The Crossing Page 2

  CHAPTER II. WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS

  And so our life went on the same, but yet not the same. For I had theLand of Promise to dream of, and as I went about my tasks I conjuredup in my mind pictures of its beauty. You will forgive a backwoodsboy,--self-centred, for lack of wider interest, and with a littleimagination. Bear hunting with my father, and an occasional trip onthe white mare twelve miles to the Cross-Roads for salt and othernecessaries, were the only diversions to break the routine of my days.But at the Cross-Roads, too, they were talking of Kaintuckee. For so theLand was called, the Dark and Bloody Ground.

  The next year came a war on the Frontier, waged by Lord Dunmore,Governor of Virginia. Of this likewise I heard at the Cross-Roads,though few from our part seemed to have gone to it. And I heard there,for rumors spread over mountains, that men blazing in the new land werein danger, and that my hero, Boone, was gone out to save them. But inthe autumn came tidings of a great battle far to the north, and of theIndians suing for peace.

  The next year came more tidings of a sort I did not understand. Iremember once bringing back from the Cross-Roads a crumpled newspaper,which my father read again and again, and then folded up and put in hispocket. He said nothing to me of these things. But the next time I wentto the Cross-Roads, the woman asked me:--

  “Is your Pa for the Congress?”

  “What’s that?” said I.

  “I reckon he ain’t,” said the woman, tartly. I recall her dimly, aslattern creature in a loose gown and bare feet, wife of the storekeeperand wagoner, with a swarm of urchins about her. They were all verynatural to me thus. And I remember a battle with one of these urchins inthe briers, an affair which did not add to the love of their family forours. There was no money in that country, and the store took our peltsin exchange for what we needed from civilization. Once a month wouldI load these pelts on the white mare, and make the journey by the pathdown the creek. At times I met other settlers there, some of them notlong from Ireland, with the brogue still in their mouths. And again,I saw the wagoner with his great canvas-covered wagon standing at thedoor, ready to start for the town sixty miles away. ‘Twas he brought thenews of this latest war.

  One day I was surprised to see the wagoner riding up the path to ourcabin, crying out for my father, for he was a violent man. And a violentscene followed. They remained for a long time within the house, and whenthey came out the wagoner’s face was red with rage. My father, too, wasangry, but no more talkative than usual.

  “Ye say ye’ll not help the Congress?” shouted the wagoner.

  “I’ll not,” said my father.

  “Ye’ll live to rue this day, Alec Trimble,” cried the man. “Ye may thinkye’re too fine for the likes of us, but there’s them in the settlementthat knows about ye.”

  With that he flung himself on his horse, and rode away. But the nexttime I went to the Cross-Roads the woman drove me away with curses, andcalled me an aristocrat. Wearily I tramped back the dozen miles up thecreek, beside the mare, carrying my pelts with me; stumbling on thestones, and scratched by the dry briers. For it was autumn, the woodsall red and yellow against the green of the pines. I sat down beside theold beaver dam to gather courage to tell my father. But he only smiledbitterly when he heard it. Nor would he tell me what the word aristocratmeant.

  That winter we spent without bacon, and our salt gave out at Christmas.It was at this season, if I remember rightly, that we had anothervisitor. He arrived about nightfall one gray day, his horse jaded andcut, and he was dressed all in wool, with a great coat wrapped abouthim, and high boots. This made me stare at him. When my father drew backthe bolt of the door he, too, stared and fell back a step.

  “Come in,” said he.

  “D’ye ken me, Alec?” said the man.

  He was a tall, spare man like my father, a Scotchman, but his hair wasin a cue.

  “Come in, Duncan,” said my father, quietly. “Davy, run out for wood.”

  Loath as I was to go, I obeyed. As I came back dragging a log behindme I heard them in argument, and in their talk there was much about theCongress, and a woman named Flora Macdonald, and a British fleet sailingsouthward.

  “We’ll have two thousand Highlanders and more to meet the fleet. Andye’ll sit at hame, in this hovel ye’ve made yeresel” (and he glancedabout disdainfully) “and no help the King?” He brought his fist down onthe pine boards.

  “Ye did no help the King greatly at Culloden, Duncan,” said my father,dryly.

  Our visitor did not answer at once.

  “The Yankee Rebels ‘ll no help the House of Stuart,” said he, presently.“And Hanover’s coom to stay. Are ye, too, a Rebel, Alec Ritchie?”

  I remember wondering why he said Ritchie.

  “I’ll no take a hand in this fight,” answered my father.

  And that was the end of it. The man left with scant ceremony, I guidinghim down the creek to the main trail. He did not open his mouth until Iparted with him.

  “Puir Davy,” said he, and rode away in the night, for the moon shonethrough the clouds.

  I remember these things, I suppose, because I had nothing else to thinkabout. And the names stuck in my memory, intensified by later events,until I began to write a diary.

  And now I come to my travels. As the spring drew on I had had a feelingthat we could not live thus forever, with no market for our pelts. Andone day my father said to me abruptly:--

  “Davy, we’ll be travelling.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Ye’ll ken soon enough,” said he. “We’ll go at crack o’ day.”

