CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
_Nan and Margaret_
It was hinted in some of the early chapters of this chronicle that noneof the characters would turn out to be very heroic, but this was amistake. The chronicler had forgotten a few episodes that grew out ofthe expedition of Cephas to Fort Pulaski--episodes that should havestood out clear in his memory from the first. Cephas was very meek andhumble when he started on his expedition, so much so that there werelong moments when he would have given a large fortune, if he hadpossessed it, to be safe at home with his mother. A hundred times heasked himself why he had been foolish enough to come away from home, andtrust himself to the cold mercy of the world; and he promised himselffaithfully that if he ever got back home alive, he would never leavethere again.
Captain Falconer was very kind and attentive to the lad, but he was alsovery inquisitive. He asked Cephas a great many artful questions, allleading up to the message he was to deliver to Gabriel; but theinstructions he had received from Mr. Sanders made Cephas more than amatch for the Captain. When the lad came to the years of maturity, heoften wondered how a plain and comparatively ignorant countryman couldforesee the questions that were to be asked, and provide simple andsatisfactory 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 betold, he developed none of the symptoms until he had returned homesafely, accompanied by Mr. Sanders. Then he became the lion of thevillage, and was sought after by old and young. All wanted to hear thestory of his wonderful adventures. He speedily became a celebratedCephas, and when he found that he was really regarded as a hero by hisschoolmates, and by some of the young women, he was quick to appropriatethe character. He became reticent; he went about with a sort of wearyand travel-worn look, as if he had seen everything that was worthseeing, and heard everything that was worth hearing.
Now, what Cephas had seen and heard was bad enough. He could hardly bebrought to believe that the haggard and wild-eyed young fellow whoanswered to Gabriel's name at the fort was the Gabriel that he hadknown, and when he made up his mind that it really was Gabriel, hecouldn't hold the tears back. "Brace up, old man," said Gabriel. It wasthen in a choking voice that Cephas delivered Mr. Sanders's message,using the dog-latin which they both knew so well. And in that tongueGabriel told Cephas of the tortures to which he and his fellow-prisonershad been subjected, of the horrors of the sweat-boxes, and the terrorsof the wrist-rack. So effective was the narrative that Gabriel rattledoff in the school tongue, that when he was ordered back to his solitarycell, Cephas turned away weeping. He was no hero then; he was simply asmall boy with a tender heart.
There were grave faces at Shady Dale when Cephas told what he had seenand heard. Major Tomlin Perdue, of Halcyondale, became almost savagewhen he heard of the indignities to which the unfortunate young men hadbeen subjected. He wrote a card and published it in the _MalvernRecorder_, and the card was so much to the purpose, and created suchindignation in the State, that the authorities at Washington tookcognisance thereof, and issued orders that there was to be no moretorture of the prisoners. This fact, however, was not known until monthsafterward, and, meanwhile, the newspapers of Georgia were giving a widepublicity to the cruelties which had been practised on the young men,and radicalism became the synonym of everything that was loathsome anddetestable. Reprisals were made in all parts of the State, and as was tobe expected, the negroes were compelled to bear the brunt of all theexcitement and indignation.
The tale that Cephas told to Mr. Sanders was modest when compared to theinventions that occurred to his mind after he found how easy it was tobe a hero. Though he pretended to be heartily tired of the wholesubject, there was nothing that tickled him more than to be cornered bya crowd of his schoolmates and comrades, all intent on hearing anew theawful recital which Cephas had prepared after his return.
One of the first to seek Cephas out was Nan Dorrington, and this wasprecisely what the young hero wanted. He was very cold and indifferentwhen Nan besought him to tell her all about his trip. How did he enjoyhimself? and didn't he wish he was back at home many a time? And whatdid 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 FrancisBethune."
"Did they have them hid?" asked Nan.
"I don't know. The one I saw was in a black dungeon. I couldn't hardlysee his face, and when I did see it, I was sorry I saw it." Cephasleaned back against the fence with the air of a fellow who has seen toomuch. Nan was dying to ask a hundred questions about the one Cephas hadseen, but she resented his indifferent and placid attitude. All heroesare placid and indifferent when they discuss their deeds, but theywouldn't be if the public in general felt toward them as Nan felt towardCephas. The only reason she didn't seize the little fellow and give hima good shaking was the fact that she was dying to hear all he had to sayabout his visit, and all about Gabriel.
Gradually Cephas thawed out. One or the other had to surrender, and thesmall boy had no such incentive to silence as Nan had. His pride was notinvolved, whereas Nan would have gone to the rack and suffered herselfto be pulled to pieces before she would have asked any direct questionsabout Gabriel.
"I'm mighty sorry I went," said Cephas finally, and then he stoppedshort.
"Why?" inquired Nan.
