A dog trotting along the walk shied and growled when he saw the motionless figure, but after that, there was a long period of silence, which was finally broken by voices on a veranda not far away. The owners of the voices had evidently come out for a breath of fresh air, and were carrying on a conversation which had begun inside. Bridalbin could see neither the house nor the occupants of the veranda, but he could hear every word that was said. One of the voices was soft and clear, while the other was hard, almost harsh, yet it was the voice of a woman. If Bridalbin had been at all familiar with Shady Dale, he would have known that one of the speakers was Madame Awtry and the other Miss Puella Gillum.
"It was only a few weeks ago that they told the poor child about her father," said Miss Puella. "Neighbour Tomlin couldn't muster up the courage to do it, and so it became Fanny's duty. I know it nearly broke her heart."
"Why did they tell her at all? Why did they think it was necessary?" inquired Madame Awtry. Her voice had in it the quality that attracts attention and compels obedience.
"Well, you know Margaret is of age now, and Neighbour Tomlin, who is 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.