  We went away in the wild dawn, leaving the cabin desolate. We loaded thewhite mare with the pelts, and my father wore a woollen suit like thatof our Scotch visitor, which I had never seen before. He had clubbed hishair. But, strangest of all, he carried in a small parcel the silk gownthat had been my mother’s. We had scant other baggage.

  We crossed the Yadkin at a ford, and climbing the hills to the south ofit we went down over stony traces, down and down, through rain and sun;stopping at rude cabins or taverns, until we came into the valley ofanother river. This I know now was the Catawba. My memories of that rideare as misty as the spring weather in the mountains. But presently thecountry began to open up into broad fields, some of these abandoned topines. And at last, splashing through the stiff red clay that was up tothe mare’s fetlocks, we came to a place called Charlotte Town. What aday that was for me! And how I gaped at the houses there, finer thanany I had ever dreamed of! That was my first sight of a town. And how Ilistened open-mouthed to the gentlemen at the tavern! One I recall had afighting head with a lock awry, and a negro servant to wait on him, andwas the principal spokesman. He, too, was talking of war. The Cherokeeshad risen on the western border. He was telling of the massacre of asettlement, in no mild language.

  “Sirs,” he cried, “the British have stirred the redskins to this. Willyou sit here while women and children are scalped, and those devils” (hecalled them worse names) “Stuart and Cameron go unpunished?”

  My father got up from the corner where he sat, and stood beside the man.

  “I ken Alec Cameron,” said he.

  The man looked at him with amazement.

  “Ay?” said he, “I shouldn’t think you’d own it. Damn him,” he cried, “ifwe catch him we’ll skin him alive.”

  “I ken Cameron,” my father repeated, “and I’ll gang with you to skin himalive.”

  The man seized his hand and wrung it.

  “But first I must be in Charlestown,” said my father.

  The next morning we sold our pelts. And though the mare was tired,we pushed southward, I behind the saddle. I had much to think about,wondering what was to become of me while my father went to skin Cameron.I had not the least doubt that he would do it. The world is a storybookto a lad of nine, and the thought of Charlestown filled me with adelight unspeakable. Perchance he would leave me in Charlestown.

  At nightfall we came into a settlement called the Waxhaws. And thereb
eing no tavern there, and the mare being very jaded and the roadsheavy, we cast about for a place to sleep. The sunlight slanting overthe pine forest glistened on the pools in the wet fields. And it sochanced that splashing across these, swinging a milk-pail over his head,shouting at the top of his voice, was a red-headed lad of my own age. Myfather hailed him, and he came running towards us, still shouting, andvaulted the rails. He stood before us, eying me with a most mischievouslook in his blue eyes, and dabbling in the red mud with his toes. Iremember I thought him a queer-looking boy. He was lanky, and he had avery long face under his tousled hair.

  My father asked him where he could spend the night.

  “Wal,” said the boy, “I reckon Uncle Crawford might take you in. Andagain he mightn’t.”

  He ran ahead, still swinging the pail. And we, following, came at lengthto a comfortable-looking farmhouse. As we stopped at the doorway astout, motherly woman filled it. She held her knitting in her hand.

  “You Andy!” she cried, “have you fetched the milk?”

  Andy tried to look repentant.

  “I declare I’ll tan you,” said the lady. “Git out this instant. Whatrascality have you been in?”

  “I fetched home visitors, Ma,” said Andy.

  “Visitors!” cried the lady. “What ‘ll your Uncle Crawford say?" And shelooked at us smiling, but with no great hostility.

  “Pardon me, Madam,” said my father, “if we seem to intrude. But my mareis tired, and we have nowhere to stay.”

  Uncle Crawford did take us in. He was a man of substance in thatcountry,--a north of Ireland man by birth, if I remember right.

  I went to bed with the red-headed boy, whose name was Andy Jackson. Iremember that his mother came into our little room under the eaves andmade Andy say his prayers, and me after him. But when she was goneout, Andy stumped his toe getting into bed in the dark and swore with abrilliancy and vehemence that astonished me.

  It was some hours before we went to sleep, he plying me with questionsabout my life, which seemed to interest him greatly, and I returning inkind.

  “My Pa’s dead,” said Andy. “He came from a part of Ireland where theyare all weavers. We’re kinder poor relations here. Aunt Crawford’ssick, and Ma keeps house. But Uncle Crawford’s good, an’ lets me go toCharlotte Town with him sometimes.”

  I recall that he also boasted some about his big brothers, who were awayjust then.

  Andy was up betimes in the morning, to see us start. But we didn’tstart, because Mr. Crawford insisted that the white mare should have ahalf day’s rest. Andy, being hustled off unwillingly to the “Old Field” school, made me go with him. He was a very headstrong boy.

  I was very anxious to see a school. This one was only a log house in apoor, piny place, with a rabble of boys and girls romping at the door.But when they saw us they stopped. Andy jumped into the air, let out awar-whoop, and flung himself into the midst, scattering them right andleft, and knocking one boy over and over. “I’m Billy Buck!” he cried.“I’m a hull regiment o’ Rangers. Let th’ Cherokees mind me!”

  “Way for Sandy Andy!” cried the boys. “Where’d you get the new boy,Sandy?”

  “His name’s Davy,” said Andy, “and his Pa’s goin’ to fight theCherokees. He kin lick tarnation out’n any o’ you.”

