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."
"My case—my case! What case? I have no case. Why, I don't know what you are talking about." He shook his head and waved his hand nervously.
"Oh, I remember now; your case was purely hypothetical," said Mr. Tidwell. "Well, your Blackwood was wrong about it."
"That's what I thought," Silas assented with a grunt; and with that, he turned abruptly away, and went in the direction of his house.
"I'll tell you what's the fact," remarked Mr. Sanders, as he watched the shabby and shrunken figure retreat; "I'm about to change my mind about Silas. I used to think he was mean all through; but he's got a nice warm place in his heart for that son of his'n. I declare I feel right sorry for the man."
Before Cephas went away, he was not too busy learning the lessons Mr. Sanders had set for him to forget to hunt up Nan Dorrington and tell her the wonderful news; to-wit, that he was about to go on a journey, and that while he was gone he would most likely see Gabriel.
"Well," said Nan, drawing herself up a little stiffly, "what is that to me?" Unfortunately, Cephas had come upon the girl when she was talking with Eugenia Claiborne, who had sought her out at the Lumsden Place.
Cephas looked at her hard a moment, and then his freckled face turned red. He was properly angry. "Well, whatever it may be to you, it's a heap to me," he said. "I hope it's nothing to you."
"Cephas, will you see Paul Tomlin?" asked Eugenia. "If you do, tell him that one of his friends sent him her love."
"Is it sure enough love?" inquired Cephas.
"Yes, Cephas, it is," replied Eugenia simply and seriously—but her face was very red. "Tell him that Eugenia Claiborne sent him her love."
"All right," said Cephas, and turned away without looking at Nan. She had hurt his feelings.
This turn of affairs didn't suit Nan at all. She ran after Cephas, and caught him by the arm. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Cephas, to treat me so? How could I tell you anything before others? If you see Gabriel, tell him—oh, I don't know what to say. If I was to tell you what I want to, you'd say that Nan Dorrington had lost her mind. No, I'll not send any word, Cephas. It wouldn't be proper in a young lady. If he asks about me, just tell him that I am well and happy."
She turned away, in response to a call from Eugenia Claiborne, but she kept her eyes on Cephas for some time. Evidently she wished to send a message, but was afraid to. "Don't be angry with me, Cephas," she said, before the youngster got out of hearing. Cephas made no reply, but trudged on stolidly. He was at the age when a boy is easily disgusted with girls and young women. You may call them sweet creatures if you want to, but a twelve-year-old boy is not to be deceived by fine words. The sweet creatures are under no restraints when dealing with small boys, and the small boys are well acquainted with all their worst traits. What is most strange is that this intimate knowledge is of no service to them when they grow a little older. They forget all about it and fall into the first trap that love sets for them.
Cephas was angry without knowing why. He felt that both Gabriel and himself had been insulted, though he couldn't have explained the nature of the insult; and he was all the angrier because he was fond of Nan. She had been very kind to the little boy—kinder, perhaps, than he deserved, for he had made the impulsive young lady the victim of many a practical joke.
As Cephas went along, it suddenly occurred to him that he had done wrong to say anything about his proposed journey, and the thought took away all his resentment. He whirled in his tracks, and ran back to where he had left the girls. He saw Eugenia Claiborne sauntering along the street, but Nan was nowhere in sight. He had no trouble in pledging Miss Claiborne to secrecy, for she was very fond of all sorts of secrets, and could keep them as well as another girl.
Nan, she informed Cephas, had expressed a determination to visit him at his own home, and, in fact, Cephas found her there. She was as sweet as sugar, and was not at all the same Nan who had drawn herself up proudly and as good as told Cephas that it was nothing to her that he was going to see Gabriel. No; this was another Nan, and she had a troubled look in her eyes that Cephas had never seen there before.
"I came to see if you were still angry, Cephas," she said by way of explanation. "I wasn't very nice to you, was I?"
"Well, I hope you don't mind Cephas," said the lad's mother. "If you do, he'll keep you guessing. Has he been rude to you, Nan?"
And it was then that Cephas heard praise poured on his name in a steady stream. Cephas rude! Cephas saucy! A thousand times no! Why, he was the best, the kindest, and the brightest child in the town. Nan was so much in earnest that Cephas had to blush.
"I didn't know," said his mother. "He has been going with those large boys so much that I was afraid he was getting too big for his breeches." She loved her son, but she had no illusions about the nature of boys; she knew them well.
"Are you still angry, Cephas?" Nan asked. She appeared very anxious to be sure on that score.
"N-o-o," replied Cephas, somewhat doubtfully; he hesitated to surrender the advantage that he saw he had.
"Yes, you are," said Nan, "and I think it is very unkind of you. I am sorry you misunderstood me; if you only knew how I really feel, and how much trouble I have, you would be sorry instead of angry."
"I'm the one to blame," said Cephas penitently. "Gabriel says you dislike him, and I thought he was only guessing. But he knew better than I did. I had no business to bother you."
Nan caught her breath. "Did Gabriel say I disliked him?"
"He didn't say that word," replied Cephas. "I think he said you detested him, and I told him he didn't know what he was talking about. But he did; he knew a great deal better than I did, because I didn't really know until just now."
"But, Cephas!" cried Nan; "what could have put such an idea in his head?" Cephas's mother was now busy about the house.
"I didn't know then, but I know now," remarked the boy stolidly.
"Don't be unkind, Cephas. If you knew me better, you'd be sorry for me. You and Gabriel are terribly mistaken. I'm very fond of both of you."
"Oh, I don't count in this game," Cephas declared.
"Oh, yes, you do," said Nan. "You are one of my dearest friends, and so is Gabriel."
"All right," said Cephas. "If you treat all your dearest friends as you do Gabriel, I'm very sorry for them."
"Cephas, if you tell Gabriel what I said while Eugenia Claiborne was standing there, all ears, I'll never forgive you." Nan was at her wit's end.
"Tell him that!" cried Cephas; "why, I wouldn't tell him that, not for all the world. I'll tell him nothing."
"Please, Cephas," said Nan. "Tell him"—she paused, and threw her hair away from her pale face—"tell him that if he doesn't come home soon, I shall die!" Then her face turned from pale to red, and she laughed loudly.
"Well, I certainly sha'n't tell him that," said Cephas.
"I didn't think you would," said Nan. "You are a nice little boy, and I am going to kiss you good-bye. If you don't have something sweet to tell me when you come back, I'll think you detest me—wasn't that Gabriel's word? Poor Gabriel! he's in prison, and here we are joking about him."
"I'm not joking about him!" exclaimed Cephas.
"Just as much as I am," said Nan; and then she leaned over and kissed Cephas's freckled face, leaving it very red after the operation.