Gabriel Tolliver Part 34

"Gabriel teached it to me," replied Cephas. "He talks it better than any of the boys, and I come next." This last remark Cephas made with a blush.

"Do I look pale, my son?" inquired Mr. Sanders, mopping his red face with his handkerchief. Cephas gave a negative reply by shaking his head.

"Well, I may not look pale, but I sh.o.r.ely feel pale. You'll have to loan me your arm, Cephas; I feel like Christopher Columbus did when he discovered Atlanta, Ga."

"Why, he didn't discover Atlanta, Mr. Sanders," protested Cephas.

"He didn't!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "Well, it was his own fault ef he didn't. All he had to do was to read the country newspapers. But that's neither here nor thar. Here I've been b.u.t.tin' my head ag'in trees, an'

walkin' in my sleep tryin' for to study up some plan to git word to Gabriel, an' here you walk along the street an' make me a present of the very thing I want, an' I ain't even thanked you for it."

Cephas couldn't guess what Mr. Sanders was driving at, and he asked no questions. His mind was too full of his proposed trip. When the proposition was first broached to Cephas's mother, she scouted the idea of allowing her boy to make the journey. He was all she had, and should anything happen to him--well, the world wouldn't be the same world to her. And it was so far away; why, she had heard some one say that Savannah was right on the brink of the ocean--that great monster that swallowed s.h.i.+ps and men by the thousand, and was just as hungry afterward as before. But Cephas began to cry, saying that he wanted to see Gabriel; and Mr. Sanders told Gabriel's side of the story. Between the two, the poor woman had no option but to say that she'd consider the matter, and when a woman begins to consider--well, according to the ancient philosophers, it's the same as saying yes.

The truth is, a great deal of pressure was brought to bear on Cephas's mother, in one way and another. Meriwether Clopton called on her, bringing Captain Falconer. She was not at all pleased to see the Captain, and she made no effort to conceal her prejudice. "I never did think that I'd speak to a man in that uniform," she said with a very red face. But she was better satisfied when Meriwether Clopton told her that the Captain was the son of his dearest friend, and that he was utterly opposed to the radical policy.

The upshot of the matter was that, with many a sigh and some tears, she gave her consent for her onliest, her dearest, and her bestest, to go on the long journey. And then, after consenting, she was angry with herself because she had consented. In short, she was as miserable and as anxious as mother-love can make a woman, and poor Cephas never could understand until he became a grown man, and had children of his own, how his mother could make such a to-do over the opportunity that Providence had thrown in his way. To tell the truth, he was almost irritated at the obstacles and objections that the vivid imagination of his mother kept conjuring up. She said he must be sure not to fall in the ocean, and he must keep out of the way of the railroad trains. She cried silently all the time she was packing his modest supply of clothes in a valise, and put some tea-cakes in one corner, and a little Testament in the other.

It is no wonder that children who do not understand such feelings should be impatient of them, and Cephas is to be excused if he watched the whole proceeding with something like contempt for woman's weakness. But he has bitterly regretted, oh, tens of thousands of times, that, instead of standing aloof from his mother's feelings, he did not throw his arms around her, and tell how much he appreciated her love, and how every tear she shed for him was worth to him a hundred times more than a diamond. But Cephas was a boy, and, being a boy, he could not rise superior to his boy's nature.

It was arranged that Cephas was to go to Savannah with Captain Falconer, and return with Mr. Sanders, who would take advantage of the occasion to settle up some old business with the firm that had acted as factor for Meriwether Clopton before the war. The arrangement took place when Mr.

Sanders returned home after his visit to Cephas's mother, and was of course conditional on her consent, which was not obtained at once.

Mr. Sanders was shrewd enough not to dwell too much on the plight of the young men on his return. By some method of his own, he seemed to sweep the whole matter from his mind, and both he and Meriwether Clopton addressed themselves to such topics as they imagined the Federal Captain would find interesting; and in this they were seconded by Sarah Clopton, whom Robert Toombs declared to be one of the finest conversationalists of her time when she chose to exert her powers. But for the softness and fine harmony of her features, her face would have been called masculine. Her countenance was entirely responsive to her emotions, and it was delightful to watch the eloquent play of her features. Captain Falconer fell quickly under the spell of her conversation, for one of its chiefest charms was the ease with which she brought out the best thoughts of his mind--thoughts and views that were a part of his inner self.

It was the same at dinner, where, without monopolising the talk, she led it this way and that, but always in channels that were congenial and pleasing to the Captain, and that enabled him to appear at his best. In honour of his guest, Meriwether Clopton brought out some fine old claret that had lain for many years undisturbed in the cellar.