  Meanwhile I held back, never having been thrown with so many of my ownkind.

  “He’s shot painters and b’ars,” said Andy. “An’ skinned ‘em. Kin youlick him, Smally? I reckon not.”

  Now I had not come to the school for fighting. So I held back.Fortunately for me, Smally held back also. But he tried skilful tactics.

  “He kin throw you, Sandy.”

  Andy faced me in an instant.

  “Kin you?” said he.

  There was nothing to do but try, and in a few seconds we were rolling onthe ground, to the huge delight of Smally and the others, Andy shoutingall the while and swearing. We rolled and rolled and rolled in the mud,until we both lost our breath, and even Andy stopped swearing, for wantof it. After a while the boys were silent, and the thing became grimearnest. At length, by some accident rather than my own strength, bothhis shoulders touched the ground. I released him. But he was on his feetin an instant and at me again like a wildcat.

  “Andy won’t stay throwed,” shouted a boy. And before I knew it he hadmy shoulders down in a puddle. Then I went for him, and affairs weregrowing more serious than a wrestle, when Smally, fancying himself safe,and no doubt having a grudge, shouted out:--

  “Tell him he slobbers, Davy.”

  Andy did slobber. But that was the end of me, and the beginning ofSmally. Andy left me instantly, not without an intimation that hewould come back, and proceeded to cover Smally with red clay and blood.However, in the midst of this turmoil the schoolmaster arrived,haled both into the schoolhouse, held court, and flogged Andrew withconsiderable gusto. He pronounced these words afterwards, with greatsolemnity:--

  “Andrew Jackson, if I catch ye fightin’ once more, I’ll be afther givin’ye lave to lave the school.”

  I parted from Andy at noon with real regret. He was the first boy withwhom I had ever had any intimacy. And I admired him: chiefly, I fear,for his fluent use of profanity and his fighting qualities. He was amerry lad, with a wondrous quick temper but a good heart. And he seemedsorry to say good-by. He filled my pockets with June apples--unripe, bythe way--and told me to remember him when I got till Charlestown.

  I remembered him much longer than that, and usually with a shock ofsurprise.

  CHAPTER III. CHARLESTOWN

  Down and down we went, crossing great rivers by ford and ferry, untilthe hills flattened themselves and the country became a long stretchof level, broken by the forests only; and I saw many things I had notthought were on the earth. Once in a while I caught glimpses of greatred houses, with stately pillars, among the trees. They put me in mindof the palaces in Bunyan, their windows all golden in the morning sun;and as we jogged ahead, I pondered on the delights within them. I sawgangs of negroes plodding to work along the road, an overseer ridingbehind them with his gun on his back; and there were whole cotton fieldsin these domains blazing in primrose flower,--a new plant here, so myfather said. He was willing to talk on such subjects. But on others, andespecially our errand to Charlestown, he would say nothing. And I knewbetter than to press him.

  One day, as we were crossing a dike between rice swamps spread withdelicate green, I saw the white tops of wagons flashing in the sun atthe far end of it. We caught up with them, the wagoners cracking theirwhips and swearing at the straining horses. And lo! in front of thewagons was an army,--at least my boyish mind magnified it to such. Menclad in homespun, perspiring and spattered with mud, were stragglingalong the road by fours, laughing and joking together. The officersrode, and many of these had blue coats and buff waistcoats,--some theworse for wear. My father was pushing the white mare into the ditch toride by, when one hailed him.

  “Hullo, my man,” said he, “are you a friend to Congress?”

  “I’m off to Charlestown to leave the lad,” said my father, “and then tofight the Cherokees.”

  “Good,” said the other. And then, “Where are you from?”

  “Upper Yadkin,” answered my father. “And you?”

  The officer, who was a young man, looked surprised. But then he laughedpleasantly.

  “We’re North Carolina troops, going to join Lee in Charlestown,” saidhe. “The British are sending a fleet and regiments against it.”

  “Oh, aye,” said my father, and would have passed on. But he was made togo before the Colonel, who plied him with many questions. Then he gaveus a paper and dismissed us.

  We pursued our journey through the heat that shimmered up from the road,pausing now and again in the shade of a wayside tree. At times I thoughtI could bear the sun no longer. But towards four o’clock of that daya great bank of yellow cloud rolled up, darkening the earth save fora queer saffron light that stained everything, and made our very face
syellow. And then a wind burst out of the east with a high mournful note,as from a great flute afar, filling the air with leaves and branches oftrees. But it bore, too, a savor that was new to me,--a salt savor, deepand fresh, that I drew down into my lungs. And I knew that we were nearthe ocean. Then came the rain, in great billows, as though the oceanitself were upon us.

  The next day we crossed a ferry on the Ashley River, and rode down thesand of Charlestown neck. And my most vivid remembrance is of the greattrunks towering half a hundred feet in the air, with a tassel of leavesat the top, which my father said were palmettos. Something lay heavyon his mind. For I had grown to know his moods by a sort of silentunderstanding. And when the roofs and spires of the town shone over thefoliage in the afternoon sun, I felt him give a great sigh that was likea sob.

