Gabriel Tolliver Part 13

Tasma Tid had been wounded in her tenderest part--her affections. Her sentiments and emotions, being primitive, were genuine. Her grief, when separated from Nan, was very keen. She refused to eat, and for the most part kept herself in seclusion, and no one was able to find her hiding-place. Now, when Nan threw herself upon the steps in an att.i.tude of dejection, with her head on her arm, it happened that Tasma Tid was prowling about with the hope of catching a glimpse of her. The African, slipping around the house, suddenly came plump upon the object of her search. She stood still, and drew a long breath. Here was Honey Nan apparently in deep trouble. Tasma Tid crept up the steps as silently as a ghost, and sat beside the prostrate form. If Nan knew, she made no sign; nor did she move when the African laid a caressing hand on her hair. It was only when Tasma Tid leaned over and kissed Nan on the hand that she stirred. She raised her head, saying,

"You shouldn't do that, Tasma Tid; I'm too mean."

"How come you dis away, Honey Nan?" inquired the African in a low tone.

"Who been-a hu't you?"

"No one," replied Nan; "I am just mean."

"'Tis ain't so, nohow. Somebody been-a hu't you. You show dem ter Tasma Tid--dee ain't hu't you no mo'."

"Where have you been? Why did you go away and leave me?"

"n.o.body want we fer stay. You go off, an' den we go off. We go off an'

walk, walk, walk in de graveyard--walk, walk, walk in de graveyard; an'

den we go home way off yander in de woods."

"Home! why this is your home; it shall always be your home," cried Nan, touched by the forlorn look in Tasma Tid's eyes, and the despairing expression in her voice.

"No, no, Honey Nan; 'tis-a no home fer we when you drive we 'way fum foller you, when you shak-a yo' haid ef we come trot, trot 'hind you. We no want home lak dat. No, no, Honey Nan. We make home in de woods."

"Where is your home?" Nan inquired, full of curiosity.

"We take-a you dey when dem sun go 'way."

"Well, you must stay here," said Nan, emphatically. "You shall follow me wherever I go."

"You talk-a so dis time, Honey Nan; nex' time--" Tasma Tid ran down the steps, and went along the walk mimicking Nan's movements, shaking her frock first on one side and then on the other. Then she looked over her shoulder, turned around with a frown, stamped her foot and made menacing gestures with her hands. "Dat how 'twill be nex' time, Honey Nan."

Hearing Mrs. Absalom laughing, Nan conjectured that she had witnessed Tasma Tid's performance. "Nonny," she cried, "do I really walk that way, and finger my skirt so?"

"To a t," said Mrs. Absalom, laughing louder. "Ef she was a foot an' a half higher, I'd 'a' made sh.o.r.e it was you practisin' ag'in the time when you'll mince by the store where old Silas Tomlin's yearlin' is clerkin', or by the tavern peazzer, where Frank Bethune an' the rest of the loafers set at. It's among the merikels that Gabe Tolliver don't mix wi' that crowd. I reckon maybe it's bekaze he jest natchally too wuthless."

"Now, Nonny! I don't think you ought to make fun of me," protested Nan.

"I am perfectly certain that I don't mince when I walk, and you are always complaining that I don't care how my clothes look."

"Go roun' to the kitchen, you black slink," exclaimed Mrs. Absalom, addressing Tasma Tid, "an' git your dinner! You've traipsed and trolloped until I bet you can gulp down all the vittles on the place."

"And when you have finished your dinner, come to my room," said Nan.

It was not often that Nan was to be found in her own room during the day, but now she remembered that she had promised to spend the night with Eugenia Claiborne; and how was she to invite Gabriel to tea, as Mrs. Dorrington had suggested? There was but one thing to do, and that was to break her engagement with Eugenia. She was of half a dozen minds what to say to her friend. She wrote note after note, only to destroy each one. She pulled her nose, stuck out her tongue, looked at the ceiling, and bit her thumb, but all to no purpose.

Tasma Tid, who had finished her dinner, sat on the floor eying Nan as an intelligent dog eyes its master, ready to respond to look, word or gesture. Finally, the African, seeing Nan's perplexity, made a suggestion.

"Make dem cuss-words come," she said. Tasma Tid had heard men use profane language when fretted or irritated, and she supposed that it was a remedy for troubles both small and large.

"Be jigged if I haven't a mind to," cried Nan, laughing at the African's earnestness.

But at last she flung her pen down, seized her hat, and, with an unspoken invitation to Tasma Tid, went out into the street, determined to go to the Gaither Place, where Eugenia lived, and present her excuses in person.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

_Mr. Sanders in His Cups_

When Nan came in sight of the court-house she saw a crowd of men and boys gazing at some spectacle on the side opposite her. Some were laughing, while others had serious faces. Among them she noticed Francis Bethune, and she also saw Gabriel, who was standing apart from the rest with a very gloomy countenance. Arriving near the crowd, she paused to discover what had excited their curiosity; and there before her eyes, seated on the court-house steps, was Mr. Billy Sanders, relating to an imaginary audience some choice incidents in his family history. His hat was off, and his face was very red.

As Nan listened, he was telling how his "pa" and "ma" had married in South Carolina, and had subsequently moved to Jasper County in Georgia.

