Bridalbin promptly disappeared from Shady Dale, but returned in a few days, accompanied by a squad of soldiers. It was the opinion of the community, when these fresh troops made their appearance, that they were to be added to the detachment stationed in the town; but this proved to be a mistake. Two nights after their arrival, when the officer in charge, who was a member of the military commander's staff, had investigated the killing, he gave orders for the arrest of Gabriel Tolliver, Francis Bethune, Paul Tomlin, and Jesse Tidwell. The arrests were made at night, and so quietly that when the town awoke to the facts, and was ready to display its rage at such a high-handed proceeding, the soldiers and their prisoners were well on their way to Malvern.
The people felt that something must be done, but what? One by one the citizens instinctively assembled at the court-house. No call was issued; the meeting was not preconcerted; there was no common understanding; but all felt that there must be a conference, a consultation, and there was no place more convenient than the old court-house, where for long years justice had been simply and honestly administered.
It was, indeed, a trying hour. Meriwether Clopton and his daughter Sarah were the first to make their appearance at the court-house, and it was perhaps owing to their initiative that a large part of the community shortly assembled there. At first, there was some talk of a rescue, and this would have been feasible, no doubt; but while Lawyer Tidwell was violently advocating this course, Mr. Sanders mounted the judge's bench, and rapped loudly for order. When this had been secured, he moved that Meriwether Clopton be called to the chair. The motion had as many seconds as there were men in the room, for the son of the First Settler was as well-beloved and as influential as his father had been.
"My friends," he said, after thanking the meeting for the honour conferred upon him, "I feel as if we were all in the midst of a dream, and therefore I am at a loss what to say to you. As it is all very real, and far removed from the regions of dreams, the best that I can do is to counsel moderation and calmness. The blow that has fallen on a few of us strikes at all, for what has happened to some of our young men may easily happen to the rest, especially if we meet this usurpation of civil justice with measures that are violent and retaliatory. We can only hope that the Hand that has led us into the sea of troubles by which we have been overwhelmed of late will lead us safely out again. For myself, I am fully persuaded that what now seems to be a calamity will, in some shape or other, make us all stronger and better. I am an old man, and this has been my experience. You need have no fears for the welfare of the young men. They may be deprived for a time of the comforts to which they are accustomed, but their safety is assured. They will probably be tried before a military court, but if there is a spark of justice in such a tribunal, our young men will shortly be restored to us. We all know that these lads never dreamed of assassination, and this is what the killing of this unfortunate man amounts to. We have met here to-day, not to discuss measures of vengeance and retaliation, but to consult together as to the best means of securing evidence of the innocence of the young men. Speaking for myself, I think it would be well to place the whole matter in the hands of Mr. Sanders, leaving him to act as he thinks best."
This was agreed to by the meeting, more than one of the audience declaring loudly that Mr. Sanders was the very man for the occasion. By unanimous agreement it was decided that one of the most distinguished lawyers in the State should be retained to defend the young men and that he should be authorised to employ such assistant counsel as he might deem necessary.
It was the personality of Meriwether Clopton, rather than his remarks, that soothed and subdued the crowd which had assembled at the court-house. He was serenity itself; his attitude breathed hope and courage; and in the tones of his voice, in his very gestures, there was a certainty that the young men would not be made the victims of political necessity. In his own mind, however, he was not at all sure that the radical leaders at Washington would not be driven by their outrageous rancour to do the worst that could be done.
As may be supposed, Mr. Sanders did not allow the grass to grow under his feet. He was the first to leave the court-room, but he was followed and overtaken by Silas Tomlin.
"Be jigged, Silas, ef you don't look like you've seed a ghost!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, whose good-humour had been restored by the prospect of prompt action.
"Worse than that, Sanders; Paul has been carried off. If you'll fetch him back, you may show me an army of ghosts. But I wanted to see you, Sanders, about this business. You'll need money, and if you can't get it anywhere else, come to me; I'll take it as a favour."
Mr. Sanders frowned and pursed his lips as if he were about to whistle. "You mean, Silas, that if I need money, and can't beg, nor borry, nor steal it, maybe you'll loan me a handful of shinplasters. Why, man, I wouldn't give you the wroppin's of my little finger for all the money you eber seed or saved. Do you think that I'm tryin' to make money?"