  And how shall I describe the splendor of that city? The sandy streets,and the gardens of flower and shade, heavy with the plant odors; and thegreat houses with their galleries and porticos set in the midst of thegardens, that I remember staring at wistfully. But before long wecame to a barricade fixed across the street, and then to another. Andpresently, in an open space near a large building, was a company ofsoldiers at drill.

  It did not strike me as strange then that my father asked his way of noman, but went to a little ordinary in a humbler part of the town. Aftera modest meal in a corner of the public room, we went out for a stroll.Then, from the wharves, I saw the bay dotted with islands, their whitesand sparkling in the evening light, and fringed with strange trees,and beyond, of a deepening blue, the ocean. And nearer,--greatest ofall delights to me,--riding on the swell was a fleet of ships. My fathergazed at them long and silently, his palm over his eyes.

  “Men-o’-war from the old country, lad,” he said after a while. “They’rea brave sight.”

  “And why are they here?” I asked.

  “They’ve come to fight,” said he, “and take the town again for theKing.”

  It was twilight when we turned to go, and then I saw that many of thewarehouses along the wharves were heaps of ruins. My father said thiswas that the town might be the better defended.

  We bent our way towards one of the sandy streets where the great houseswere. And to my surprise we turned in at a gate, and up a path leadingto the high steps of one of these. Under the high portico the door wasopen, but the house within was dark. My father paused, and the hand heheld to mine trembled. Then he stepped across the threshold, and raisingthe big polished knocker that hung on the panel, let it drop. The soundreverberated through the house, and then stillness. And then, fromwithin, a shuffling sound, and an old negro came to the door. For aninstant he stood staring through the dusk, and broke into a cry.

  “Marse Alec!” he said.

  “Is your master at home?” said my father.

  Without another word he led us through a deep hall, and out into agallery above the trees of a back garden, where a gentleman sat smokinga long pipe. The old negro stopped in front of him.

  “Marse John,” said he, his voice shaking, “heah’s Marse Alec done comeback.”

  The gentleman got to his feet with a start. His pipe fell to the floor,and the ashes scattered on the boards and lay glowing there.

  “Alec!” he cried, peering into my father’s face, “Alec! You’re notdead.”

  “John,” said my father, “can we talk here?”

  “Good God!” said the gentleman, “you’re just the same. To think ofit--to think of it! Breed, a light in the drawing-room.”

  There was no word spoken while the negro was gone, and the time seemedvery long. But at length he returned, a silver candlestick in each hand.

  “Careful,” cried the gentleman, petulantly, “you’ll drop them.”

  He led the way into the house, and through the hall to a massive door ofmahogany with a silver door-knob. The grandeur of the place awed me,and well it might. Boylike, I was absorbed in this. Our little mountaincabin would almost have gone into this one room. The candles threw theirflickering rays upward until they danced on the high ceiling. Marvelof marvels, in the oval left clear by the heavy, rounded cornice was apicture.

  The negro set down the candles on the marble top of a table. But the airof the room was heavy and close, and the gentleman went to a window andflung it open. It came down instantly with a crash, so that the panesrattled again.

  “Curse these Rebels,” he shouted, “they’ve taken our window weights tomake bullets.”

  Calling to the negro to pry open the window with a walking-stick, hethrew himself into a big, upholstered chair. ‘Twas then I remarked thesplendor of his clothes, which were silk. And he wore a waistcoat allsewed with flowers. With a boy’s intuition, I began to dislike himintensely.

  “Damn the Rebels!” he began. “They’ve driven his Lordship away. I hopehis Majesty will hang every mother’s son of ‘em. All pleasure of life isgone, and they’ve folly enough to think they can resist the fleet. Andthe worst of it is,” cried he, “the worst of it is, I’m forced to smirkto them, and give good gold to their government.” Seeing that my fatherdid not answer, he asked: “Have you joined the Highlanders? You werealways for fighting.”

  “I’m to be at Cherokee Ford on the twentieth,” said my father. “We’re toscalp the redskins and Cameron, though ‘tis not known.”

  “Cameron!” shrieked the gentleman. “But that’s the other side, man!Against his Majesty?”

  “One side or t’other,” said my father, “‘tis all one against AlecCameron.”

  The gentleman looked at my father with something like terror in hiseyes.

  “You’ll never forgive Cameron,” he said.

  “I’ll no forgive anybody who does me a wrong,” said my father.

  “And where have you been all these years, Alec?” he asked presently.“Since you went off with--”

  “I’ve been in the mountains, leading a pure life,” said my father. “Andwe’ll speak of nothing, if you please, that’s gone by.”

  “And what will you have me do?” said the gentleman, helplessly.

  “Little enough,” said my father. “Keep the lad till I come again. He’squiet. He’ll no trouble you greatly. Davy, this is Mr. Temple. You’re tostay with him till I come again.”

  “Come here, lad,” said the gentleman, and he peered into my face.“You’ll not resemble your mother.”

  “He’ll resemble no one,” said my father, shortly. “Good-by, Davy. Keepthis till I come again.” And he gave me the parcel made of my mother’sgown. Then he lifted me in his strong arms and kissed me, and strodeout of the house. We listened in silence as he went down the steps, anduntil his footsteps died away on the path. Then the gentleman rose andpulled a cord hastily. The negro came in.