"Oh, well--I don't know exactly. I thought I would find everybody justlike they were before they went away, but the one I saw looked like adrove of mules had trompled on him. He didn't have on any coat, and hisshirt was torn and dirty, and his face looked like he had been sick amonth. 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, 'Nobodybut Mr. Sanders'; and then he said, 'I might have known that he wouldn'tforget 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 hethought 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 hadbeen put in a sweat-box, and nearly roasted--yes, by grabs! pretty nighcooked."
"Why, you didn't tell his grandmother that," said Nan.
"Well, I should say not!" exclaimed Cephas. "What do you take me for? Doyou reckon I'd tell that to anybody that cared anything for him? Why, Iwouldn't tell his grandmother that for anything in the world, and if shewas to ask me about it, I'd deny it."
This arrow went home. Cephas had the unmixed pleasure of seeing Nan turnpale. "I think you are simply awful," she gasped. "You are cruel, andyou are unkind. You know very well that I care something for Gabriel.Haven't we been friends since we were children together? Do you supposeI 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. Hetwisted his face awry, and mimicked Nan's voice with considerablesuccess, only he made it more spiteful than that charming young womancould have done.
"Yes, I did say that, but didn't I go to your house, and tell you whatto say to Gabriel?"
Cephas laughed scornfully. "Did you think I was going to swallow thejoke that you and that Claiborne girl hatched up between you? Do youreckon I'm fool enough to tell Gabriel that you'll die if he don't comehome soon?"
"You didn't tell him, then?"
"No, I didn't," replied Cephas. "I would cut off one of my fingersbefore I'd let him know that there were people here at home making funof him."
Nan gazed at Cephas as if she suspected him of a joke. But she saw thathe was very much in earnest. "I'm glad you didn't tell him," she saidfinally. Then she laughed, saying, "Cephas, I really did think you had alittle s
ense."
"I have sense enough not to hurt the feelings of them that like me," theboy replied. And he went on his way, trying to reconcile the NanDorrington who used to be so kind to him with the Nan Dorrington who wasflirting and flitting around with long skirts on. He failed, as olderand more experienced persons have failed.
But you may be sure that he felt himself no less a hero because NanDorrington had hinted that he had no sense. He knew where the lack ofsense was. After awhile, when interested persons ceased to run after himto get all the particulars of his visit to Fort Pulaski, he threwhimself in their way, and when the details of his journey began to pallon the appetite of his friends, he invented new ones, and in this waymanaged to keep the centre of the stage for some time. When he could nolonger interest the older folk, he had the school-children to fall backupon, and you may believe that he caused the youngsters to sit withopen-mouthed wonder at the tales he told. The fact that he stammered alittle, and sometimes hesitated for a word, made not the slightestdifference with his audience of young people.
There was one fact that bothered Cephas. He had been told that FrancisBethune was in love with Margaret Gaither, and he knew that the youngman was a constant caller at Neighbour Tomlin's, where Margaret lived.Indeed, he had carried notes to her from the young man, and hadfaithfully delivered the replies. He judged, therefore, as well as asmall boy can judge, that there was some sort of an understandingbetween the two, and he itched for the opportunity to pour the tale ofhis adventures into Margaret's ears. He loitered around the house, andthrew himself in Margaret's way when she went out visiting or shopping.She greeted him very kindly on each particular occasion, but not oncedid she betray any interest in Francis Bethune or his fellow-prisoners.
When Nan met Cephas, on the occasion of the interview which has justbeen reported, she was on her way to Neighbour Tomlin's to pay a visitto Margaret, and thither she went, after giving Cephas the benefit ofher views as to his mental capacity. Margaret happened to be out at themoment, but Miss Fanny insisted that Nan should come in anyhow.
"Margaret will be back directly," Miss Fanny said; "she has only gone tothe stores to match a piece of ribbon. Besides, I want to talk to you alittle while. But good gracious! what is the matter with you? I expectedcheerfulness from you at least, but what do I find? Well, you andMargaret 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 youlooking out of Margaret's eyes. Are you unhappy, too?"
"No, Aunt Fanny, I'm not unhappy; I'm angry. I don't see why girlsshould become grown. Why, I was always in a good humour until I put onlong skirts, and then my troubles began. I can neither run nor play; Imust be on my dignity all the time for fear some one will raise herhands 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. Inever will get used to it."
"Oh, you'll get in the habit of it after awhile, child," said MissFanny. "But I never would have believed that Nan Dorrington would carevery much for what people said."
"Oh, it isn't on my account that I care," remarked Nan, with a toss ofher head, "but I don't want my friends to have their feelings hurt bywhat other people say. If there is anything in this world I detest it isdignity--I don't mean Margaret's kind, because she was born so and can'thelp 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 aconvent."
"Well, you certainly would astonish the nuns when you began to cut someof your capers," Miss Fanny declared.
"Am I as bad as all that? Tell me honestly, Aunt Fanny, now while I amin the humour to hear it, what do I do that is so terrible?"
