was unusual, had its origin elsewhere. She saw him take a tiny tin waggon, all painted red, from his pocket and place it on the mantel-piece, and both she and Mrs. Dorrington went to him.
"Oh, popsy! I'm so sorry about everything! He didn't need it, did he?"
"No, the little fellow has no more use for toys. He sent you his love, Nan. He was talking about you with his last breath; he remembered everything you said and did when you went with me to see him. He said you must be good."
Now, if Nan was a heroine, or anything like one, it would never do to say that she hid her face in her hands and wept a little when she heard of the death of the little boy who had been her father's patient for many months. In the present state of literary criticism, one must be very careful not to permit women and children to display their sensitive and tender natures. Only the other day, a very good book was damned because one of the female characters had wept 393 times during the course of the story. Out upon tears and human nature! Let us go out and reform some one, and leave tears to the kindergarten, where steps are taking even now to dry up the fountains of youth.
Nevertheless, Nan cried a little, and so did Eugenia Claiborne, when she 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.