  “Put the lad to bed, Breed,” said he.

  “Whah, suh?”

  “Oh, anywhere,” said the master. He turned to me. “I’ll be better ableto talk to you in the morning, David,” said he.

  I followed the old servant up the great stairs, gulping down a sob thatwould rise, and clutching my mother’s gown tight under my arm. Had myfather left me alone in our cabin for a fortnight, I should not haveminded. But here, in this strange house, amid such strange surroundings,I was heartbroken. The old negro was very kind. He led me into a littlebedroom, and placing the candle on a polished dresser, he regarded mewith sympathy.

  “So you’re Miss Lizbeth’s boy,” said he. “An’ she dade. An’ Marse Alecrough an’ hard es though he been bo’n in de woods. Honey, ol’ Breed ‘lltek care ob you. I’ll git you one o’ dem night rails Marse Nick has, andsome ob his’n close in de mawnin’.”

  These things I remember, and likewise sobbing myself to sleep in thefour-poster. Often since I have wished that I had questioned Breedof many things on which I had no curiosity then, for he was my chiefcompanion in the weeks that followed. He awoke me bright and early thenext day.

  “Heah’s some close o’ Marse Nick’s you kin wear, honey,” he said.

  “Who is Master Nick?” I
asked.

  Breed slapped his thigh.

  “Marse Nick Temple, Marsa’s son. He’s ‘bout you size, but he ain’ no mo’laik you den a jack rabbit’s laik an’ owl. Dey ain’ none laik Marse Nickfo’ gittin’ into trouble--and gittin’ out agin.”

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “He at Temple Bow, on de Ashley Ribber. Dat’s de Marsa’s barony.”

  “His what?”

  “De place whah he lib at, in de country.”

  “And why isn’t the master there?”

  I remember that Breed gave a wink, and led me out of the window onto agallery above the one where we had found the master the night before.He pointed across the dense foliage of the garden to a strip of watergleaming in the morning sun beyond.

  “See dat boat?” said the negro. “Sometime de Marse he tek ar ride in datboat at night. Sometime gentlemen comes heah in a pow’ful hurry to gitaway, out’n de harbor whah de English is at.”

  By that time I was dressed, and marvellously uncomfortable in MasterNick’s clothes. But as I was going out of the door, Breed hailed me.

  “Marse Dave,”--it was the first time I had been called that,--“MarseDave, you ain’t gwineter tell?”

  “Tell what?” I asked.

  “Bout’n de boat, and Marsa agwine away nights.”

  “No,” said I, indignantly.

  “I knowed you wahn’t,” said Breed. “You don’ look as if you’d tellanything.”

  We found the master pacing the lower gallery. At first he barely glancedat me, and nodded. After a while he stopped, and began to put to me manyquestions about my life: when and how I had lived. And to some of myanswers he exclaimed, “Good God!” That was all. He was a handsome man,with hands like a woman’s, well set off by the lace at his sleeves. Hehad fine-cut features, and the white linen he wore was most becoming.

  “David,” said he, at length, and I noted that he lowered his voice,“David, you seem a discreet lad. Pay attention to what I tell you. Andmark! if you disobey me, you will be well whipped. You have this houseand garden to play in, but you are by no means to go out at the front ofthe house. And whatever you may see or hear, you are to tell no one. Doyou understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “For the rest,” said he, “Breed will give you food, and look out foryour welfare.”

  And so he dismissed me. They were lonely days after that for a boy usedto activity, and only the damp garden paths and lawns to run on. Thecreek at the back of the garden was stagnant and marshy when the waterfell, and overhung by leafy boughs. On each side of the garden was ahigh brick wall. And though I was often tempted to climb it, I feltthat disobedience was disloyalty to my father. Then there was the greathouse, dark and lonely in its magnificence, over which I roamed until Iknew every corner of it.

  I was most interested of all in the pictures of men and women in quaint,old-time costumes, and I used during the great heat of the day to sit inthe drawing-room and study these, and wonder who they were and when theylived. Another amusement I had was to climb into the deep windowsand peer through the blinds across the front garden into the street.Sometimes men stopped and talked loudly there, and again a rattle ofdrums would send me running to see the soldiers. I recall that I had apoor enough notion of what the fighting was all about. And no wonder.But I remember chiefly my insatiable longing to escape from this prison,as the great house soon became for me. And I yearned with a yearning Icannot express for our cabin in the hills and the old life there.

  I caught glimpses of the master on occasions only, and then I avoidedhim; for I knew he had no wish to see me. Sometimes he would be seatedin the gallery, tapping his foot on the floor, and sometimes pacing thegarden walks with his hands opening and shutting. And one night I awokewith a start, and lay for a while listening until I heard something likea splash, and the scraping of the bottom-boards of a boat. IrresistiblyI jumped out of bed, and running to the gallery rail I saw two darkfigures moving among the leaves below. The next morning I came suddenlyon a strange gentleman in the gallery. He wore a flowered dressing-gownlike the one I had seen on the master, and he had a jolly, round face. Istopped and stared.

  “Who the devil are you?” said he, but not unkindly.

  “My name is David Trimble,” said I, “and I come from the mountains.”

  He laughed.

