But when Malindy came with the camphor, and a dose of salts in a tumbler, Nan waved her away. "I don't want any physic, Nonny," she said, still panting, for her run had been a long one; "I'm just tired from running. And, oh, Nonny! I have something to tell you."
"Well, my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom indignantly, withdrawing her arms from around Nan, and rising to her feet. "A little more, an' you'd 'a' had me ready for my coolin'-board. I ain't had such a turn—not sence the day a nigger boy run in the gate an' tol' me the Yankees was a-hangin' Ab. An' all bekaze you've hatched out some rigamarole that nobody on the green earth would 'a' thought of but you."
She fussed around a little, and was for going about the various unnecessary duties she imposed on herself; but Nan protested. "Please, Nonny, wait until I tell you." Thereupon Nan told as well as she could of the conversation she and Gabriel had overheard in town, and the recital4 gave Mrs. Absalom a more serious feeling than she had had in many a day. Her muscular arms, bare to the elbow, were folded across her ample bosom5, and she seemed to be glaring at Nan with a frown on her face, but she was thinking.
"Well," she said with a sigh, "I knowed there was gwine to be trouble of some kind—old Billy Sanders went by here this mornin' as drunk as a lord."
"Well, sorter tollerbul how-come-you-so. The last time old Billy was drunk, was when sesaytion was fetched on. Ev'ry time he runs a straw in a jimmy-john, he fishes up trouble. An' my dream's out. I dremp last night that a wooden-leg man come to the door, an' ast me for a pair of shoes. I ast him what on earth he wanted wi' a pair, bein's he had but one foot. He said that the foot he didn't have was constant a-feelin' like it was cold, an' he allowed maybe it'd feel better ef it know'd that he had a shoe ready for it ag'in colder weather."
"Oh, I hate him! I just naturally despise him!" cried Nan. When she was angry her face was pale, and it was very pale now.
"Why do you hate the wooden-leg man, honey? It was all in a dream," said Mrs. Absalom, soothingly8.
"Oh, I don't know what you are talking about, Nonny!" exclaimed Nan, ready to cry. "I mean old Billy Sanders. And if I don't give him a piece of my mind when I see him. Now Gabriel will go to that place to-night, and he's nothing but a boy."
"A boy! well, I dunner where you'll find your men ef Gabriel ain't nothin' but a boy. Where's anybody in these diggin's that's any bigger or stouter9? I wish you'd show 'em to me," remarked Mrs. Absalom.
"I don't care," Nan persisted; "I know just what Gabriel will do. He'll go to that place to-night, and—and—I'd rather go there myself."
The pallor of Nan's face was gradually replaced by a warmer glow. "Now, Nonny! don't say a word—don't tease—don't tease me about Gabriel. If you do, I'll never tell you anything more for ever and ever."
"All this is bran new to me," Mrs. Absalom declared. "You make me feel, Nan, like I was in some strange place, talkin' wi' some un I never seed before. You ain't no more like yourself—you ain't no more like you used to be—than day is like night, an' I'm jest as sorry as I can be."
"That's what Gabriel says," sighed Nan. "He said he was sorry, and now you say you are sorry. Oh, Nonny, I don't want any one to be sorry for me."
"Well, then, behave yourself, an' be like you use to be, an' stop trollopin' aroun' wi' them highfalutin' gals11 downtown. They look like they know too much. All they talk about is boys, boys, boys, from mornin' till night; an' I noticed when they was spendin' a part of the'r time here that you was just as bad. It was six of one an' twice three of the rest. Now you know that ain't a sign of good health for gals to be eternally talkin' about boys, 'specially12 sech ganglin', lop-sided creeturs as we've got aroun' here."
"Where's Johnny?" asked Nan, who evidently had no notion of getting in a controversy13 with Mrs. Absalom on the subject of boys. "Johnny" was her name for her step-mother, whose surname of Dion had been changed to "Johns" the day after she arrived at Shady Dale. The story of little Miss Johns has been told in another place and all that is necessary to add to the record is the fact that she had managed to endear herself to the critical, officious, and somewhat jealous Mrs. Absalom. Mrs. Dorrington had the tact14 and the charm of the best of her race. She was Nan's dearest friend and only confidante, and though she was not many years the girl's senior, she had an influence over her that saved Nan from many a bad quarter of an hour.
Mrs. Dorrington was in her own room when Nan found her, sewing and singing softly to herself, the picture of happiness and content. Nan dropped on her knees beside her chair, and threw her arms impulsively15 around the little woman's neck.
"Tell me ever what it is, Nan, before you smother-cate me," said Mrs. Dorrington, smoothing the girl's hair. The two had a language of their own, which the elder had learned from the younger.
"How could I forget, Nan?"
"Well, those people are going head foremost into trouble, and whatever happens, I want to be there."