"But there'll be expenses, William, and money's none too plentiful among our people." Silas spoke in a pleading tone, and his lips were trembling from grief or excitement.
Noticing this, Mr. Sanders relented a little in his attitude toward the man. "Well, Silas, when I reely need money, I'll call on you. But don't lose any sleep on account of that promise, for it'll be many a long day before I call on you."
With that, Mr. Sanders mounted his horse—known far and wide as the Racking Roan—and was soon out of sight. His destination was the residence of Mahlon Butts, and in no long time his horse had covered the distance.
Although the murder of Hotchkiss was more than a week old, a considerable number of negroes were lounging about the premises of Judge Butts—he had once been a Justice of the Peace—and in the road near by, drawn to the spot by that curious fascination which murder or death exerts on the ignorant. They moved about with something like awe, talking in low tones or in whispers. Mr. Sanders tied his horse to a swinging limb and went in. He was met at the door by Mahlon himself.
"Why, come in, William; come in an' make yourself welcome. You uv heard of the trouble, I make no doubt, or you wouldn't be here. It's turrible, William, turrible, for a man to be overcome in this off-hand way, wi' no time for to say his pra's or even so much as to be sorry for his misdeeds."
Judge Butts's dignity was of the heavy and oppressive kind. His enunciation was slow and deliberate, and he had a way of looking over his spectacles, and nodding his head to give emphasis to his words. This dignity, which was fortified in ignorance, had received a considerable reinforcement from the fact that he was a candidate for a county office on the Republican ticket.
Before Mr. Sanders could make any reply to Mahlon's opening remark, Mrs. Becky Butts came into the room. She was not in a very good humour, and, at first, she failed to see Mr. Sanders.
"Mahlon, if you don't go and run that gang of niggers off, I'll take the shot-gun to 'em. They've been hanging around—why, howdye, Mr. Sanders? I certainly am glad to see you. I hope you'll stay to dinner; it looks like old times to see you in the house."
There was something about Mrs. Becky Butts that was eminently satisfying to the eye. She was younger than her husband, who, at fifty, appeared to be an old man. Her sympathies were so keen and persistent that they played boldly in her face, running about over her features as the sunshine ripples on a pond of clear water.
"Set down, Becky," said Mr. Sanders, after he had responded to her salutation. "I've come to find out about the killing of that feller Hotchkiss."
"You may well call it killin', William, bekaze Friend Hotchkiss was stone dead a few hours arter the fatal shot was fired," declared Judge Butts.
"Where was the killin' done?" inquired Mr. Sanders. He addressed himself to Mrs. Butts, but Mahlon made reply.
"We found him, William, right spang in front of Ike Varner's cabin—right thar, an' nowhar else. He war doin' his level best for to git on his feet, an' he tried to talk, but not more than two or three words did he say."
"Well, what did he say?" inquired Mr. Sanders.
"It was the same thing ever' time—'Why, Tolliver, Tolliver'—them was his very words."
"Are you right certain about that, Mahlon?" asked Mr. Sanders.
"As certain an' shore, William, as I am that I'm settin' here. Ef he said it once, he said it a dozen times."
"I reckon maybe he had been talking with young Tolliver before he came from town," remarked Mrs. Butts, noting Mr. Sanders's serious countenance.
"Whar was he wounded, Becky?" asked Mr. Sanders.
"Between the left ear and the temple."
"Becky's right, William," was the solemn comment of Mahlon. "Yes, sir, he was hit betwixt the year an' the temple."
"Did you have a doctor?"
"We sent for one, but if he come, we never saw him," Mrs. Butts replied.
"Would you uv believed it, William? An' yit it's the plain truth," said Mahlon.
"What time was Hotchkiss killed?"
"'Bout half-past ten; maybe a little sooner."
This was all the information Mr. Sanders could get, and it was a great deal more than he wanted in one particular. He knew that Gabriel Tolliver was innocent of the killing; but the fact that his name was called by the dying man was almost as damaging as an ante-mortem accusation would have been.
Mr. Sanders rode to Ike Varner's cabin, a few hundred yards away. Tying his horse to the fence on the opposite side of the road, he entered the house without ceremony.
"Who is that? La! Mr. Sanders, you sho did skeer me," exclaimed Edie. "Why, when did you come? I would as soon have spected to see a ghost!"