  “Mr. David Trimble-from-the-mountains, who the devil am I?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” and I started to go away, not wishing to disturbhim.

  “Avast!” he cried. “Stand fast. See that you remember that.”

  “I’m not here of my free will, sir, but because my father wishes it. AndI’ll betray nothing.”

  Then he stared at me.

  “How old did you say you were?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t say,” said I.

  “And you are of Scotch descent?” said he.

  “I didn’t say so, sir.”

  “You’re a rum one,” said he, laughing again, and he disappeared into thehouse.

  That day, when Breed brought me my dinner on my gallery, he did notspeak of a visitor. You may be sure I did not mention the circumstance.But Breed always told me the outside news.

  “Dey’s gittin’ ready fo’ a big fight, Marse Dave,” said he. “MisterMoultrie in the fo’t in de bay, an’ Marse Gen’l Lee tryin’ for to bosshim. Dey’s Rebels. An’ Marse Admiral Parker an’ de King’s reg’mentsfixin’ fo’ to tek de fo’t, an’ den Charlesto’n. Dey say Mister Moultrieain’t got no mo’ chance dan a treed ‘possum.”

  “Why, Breed?” I asked. I had heard my father talk of England’s power andmight, and Mister Moultrie seemed to me a very brave man in his littlefort.

  “Why!” exclaimed the old negro. “You ain’t neber read no hist’ry books.I knows some of de gentlemen wid Mister Moultrie. Dey ain’t no soldiers.Some is fine gentlemen, to be suah, but it’s jist foolishness to fightdat fleet an’ army. Marse Gen’l Lee hisself, he done sesso. I heerdhim.”

  “And he’s on Mister Moultrie’s side?” I asked.

  “Sholy,” said Breed. “He’s de Rebel gen’l.”

  “Then he’s a knave and a coward!” I cried with a boy’s indignation.“Where did you hear him say that?” I demanded, incredulous of some ofBreed’s talk.

  “Right heah in dis house,” he answered, and quickly clapped his hand tohis mouth, and showed the whites of his eyes. “You ain’t agwineter telldat, Marse Dave?”

  “Of course not,” said I. And then: “I wish I could see Mister Moultriein his fort, and the fleet.”

  “Why, honey, so you kin,” said Breed.

  The good-natured negro dropped his work and led the way upstairs, Ifollowing expectant, to the attic. A rickety ladder rose to a kind oftower (cupola, I suppose it would be called), whence the bay spread outbefore me like a picture, the white islands edged with the whiter lacingof the waves. There, indeed, was the fleet, but far away, like toy shipson the water, and the bit of a fort perched on the sandy edge of anisland. I spent most of that day there, watching anxiously for somemovement. But none came.

  That night I was again awakened. And running into the gallery, I heardquick footsteps in the garden. Then there was a lantern’s flash, asmothered oath, and all was dark again. But in the flash I had seendistinctly three figures. One was Breed, and he held the lantern;another was the master; and the third, a stout one muffled in a cloak,I made no doubt was my jolly friend. I lay long awake, with a boy’scuriosity, until presently the dawn broke, and I arose and dressed, andbegan to wander about the house. No Breed was sweeping the gallery, norwas there any sign of the master. The house was as still as a tomb, andthe echoes of my footsteps rolled through the halls and chambers. Atlast, prompted by curiosity and fear, I sought the kitchen, where I hadoften sat with Breed as he cooked the master’s dinner. This was at thebottom and end of the house. The great fire there was cold, and the potsand pans hung neatly on their hooks, untouched that day. I was runningthrough the wet garden,
glad to be out in the light, when a soundstopped me.

  It was a dull roar from the direction of the bay. Almost instantly cameanother, and another, and then several broke together. And I knew thatthe battle had begun. Forgetting for the moment my loneliness, I raninto the house and up the stairs two at a time, and up the ladder intothe cupola, where I flung open the casement and leaned out.

  There was the battle indeed,--a sight so vivid to me after allthese years that I can call it again before me when I will. The toymen-o’-war, with sails set, ranging in front of the fort. They lookedat my distance to be pressed against it. White puffs, like cotton balls,would dart one after another from a ship’s side, melt into a cloud,float over her spars, and hide her from my view. And then presently theroar would reach me, and answering puffs along the line of the fort.And I could see the mortar shells go up and up, leaving a scorched trailbehind, curve in a great circle, and fall upon the little garrison.Mister Moultrie became a real person to me then, a vivid picture in myboyish mind--a hero beyond all other heroes.

  As the sun got up in the heavens and the wind fell, the cupola becamea bake-oven. But I scarcely felt the heat. My whole soul was out in thebay, pent up with the men in the fort. How long could they hold out? Whywere they not all killed by the shot that fell like hail among them? Yetpuff after puff sprang from their guns, and the sound of it was like astorm coming nearer in the heat. But at noon it seemed to me as thoughsome of the ships were sailing. It was true. Slowly they drew away fromthe others, and presently I thought they had stopped again. Surely twoof them were stuck together, then three were fast on a shoal. Boats,like black bugs in the water, came and went between them and the others.After a long time the two that were together got apart and away. But thethird stayed there, immovable, helpless.