"Oh, is that so? Well, it is too bad," said the little woman sympathetically. "Perhaps if you would say something about it—not too much, but just enough for me to get it through my thick numskull——"
Whereupon Nan told of all the fears by which she was beset18, and of all the troubles that racked her mind, and the two had quite a consultation19.
"You are not afraid for yourself; why should you be afraid for those people?" inquired Mrs. Dorrington, laying great stress on "those people," the name that Gabriel went by when Nan and Johnny were referring to him.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Nan, helplessly. "It isn't because of what you would guess if you knew no better. I have a very great friendship for those people; but it isn't the other feeling—the kind that you were telling me about. If it is—oh, if it is—I shall never forgive myself."
"In time—yes. It is quite easy to forgive yourself on account of those people. I found it so."
"Oh, don't! You make me feel as if I ought never to speak to myself."
"Then don't," said Mrs. Dorrington, calmly. "You can speak to me instead of to that ignorant girl."
"Oh, you sweetest!" cried Nan, hugging her step-mother; "I am going to have you for my doll."
"Very well, then," said Mrs. Dorrington, shrugging her shoulders; "but you will have some trouble on your hands—yes, more than those people give you."
"Johnny, you are my little mother, and you never gave me any trouble in your life. I am the one that is troublesome; I am troubling you now."
"Silly thing! will you be good?" cried Mrs. Dorrington, tapping Nan lightly on the cheek. "How can you trouble me when I don't know what you mean? You haven't told me."
"I thought you could guess as well as I can," replied Nan.
"About some things—yes; but not about this terrible danger that is to overcome those people."
Whereupon, Nan told Mrs. Dorrington of the conversation she and Gabriel had overheard. To this information she added her suspicions that Gabriel intended to do something desperate; and then she gave a very vivid description of the strange white man, of his pale and eager countenance20, his glittering, shifty eyes, and his thin, cruel lips.
Instead of shuddering21, as she should have done, Mrs. Dorrington laughed. "But I don't see what the trouble is," she declared. "That boy is ever so large; he can take care of himself. But if you think not, then ask him to tea."
Nan frowned heavily. "But, Johnny, tea is so tame. Think of rescuing a friend from danger by means of a cup of tea! Doesn't it seem ridiculous?"
"Of course it is," responded Mrs. Dorrington. "But it isn't half so ridiculous as your make-believe. Oh, Nan! Nan! when will you come down from your clouds?"
Now, Nan's world of make-believe was as natural to her as the persons and things all about her. No sooner had she guessed that it was Gabriel's intention to find out what the union League was for, and, in a way, expose himself to some possible danger of discovery, than she carried the whole matter into her land of make-believe as naturally as a mocking-bird carries a flake22 of thistle-down to its nest. Once there, nothing could be more reasonable or more logical than the terrible danger to which Gabriel would be exposed. While it lasted, Nan's feeling of anxiety and alarm was both real and sincere. Mrs. Absalom could never enter into this world of Nan's; she was too practical and downright. And yet she had a ready sympathy for the girl's troubles and humoured her without stint23, though she sometimes declared that Nan was queer and flighty.
Mrs. Dorrington, on the other hand, inheriting the sensitive and artistic24 temperament25 of Flavian Dion, her father, was able to enter heartily26 into the most of Nan's vagaries27. Sometimes she humoured them, but more frequently she laughed at them as the girl grew older. Occasionally, in her twilight28 conversations with her father, whose gentleness and shyness kept him in the background, Mrs. Dorrington would deplore29 Nan's tendency to exploit her imagination.
"But she was born thus, my dear," Flavian Dion would reply, speaking the picturesque30 patois31 of New France. "It will either be her great misery, or her great happiness. How was it with me? Once it was my great misery, but now—you see how it is. Come! we will have some music, if Mademoiselle the Dreamer is willing."
And then they would go into the parlour, where, with Mrs. Dorrington at the piano, Flavian Dion with his violin, and Nan with her voice, which was rich and strong, they would render the beautiful folk-songs of France. Moreover, Flavian Dion had caught many of the plantation32 melodies, of which Nan knew the words, and when the French songs were exhausted33, they would fall back on these. It frequently happened that Mademoiselle the Dreamer would add feet as well as voice to the negro melodies, especially if Tasma Tid were there to incite34 her, and the way that Nan reproduced steps and poses was both wonderful and inimitable.
The reader who takes the trouble to make inferences as he goes along, will perceive that Nan's solicitude35 for Gabriel was no compliment to him; it was not flattering to the heroism36 of a young man who was threatening to grow a moustache, for a young lady to believe, or even pretend to believe, that he needed to be rescued from some imaginary danger. Gabriel was strong enough to take a man's place at a log-rolling, and he would have had small relish37 for the information if he had been told that Nan Dorrington was planning to rescue him.