"You'll see 'em here before you're much older," replied Mr. Sanders, grimly. "They ain't fur off. Wher's Ike?"
"La! ef you know anything about Ike you know more than I does. I ain't laid eyes on that nigger man, not sence——" She paused, and looked at Mr. Sanders with a smile.
"Not sence the night Hotchkiss was killed," said Mr. Sanders, completing her sentence for her.
"La, Mr. Sanders! how'd you know that? But it's the truth: I ain't never seen Ike sence that night."
"I know a heap more'n you think I do," Mr. Sanders remarked. "Hotchkiss was talkin' to you at the gate thar when he was shot. What was he sayin'?"
The woman was a bright mulatto, and, remembering her own designs and desires so far as Hotchkiss was concerned, her face flushed and she turned her eyes away. "Why, he wan't sayin' a word, hardly; I was doin' all the talkin'. I was settin' on the step there, an' I seen him passin', an' hollad at him. I ast him if he wouldn't have a drink of cold water, an' he said he would, an' I took it out to the gate, an' while I was talkin', they shot him. They certainly did."
"Did you ask Ike about it?" Mr. Sanders inquired.
"La! I ain't seen Ike sence that night," exclaimed Edie, flirting her apron with a coquettish air that was by no means unbecoming.
"Now, Edie," said Mr. Sanders, with a frown to match the severity of his voice, "you know as well as I do, that when you heard the pistol go off, and saw what had happened, you run in the house an' flung your apern over your head." It was a wild guess, but it was close to the truth.
"La, Mr. Sanders! you talk like you was watchin' me. 'Twa'n't my apern, 'twas my han's. I didn't have on no apern that night; I had on my Sunday frock."
"An' you know jest as well as I do that Ike come in here an' stood over you, an' said somethin' to you."
"No, sir; he didn't stand over me; I was here"—she illustrated his position by her movements—"an' when Ike come in, he stood over there."
"What did he say?"
"He said," replied Edie, smiling to show her pretty teeth, "'If you want him, go out there an' git him.' Yes, sir, he said that. La! I never heard of a nigger killin' a white man on that account; did you, Mr. Sanders?"
"I don't know as I ever did," replied Mr. Sanders, regarding her with an expression akin to pity. "But times has changed."
"They certainly has," said Edie. "I tell you what, Mr. Sanders, I don't b'live Mr. Hotchkiss was a man." She looked up at Mr. Sanders, as she made the remark. Catching his eye, she exclaimed—"I don't; I declare I don't! I never will believe it." She gave a chirruping laugh, as she made the remark.
It is to be doubted if, in the history of the world, a man ever had a higher compliment paid to his devotion and his singleness of purpose.
As Mr. Sanders mounted his horse, Edie watched him, and, as she stood with her arms extended, each hand grasping a side of the doorway, smiling and showing her white teeth, she presented a picture of wild and irresponsible beauty that an artist would have admired. Finally, she turned away with a laugh, saying, "I declare that Mr. Sanders is a sight!"
In due time the Racking Roan carried Mr. Sanders across Murder Creek to the plantation of Felix Samples, where the news of the arrest of the young men occasioned both grief and indignation. They had arrived at the dance about nine o'clock, and had started home between eleven and twelve. Gabriel, Mr. Samples said, was not one of the party. Indeed, he remembered very well that when some of the young people asked for Gabriel, Francis Bethune had said that the town had been searched for Gabriel, and he was not to be found.
Evidently, there was no case against the three young men who had gone to the dance. They could prove an alibi by fifty persons. "Be jigged ef I don't b'lieve Gabriel is in for it," said Mr. Sanders to himself as he was going back to Shady Dale. "An' that's what comes of moonin' aroun' an' loafin' about in the woods wi' the wild creeturs."
Mr. Sanders went straight to the Lumsden Place to consult with Gabriel's grandmother. Meriwether Clopton and Miss Fanny Tomlin were already there, each having called for the purpose of offering her such comfort and consolation as they could. This fine old gentlewoman had had the care of Gabriel almost from the time he was born, for his birth left his mother an invalid, the victim of one of those mysterious complaints that sometimes seize on motherhood. It was well known in that community, whose members knew whatever was to be known about one another, that Lucy Lumsden's mind and heart were wholly centred on Gabriel and his affairs. She was a frail, delicate woman, gentle in all her ways, and ever ready to efface herself, as it were, and give precedence to others. Her manners were so fine that they seemed to cling to her as the perfume clings to the rose.