In coming away (according to Mr. Sanders's version), they had fetched a half dozen hogs too many, and maybe a cow or two that didn't belong to them. By-and-by the owners of the stock appeared in the neighbourhood where Mr. Sanders, Sr., had settled, found the missing property, and carried him away with them. They had, or claimed to have, a warrant, and they hustled the pioneer off to South Carolina, and put him in jail.

"Now, Sally Hart was Nancy's own gal," said Mr. Sanders, pausing to take a nip from a bottle he carried in his pocket. "She was a chip off'n the old block ef they ever was a block that had a chip. So Sally (that was ma) she went polin' off to Sou' Ca'liny. The night she got to whar she was agwine, she tore a hole in the side of the jail that you could 'a'

driv a buggy through. Then she took poor pa by one ear, an' fetched him home. An' that ain't all. Arter she got him home, she took a rawhide an'

liter'ly wore pa out. She said arterwards that she didn't larrup him for fetchin' the stock off, but for layin' up there in jail an' lettin' his c.r.a.p spile. Well, that frailin' made a good Christian of pa. He j'ined the church, an' would 'a' been a preacher, but ma wouldn't let him. She allowed they'd be too much gaddin' about, an' maybe a little too much honeyin' up wi' the sisterin'. 'No,' says she, 'ef you want to do good prayin', pray whilst you're ploughin'. I'll look arter the hoein'

myself,' says she."

Mr. Sanders was not regarded as a dangerous man in his cups, but on one well-remembered occasion he had fired into a crowd of men who were inclined to be too familiar, and since that day he had been given a wide berth when he took a seat on the court-house steps and began to recite his family history. While Nan stood there, Mr. Sanders drew a pistol from his pocket, and, smiling blandly, began to flourish it around. As he did so, Gabriel Tolliver sprang into the street and ran rapidly toward him. Some one in the crowd uttered a cry of warning. Seized by some blind impulse Nan ran after Gabriel. Francis Bethune caught her arm as she ran by him, but she wrenched herself from his grasp, and ran faster than ever.

"Stand back there!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders in an angry voice, raising his pistol. For one brief moment, the spectators thought that Gabriel was doomed, for he went on without wavering. But he was really in no danger.

Mr. Sanders had mistaken him for some of the young men who had been taunting him as they stood at a safe distance. But when he saw who it was, he replaced the pistol in his pocket, remarking, "You ought to hang out your sign, Gabe. Ef I hadn't 'a' had on my furseein' specks, I'm afear'd I'd a plugged you."

At that moment Nan arrived on the scene, her anger at white heat. She caught her breath, and then stood looking at Mr. Sanders, with eyes that fairly blazed with scorn and anger. "Ef looks'd burn, honey, they wouldn't be a cinder left of me," said Mr. Sanders, moving uneasily.

"Arter she's through wi' me, Gabriel, plant me in a shady place, an'

make old Tar-Baby thar," indicating Tasma Tid, who had followed Nan--"make old Tar-Baby thar set on my grave, an' warm it up once in awhile. I leave you my Sunday s.h.i.+rts wi' the frills on 'em, Gabriel, an'

my Sunday boots wi' the red tops; an' have a piece put in the Malvern paper, statin' that I was one of the most populous and public-sperreted citizens of the county. An' tell how I went about killin' jimson weeds an' curkle-burrs for my neighbours by blowin' my breath on 'em."

What Nan had intended to say, she left unsaid. Her feelings reacted while Mr. Sanders was talking, and she turned her back on him and began to cry. Under the circ.u.mstances, it was the very thing to do. Mr.

Sanders's face fell. "I'll tell you the honest truth, Gabriel--I never know'd that anybody in the roun' world keer'd a continental whether I was drunk or sober, alive or dead; an' I'd lots ruther some un 'd stick a knife through my gizzard than to see that child cryin'."

He rose and went to Nan--he was not too tipsy to walk--and tried to lay his hand on her arm, but she whirled away from him. "Honey," he said, "what must I do? I'll do anything in the world you say."

"Go home and try to be decent," she answered.

"I will, honey, ef you an' Gabriel will go wi' me. I need some un for to keep the boogers off. You git on the lead side, honey, an' Gabriel, you be the off-hoss. Now, hitch on here"--he held out both elbows, so that each could take him by an arm--"an' when you're ready to start, give the word."

Nan dried her eyes as quickly as she could, but before she would consent to go with Mr. Sanders, insisted on searching him. She found a flask of apple-brandy, and hurled it against the side of the court-house.

"Nan," he said ruefully, "that's twice you've broke my heart in a quarter of an hour. Ain't there some way you can break Gabriel's?" He paused and sniffed the fumes of the apple-brandy. "It's a mighty good thing court ain't in session," he remarked, "bekaze the judge an' jury an' all the lawyers would come pourin' out for to smell at that wall there. You say they ain't no way for you to break Gabriel's heart, too?" he asked again, turning to Nan.

"I just know my eyes are a sight," she said in reply. "Are they red and swollen, Gabriel?"

"They are somewhat red, but----"

"But what?" she asked, as Gabriel paused.

"They are just as pretty as ever."

"Mr. Sanders, that is the first compliment he ever paid me in his life."