Let the simple truth be told. Gabriel was no hero in Nan's eyes. He was merely a friend and former comrade, who now was in sad need of some one to take care of him. That was her belief, and she would have shrunk from the idea that Gabriel would one day be her lover. She had quite other views. Yes, indeed! Her lover must be a man who had passed through some desperate experiences. He must be a hero with sword and plume38, a cutter and slasher, a man who had a relish for bloodshed, such as she had read about in the romances she had appropriated from her father's library.
Nan had brought over from her childhood many queer dreams and fancies. Once upon a time, she had heard her elders talking of John A. Murrell, the notorious land-pirate and highwayman. The man was one of the coarsest and cruellest of modern ruffians, but about his name the common people had placed a halo of romance. It was said of him that he rescued beautiful maidens39 from their abductors, and restored them to their friends, and that he robbed the rich only to give to the poor. Sad to say, this ruffian was Nan's ideal hero.
And now, when she was racking her brains to invent some bold and simple plan for the rescue of Gabriel, her mind reverted40 to this ideal hero of her childhood.
"If you insist, Johnny, I'll ask Gabriel to tea," Nan remarked for the second time; "but, as you say, it is perfectly41 ridiculous. Whoever heard of rescuing persons by inviting42 them to supper?" She paused a moment, and then went on with a sigh that would have sounded very real in Mrs. Absalom's ears, but which simply brought a smile to Mrs. Dorrington's face—"Heigh-ho! What a pity John A. Murrell isn't alive to-day!"
"And who is this Mr. Murrell?" Mrs. Dorrington asked.
"He was a fierce robber-chief," replied Nan, placidly43. "He wore a big black beard, and a hat with a red feather in it. Over his left shoulder was a red sash, and he rode a big white horse. He carried two big pistols and a bowie-knife—Nonny can tell you all about him."
Whereupon, Mrs. Dorrington jumped from her chair, and made an effort to catch the young romancer; and in a moment, the laughter of the pursuer, and the shrieks44 of the pursued, when she thought she was in danger of being caught, roused the echoes in the old house. Mrs. Absalom, who was in the kitchen, laughed and shook her head. "I believe them two scamps will be children when they are sixty year old!"
But after awhile, when their romp45 was over, Nan suddenly discovered that she had been in very high spirits, and this, according to the constitution and by-laws of the land of make-believe, was an unpardonable offence, especially when, as now, a very dear friend was in danger. So she went out upon the veranda46, and half-way down the steps, where she seated herself in an attitude of extreme dejection.
While sitting there, Nan suddenly remembered that she did have a grievance47 and a very real one. Tasma Tid was in a state of insurrection. She had not been permitted to accompany her young mistress when the latter visited her girl-friends, and for a long time she had been sulking and pouting48. An effort had been made to induce Tasma Tid to make herself useful, but even the strong will of Mrs. Absalom collapsed49 when it found itself in conflict with the bright-eyed African.
Tasma Tid had been wounded in her tenderest part—her affections. Her sentiments and emotions, being primitive50, were genuine. Her grief, when separated from Nan, was very keen. She refused to eat, and for the most part kept herself in seclusion51, and no one was able to find her hiding-place. Now, when Nan threw herself upon the steps in an attitude of dejection, with her head on her arm, it happened that Tasma Tid was prowling about with the hope of catching52 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 apparently53 in deep trouble. Tasma Tid crept up the steps as silently as a ghost, and sat beside the prostrate54 form. If Nan knew, she made no sign; nor did she move when the African laid a caressing55 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?"
"Nobody want we fer stay. You go off, an' den7 we go off. We go off an' walk, walk, walk in de graveyard56—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 trot57, trot 'hind58 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 mimicking59 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 conjectured60 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 shore it was you practisin' ag'in the time when you'll mince61 by the store where old Silas Tomlin's yearlin' is clerkin', or by the tavern62 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 gulp63 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 profane64 language when fretted65 or irritated, and she supposed that it was a remedy for troubles both small and large.
But at last she flung her pen down, seized her hat, and, with an unspoken invitation to Tasma Tid, went out into the street, determined67 to go to the Gaither Place, where Eugenia lived, and present her excuses in person.
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1
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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6
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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7
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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8
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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9
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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gals
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| abbr.gallons （复数）加仑（液量单位）n.女孩，少女( gal的名词复数 ) | |
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12
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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13
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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14
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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23
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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24
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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27
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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28
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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incite
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| v.引起，激动，煽动 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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36
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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37
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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38
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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39
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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40
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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41
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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42
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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43
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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44
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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45
romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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46
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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47
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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48
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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49
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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50
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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51
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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53
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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54
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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56
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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57
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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59
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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62
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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63
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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64
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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jigged
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| v.（使）上下急动( jig的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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