"Honestly, Nan, you do nothing terrible at all. Not even Miss PuellaGillum could criticise you."
"Why, Miss Puella never criticises any one. She's just as sweet as shecan be."
"Well, she's an old maid, you know, and old maids are supposed to becritical," 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 assome of the other girls do--that you must hold your hands and your headjust so. If you would be yourself, and forget all about etiquette andmanners, 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, anda very noisy child at that, and then I'm afraid some one will makeremarks. It is all very miserable and disagreeable, and I wish therewasn't a long skirt in the world."
"Well, when you get as old as I am," sighed Miss Fanny, "you won't mindlittle things like that. Margaret is coming now. I'll leave you withher. Try to find out why she is unhappy. Pulaski is nearly worried todeath about it, and so am I."
Margaret Gaither came in as sedately as an old woman. She was very fondof Nan, and greeted her accordingly. Whatever her trouble was, it hadmade no attack on her health. She had a fine color, and her eyes werebright; but there was the little frown between her eyebrows that hadattracted 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'llbe under many obligations to you. Tell me something funny, or if youdon't know anything funny, tell me something horrible--anything for achange. I saw Cephas downtown; that child has been trying for days totell me of his adventures, and I have been dying to hear them. But Ikeep out of his way; I am so perverse that I refuse to give myself thatmuch pleasure. Oh, if you only knew how mean I am, you wouldn't sitthere smiling. I hear that the dear boys are having a good deal oftrouble. Well, it serves them right; they had no business to be boys.They should have been girls; then they would have been perfectly happyall the time. Don't you think so, sweet child?"
Nan regarded her friend with astonishment. She had never heard her talkin 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 timesmore so."
"Oh, I'll never believe it! never!" cried Margaret. "Why, do you mean totell 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 togive the reason. Do you mean to insinuate that you intend to offeryourself as the horrible example? Fie on you, Nan! You're in love, andyou mistake that state for unhappiness. Why, that is the height ofbliss. 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 yougo on like that, you'll frighten me away. Do you want to make your bestfriends miserable?"
"Why, certainly," replied Margaret. "What are friends for? I shoulddislike very much to have a friend that I couldn't make miserable. Butif you think you are going to run away, come up to my room and we'lllock 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 Iwant to keep your good opinion. But I can tell you a part of mytroubles. He wants me to marry Francis Bethune! Think of that!" Shepaused and looked at Nan. "Well, why don't you congratulate me?"
"I'll never believe that," said Nan, decisively. "Did he say that hewanted you to marry Frank Bethune?" The "he" in this case was PulaskiTomlin.
"Well, he didn't insist on it; he's too kind for that. But Francis hasbeen coming here very often, until our friends in blue gave him amuch-needed rest, and I suppose I must have been going around lookingsomewhat gloomy; you know how I am--I can't be gay; and then he asked mewhat the trouble was, and finally said that Francis would make me a goodhusband. 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 orAunt Fanny could hear you,
they would be perfectly miserable. I don'tsee how you can feel that way."
"No, you don't, and I hope you never will!" exclaimed Margaret. "Nobodyknows 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 Fannyever 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 wouldtreat me cruelly, or do something to wound my feelings, I would blesshim."
Margaret had led Nan into a strange country, so to speak, and she knewnot which way to turn or what to say. Something was wrong, but what? Ofall Nan's acquaintances, Margaret was the most self-contained, the mostevenly balanced. Many and many a time Nan had envied Margaret'sserenity, and now here she was in tears, after talking as wildly as somehysterical person.
"Come home with me, Margaret," cried Nan. "Maybe the change would do yougood."
"I thank you, Nan. You are as good as you can be; you are almost as goodas the people here; but I can't go. I can't leave this house for anylength of time until I leave it for good. I'd be wild to get back; mymisery fascinates me; I hate it and hug it."
"I am sure that I don't understand you at all," said Nan, in a tone ofdespair.
"No, and you never will," Margaret affirmed. "To understand you wouldhave to feel as I do, and I hope you may be spared that experience allthe days of your life."
After awhile Nan decided that Margaret would be more comfortable if shewere 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 sheknows herself."
"But didn't she give you some hint--some intimation? I don't want to beinquisitive, child; but if she's in trouble, I want to find some remedyfor it. Pulaski is in a terrible state of mind about her, and I amconsiderably worried myself. We love her just as much as if she were ourown, and yet we can't go to her and make a serious effort to discoverwhat is worrying her. She is proud and sensitive, and we have to be verycareful. Oh, I hope we have done nothing to wound that child'sfeelings."
"It isn't that," replied Nan. "I asked her, and she said that youtreated her too kindly."
"Well," sighed Miss Fanny, "if she won't confide in us, she'll have tobear 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 andunexpected that Nan gave a jump.
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