  Throughout the afternoon the fight kept on, the little black boatscoming and going. I saw a mast totter and fall on one of the ships. Isaw the flag shot away from the fort, and reappear again. But now thepuffs came from her walls slowly and more slowly, so that my heart sankwith the setting sun. And presently it grew too dark to see aught savethe red flashes. Slowly, reluctantly, the noise died down until at lasta great silence reigned, broken only now and again by voices in thestreets below me. It was not until then that I realized that I had beenall day without food--that I was alone in the dark of a great house.

  I had never known fear in the woods at night. But now I trembled as Ifelt my way down the ladder, and groped and stumbled through the blackattic for the stairs. Every noise I made seemed louder an hundred foldthan the battle had been, and when I barked my shins, the pain wassharper than a knife. Below, on the big stairway, the echo of myfootsteps sounded again from the empty rooms, so that I was taken with apanic and fled downward, sliding and falling, until I reached the hall.Frantically as I tried, I could not unfasten the bolts on the frontdoor. And so, running into the drawing-room, I pried open the window,and sat me down in the embrasure to think, and to try to quiet thethumpings of my heart.

  By degrees I succeeded. The still air of the night and the heavy, dampodors of the foliage helped me. And I tried to think what was right forme to do. I had promised the master not to leave the place, and thatpromise seemed in pledge to my father. Surely the master would comeback--or Breed. They would not leave me here alone without food muchlonger. Although I was young, I was brought up to responsibility. And Iinherited a conscience that has since given me much trouble.

  From these thoughts, trying enough for a starved lad, I fell to thinkingof my father on the frontier fighting the Cherokees. And so I dozed awayto dream of him. I remember that he was skinning Cameron,--I had oftenpictured it,--and Cameron yelling, when I was awakened with a shock by agreat noise.

  I listened with my heart in my throat. The noise seemed to come from thehall,--a prodigious pounding. Presently it stopped, and a man’s voicecried out:--

  “Ho there, within!”

  My first impulse was to answer. But fear kept me still.

  “Batter down the door,” some one shouted.

  There was a sound of shuffling in the portico, and the same voice:--

  “Now then, all together, lads!”

  Then came a straining and splitting of wood, and with a crash the doorgave way. A lantern’s rays shot through the hall.

  “The house is as dark as a tomb,” said a voice.

  “And as empty, I reckon,” said another. “John Temple and his spy havegot away.”

  “We’ll have a search,” answered the first voice.

  They stood for a moment in the drawing-room door, peering, and then theyentered. There were five of them. Two looked to be gentlemen, and threewere of rougher appearance. They carried lanterns.

  “That window’s open,” said one of the gentlemen. “They must have beenhere to-day. Hello, what’s this?” He started back in surprise.

  I slid down from the window-seat, and stood facing them, not knowingwhat else to do. They, too, seemed equally confounded.

  “It must be Temple’s son,” said one, at last. “I had thought the familyat Temple Bow. What’s your name, my lad?”

  “David Trimble, sir,” said I.

  “And what are you doing here?” he asked more sternly.

  “I was left in Mr. Temple’s care by my father.”

  “Oho!” he cried. “And where is your father?”

  “He’s gone to fight the Cherokees,” I answered soberly. “To skin a mannamed Cameron.”

  At that they were silent for an instant, and then the two broke into alaugh.

  “Egad, Lowndes,” said the gentleman, “here is a fine mystery. Do youthink the boy is lying?”

  The other gentleman scratched his forehead.

  “I’ll have you know I don’t lie, sir,” I said, ready to cry.

  “No,” said the other gentleman. “A backwoodsman named Trimble wentto Rutledge with credentials from North Carolina, and has gone off toCherokee Ford to join McCall.”

  “Bless my soul!” exclaimed the first gentleman. He came up and laid hishand on my shoulder, and said:--

  “Where is Mr. Temple?”

  “That I don’t know, sir.”

  “When did he go away?”

  I did not answer at once.

  “That I can’t tell you, sir.”

  “Was there any one with him?”

  “That I can’t tell you, sir.”

  “The devil you can’t!” he cried, taking his hand away. “And why not?”

  I shook my head, sorely beset.

  “Come, Mathews,” cried the gentleman called Lowndes. “We’ll searchfirst, and attend to the lad after.”

  And so they began going through the house, prying into every cupboardand sweeping under every bed. They even climbed to the attic; and notingthe open casement in the cupola, Mr. Lowndes said:--

  “Some one has been here to-day.”

  “It was I, sir,” I said. “I have been here all day.”

  “And what doing, pray?” he demanded.

  “Watching the battle. And oh, sir,” I cried, “can you tell me whetherMister Moultrie beat the British?”

  “He did so,” cried Mr. Lowndes. “He did, and soundly.”

  He stared at me. I must have looked my pleasure.

  “Why, David,” says he, “you are a patriot, too.”

  “I am a Rebel, sir,” I cried hotly.

  Both gentlemen laughed again, and the men with them.

  “The lad is a character,” said Mr. Lowndes.

  We made our way down into the garden, which they searched last. At thecreek’s side the boat was gone, and there were footsteps in the mud.

  “The bird has flown, Lowndes,” said Mr. Mathews.