"Thank you, Sarah," said Mr. Sanders, when the hostess pressed him to have a gla.s.s, "I'll not trouble you for any to-day. I've made the acquaintance of that claret. It ain't sour enough for vinegar, nor strong enough for liquor; it's a kind of a cross betwixt a second drawin' of tea an' the syrup of squills; an' no matter how hard you hit it it'll never hit you back. It's lots too mild for a Son of Temp'rance like me. No; gi' me a full jug an' a shuck-pen to crawl into, an' you may have all the wine, red or yaller."

But the fine old claret was thoroughly enjoyed by those who could appreciate the flower of its age and the flavour of its vintage; and when dinner was over, and Captain Falconer was on his way to camp, he felt that, outside of his own home, he had never had such a pleasant experience.

In the course of a few days orders came from Atlanta for Captain Falconer to turn over the command of the detachment to the officer next in rank, and proceed to Malvern, where he would find further instructions awaiting him. When the time came for Cephas to be off with the Captain, you may well believe that his mother saw all sorts of trouble ahead for him. She had dreamed some very queer dreams, she said, and she was very sure that no good would follow. And at the last moment, she would have taken Cephas from the barouche which had come for him, if the driver, following the instructions of Mr. Sanders, had not whipped up his horses, and left the lady standing in the street.

As for Cephas, he found that parting from his mother was not such a fine thing after all. He watched her through a mist of tears, and waved his handkerchief as long as he could see her; and then after that he was the loneliest little fellow you have ever seen. He refused to eat the extra tea-cake that his mother had put in the pocket of his jacket, and made up his mind to be perfectly miserable until he got back home. But, after all, boys are boys, and the feeling of loneliness and dejection wore away after awhile, and before he had gone many miles, what with making the acquaintance of the driver, who was a private soldier, and getting on friendly terms with Captain Falconer, he soon arrived at the point where he relished his tea-cake, and when this had been devoured, he felt as if travelling was the most delightful thing in the world, especially if a fellow has been intrusted with a tremendous secret that n.o.body else in the world knew besides Mr. Sanders and himself.

For as soon as Mr. Sanders discovered that the Captain would be willing to have Cephas go along, he had taken the little chap in hand, and thoroughly impressed upon his mind everything he wanted him to say to Gabriel, and he was not satisfied until Cephas had written the message out in the dog-latin of the school-children, and had learned it by heart. Mr. Sanders also impressed on the little lad's mind the probability that the Captain would be curious as to the nature of the message; and he gave Cephas a plausible answer for every question that an inquisitive person could put to him, and made him repeat these answers over and over again. In fact, Cephas was compelled to study as hard as if he had been in school, but he relished the part he was to play, and learned it with a zest that was very pleasing to Mr. Sanders.

Only an hour before he was to leave with the Captain, Mr. Sanders went to Cephas's home, and made him repeat over everything he had been taught, and the glibness with which the little lad repeated the answers to the questions was something wonderful in so small a chap.

"Don't git lonesome, Cephas," was the parting injunction of Mr. Sanders.

"Don't forgit that I'll be on the train when the whistle blows. I'm gwine to start right off. You may not see me, but I'll not be far off.

Keep a stiff upper lip, an' don't git into no panic. The whole thing is gwine through like it was on skids, an' the skids greased."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

_Cephas Has His Troubles_

Usually there is a yawning gulf between youth and old age; but in the case of Mrs. Lumsden and Nan Dorrington, it was spanned by the simplicity and tenderness common to both. Whether any of the ancients or moderns have mentioned the fact, it is hardly worth while to inquire, but good-humour is a form of tenderness. Those who are easy to laugh are likewise ready to be sorry, and they have a fund of sympathy to draw on whenever the necessity arises. Simplicity and tenderness connect the highest wisdom with the deepest ignorance, and find the elements of brotherhood where the intellect is unable to discern it. It was simplicity and tenderness that bridged the gulf of years that lay between the old gentlewoman and the young girl. Age can find no comfort for itself unless it can make terms with youth. Where it stands alone, depending upon the respect that should belong to what is venerable, there is something gruesome about it. It quenches the high spirits of children and young people, and chills their enthusiasm. All that it does for them is to give notorious advertis.e.m.e.nt to the complexion to which they must all come at last. "You see these wrinkled and flabby features, this gray hair, these faded and watery eyes, these shaking limbs and trembling hands: well, this is what you must come to." And, indeed, it is an object lesson well calculated to sober and subdue the giddy.

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 f.a.n.n.y 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."