So these old friends—Meriwether Clopton, and Miss Fanny Tomlin—considered it to be their duty, as it was their pleasure, to call on Lucy Lumsden in her trouble. They expected to find her in a state of collapse, but they found her walking about the house, apparently as calm as a June morning.
"Good-morning, Meriwether," she said pleasantly; "it is a treat indeed, and a rare one, to see you in this house. And here is Fanny! I am glad to see you, my dear. It is very good of you to come to an old woman who is in trouble. I think we are all in trouble together. No, don't sit here, my dear; the library is cooler, and you must be warm. Come into the library, Meriwether."
"Upon my word, you look twenty years younger," said Miss Fanny Tomlin.
"Do I, indeed? Then trouble must be good for me. Still, I don't appreciate it. I am an old woman, my dear, and all the years of my life I have had a contempt for those who fly into a rage, or lose their tempers. And now, look at me! Never in all your days have you seen a woman in such a rage as I have felt all day and still feel!"
"The idea!" exclaimed Miss Fanny. "Why, you look as cool as a cucumber."
"Yes, the idea!" echoed Mrs. Lumsden. "If I had those miserable creatures in my power, do you know what I would do? Do you know, Meriwether?"
"I can't imagine, Lucy," he replied gently. He saw that the apparent calmness of Gabriel's grandmother was simply the result of suppressed excitement.
"Well, I'll not tell you if you don't know." She seated herself, but rose immediately, and went to the window, where she stood looking out, and tapping gently on the pane with her fingers. She stood there only a short time. "You may imagine that I am nervous," she said, turning away from the window, "but I am not." She held out her hand to illustrate. It was frail, but firm. "No," she went on, "I am not nervous; I am simply furious. I know what you came for, my friends, and it is very kind of you; but it is useless. I love you both well, and I know what you would say. I have said such things to my friends, and thought I was performing a duty."
"Well, you know the old saying, Lucy," said Meriwether Clopton. "Misery loves company. We are all in the same boat, and it seems to be a leaky one. I have heard it said that a woman's wit is sometimes better than a man's wisdom, and, for my part, I have not come to see if you needed to be consoled, but to find out your views."
"I have none," she said somewhat curtly. "Show me a piece of blue cloth, and I'll tear it to pieces. That is the only thought or idea I have."
"Well, that doesn't help us much," Meriwether Clopton remarked.
At that moment, Mr. Sanders was announced, and word was sent to him to come right in. "Howdy, everybody," he said in his informal way, as he entered the room. He was warm, and instead of leaving his hat on the hall-rack, he had kept it in his hand, and was using it as a fan. "Miss Lucy," he said, "I won't take up two minutes of your time——"
"Mr. Sanders, you may take up two hours of my time. Time!" Mrs. Lumsden exclaimed bitterly—"why, time is about all I have left."
"Oh, it ain't nigh as bad as you think," remarked Mr. Sanders, as cheerfully as he could. "But I want to settle a p'int or two. Do you remember what time it was when Gabriel come home the night Hotchkiss was killed?"
Mrs. Lumsden reflected a moment. "Why, he went out directly after supper, and came in—well, I don't remember when he came in. I must have been asleep."
"Um-m," grunted Mr. Sanders.
"Is it important?" Mrs. Lumsden asked.
"It may turn out to be right down important," replied Mr. Sanders, and then he said no more, but sat looking at the floor, and wondering how Gabriel could be released from the tangled web that the spider, Circumstance, had woven about him.
As Mr. Sanders went out, he met Nan at the door, and he was amazed at the change that had come over her. Perplexity and trouble looked forth from her eyes, and there was that in her face that Mr. Sanders had never seen there before. "Why, honey!" he exclaimed, "you look like you've lost your best friend."
"Well, perhaps I have. Who is in there?" And when Mr. Sanders told her, she cried out, "Oh, why don't they leave her alone?"
"Well, they ain't pesterin' her much, honey. Go right in. Lucy Lumsden has got as much grit as a major gener'l, an' she'll be glad to see you."
But Nan stood staring at Mr. Sanders, as if she wanted to ask him a question, and couldn't find words for it. Her face was pale, and she had the appearance of one who is utterly forspent.
