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.