"Why, honey, what ails you? I never seed you lookin' like this before."
"You've never seen me ill before," answered Nan. "I thought the walk would do me good, but the sun—oh, Mr. Sanders! please don't ask me anything else."
With that, she ran up the steps very rapidly for an ill person, and stood a moment in the hallway.
"Be jigged ef she ain't wuss hit than any on us!" declared Mr. Sanders, to himself, as he turned away. "What a pity that she had to go an' git grown!"
Following the sound of voices, Nan went into the library. Mrs. Lumsden, who was still walking about restlessly, paused and tried to smile when she saw Nan; but it was only a make-believe smile. Nan went directly to her, and stood looking in the old gentlewoman's eyes. Then she kissed her quite suddenly and impulsively.
"Nan, you must be ill," Miss Fanny Tomlin declared.
"I am, Aunt Fanny; I am not feeling well at all."
"Lie there on the sofa, child," Mrs. Lumsden insisted. Taking Nan by the arm, she almost forced her to lie down.
"If you-all are talking secrets, I'll go away," said Nan.
"No, child," remarked Mrs. Lumsden; "we are talking about trouble, and trouble is too common to be much of a secret in this world." She seated herself on the edge of the sofa, and held Nan's hand, caressing it softly.
"This is the way I used to cure Gabriel, when he was ill or weary," she said in a tone too low for the others to hear.
"Did you?" whispered Nan, closing her eyes with a sigh of satisfaction.
"This is the second time I have been able to sit down since breakfast," remarked Mrs. Lumsden.
"I have walked miles and miles," replied Nan, wearily.
There was a noise in the hall, and presently Tasma Tid peeped cautiously into the room. "Wey you done wit Honey Nan?" she asked. "She in dis house; you ain' kin fool we."
"Come in, and behave yourself if you know how," said Mrs. Lumsden. "Come in, Tid."
"How come we name Tid? How come we ain't name Tasma Tid?"
No one thought it worth while to make any reply to this, and the African came into the room, acting as if she were afraid some one would jump at her. "Sit in the corner there at the foot of the sofa," said Mrs. Lumsden. Tasma Tid complied very readily with this command, since it enabled her to be near Nan. The African squatted on the floor, and sat there motionless.
Meriwether Clopton and Miss Fanny went away after awhile, but Mrs. Lumsden continued to sit by Nan, caressing her hand. Not a word was said for a long time, but the silence was finally broken by Nan, who spoke to the African.
"Tasma Tid, I want you to go home and tell Miss Johnny that I will spend the rest of the day and the night with Grandmother Lumsden."
"Don't keer; we comin' back," said Tasma Tid.
"Yes, come back," said Mrs. Lumsden; whereupon, the African whisked out of the room as quick as a flash.
After Tasma Tid had gone, a silence fell on the house—a silence so profound that Nan could hear the great clock ticking in the front hall, and the bookshelves cracked just as they do in the middle of the night.
"If I had known what was going to happen when Gabriel came and kissed me good-bye," said Mrs. Lumsden, after awhile, "I would have gone out there where those men were, and—well, I don't know what I wouldn't have done!"
"Didn't Gabriel tell you? Why——" Nan paused.
"Not he! Not Gabriel!" cried Mrs. Lumsden in a voice full of pride. "He wanted to spare his grandmother one night's worry, and he did."
"Didn't you know when he kissed you good-night that something was wrong?" Nan inquired.
"How should I? Why, he sometimes comes and kisses me in the middle of the night, even after he has gone to bed. He says he sleeps better afterwards."
What was there in this simple statement to cause Nan to catch her breath, and seize the hand that was caressing her. For one thing, it presented the tender side of Gabriel's nature in a new light; and for the rest—well, who shall pretend to fathom a young woman's heart?
"Yes, he was always doing something of that kind," remarked the grandmother proudly; "and I have often thought that he should have been a girl."
"A girl!" cried Nan.
"Yes; he will marry some woman who doesn't appreciate his finer qualities—the tenderness and affection that he tries to hide from everybody but his grandmother; and he will go about with a hungry heart, and his wife will never suspect it. I am afraid I dislike her already."
"Oh, don't say that!" Nan implored.
"But if he was a girl," the grandmother went on, "he would be better prepared to endure coldness and neglect. This is partly what we were born for, my dear, as you will find out one day for yourself."