  “And good riddance for the Committee,” answered that gentleman,heartily. “He got to the fleet in fine season to get a round shot in themiddle. David,” said he, solemnly, “remember it never pays to try to betwo things at once.”

  “I’ll warrant he stayed below water,” said Mr. Mathews. “But what shallw
e do with the lad?”

  “I’ll take him to my house for the night,” said Mr. Lowndes, “and in themorning we’ll talk to him. I reckon he should be sent to Temple Bow. Heis connected in some way with the Temples.”

  “God help him if he goes there,” said Mr. Mathews, under his breath. ButI heard him.

  They locked up the house, and left one of the men to guard it, whileI went with Mr. Lowndes to his residence. I remember that people weregathered in the streets as we passed, making merry, and that theygreeted Mr. Lowndes with respect and good cheer. His house, too, wasset in a garden and quite as fine as Mr. Temple’s. It was ablaze withcandles, and I caught glimpses of fine gentlemen and ladies in therooms. But he hurried me through the hall, and into a little chamber atthe rear where a writing-desk was set. He turned and faced me.

  “You must be tired, David,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “And hungry? Boys are always hungry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You had no dinner?”

  “No, sir,” I answered, off my guard.

  “Mercy!” he said. “It is a long time since breakfast.”

  “I had no breakfast, sir.”

  “Good God!” he said, and pulled the velvet handle of a cord. A negrocame.

  “Is the supper for the guests ready?”

  “Yes, Marsa.”

  “Then bring as much as you can carry here,” said the gentleman. “And askMrs. Lowndes if I may speak with her.”

  Mrs. Lowndes came first. And such a fine lady she was that shefrightened me, this being my first experience with ladies. But when Mr.Lowndes told her my story, she ran to me impulsively and put her armsabout me.

  “Poor lad!” she said. “What a shame!”

  I think that the tears came then, but it was small wonder. There weretears in her eyes, too.

  Such a supper as I had I shall never forget. And she sat beside me forlong, neglecting her guests, and talking of my life. Suddenly she turnedto her husband, calling him by name.

  “He is Alec Ritchie’s son,” she said, “and Alec has gone againstCameron.”

  Mr. Lowndes did not answer, but nodded.

  “And must he go to Temple Bow?”

  “My dear,” said Mr. Lowndes, “I fear it is our duty to send him there.”

  CHAPTER IV. TEMPLE BOW

  In the morning I started for Temple Bow on horseback behind one of Mr.Lowndes’ negroes. Good Mrs. Lowndes had kissed me at parting, andtucked into my pocket a parcel of sweetmeats. There had been a few gravegentlemen to see me, and to their questions I had replied what I could.But tell them of Mr. Temple I would not, save that he himself had toldme nothing. And Mr. Lowndes had presently put an end to their talk.

  “The lad knows nothing, gentlemen,” he had said, which was true.

  “David,” said he, when he bade me farewell, “I see that your father hasbrought you up to fear God. Remember that all you see in this life isnot to be imitated.”

  And so I went off behind his negro. He was a merry lad, and despite thegreat heat of the journey and my misgivings about Temple Bow, he made melaugh. I was sad at crossing the ferry over the Ashley, through thinkingof my father, but I reflected that it could not be long now ere I sawhim again. In the middle of the day we stopped at a tavern. And atlength, in the abundant shade of evening, we came to a pair of greatornamental gates set between brick pillars capped with white balls, andturned into a drive. And presently, winding through the trees, we werein sight of a long, brick mansion trimmed with white, and a velvetlawn before it all flecked with shadows. In front of the portico was asaddled horse, craning his long neck at two panting hounds stretched onthe ground. A negro boy in blue clutched the bridle. On the horse-blocka gentleman in white reclined. He wore shiny boots, and he held his hatin his hand, and he was gazing up at a lady who stood on the steps abovehim.

  The lady I remember as well--Lord forbid that I should forget her. Andher laugh as I heard it that evening is ringing now in my ears. And yetit was not a laugh. Musical it was, yet there seemed no pleasure in it:rather irony, and a great weariness of the amusements of this world:and a note, too, from a vanity never ruffled. It stopped abruptly as thenegro pulled up his horse before her, and she stared at us haughtily.

  “What’s this?” she said.

  “Pardon, Mistis,” said the negro, “I’se got a letter from MarseLowndes.”

  “Mr. Lowndes should instruct his niggers,” she said. “There is aservants’ drive.” The man was turning his horse when she cried: “Hold!Let’s have it.”

  He dismounted and gave her the letter, and I jumped to the ground,watching her as she broke the seal, taking her in, as a boy will, fromthe flowing skirt and tight-laced stays of her salmon silk to herhigh and powdered hair. She must have been about thirty. Her face wasbeautiful, but had no particle of expression in it, and was dotted hereand there with little black patches of plaster. While she was reading,a sober gentleman in black silk breeches and severe coat came out of thehouse and stood beside her.

  “Heigho, parson,” said the gentleman on the horse-block, without moving,“are you to preach against loo or lansquenet to-morrow?”

  “Would it make any difference to you, Mr. Riddle?”

  Before he could answer there came a great clatter behind them, and a boyof my own age appeared. With a leap he landed sprawling on the indolentgentleman’s shoulders, nearly upsetting him.

  “You young rascal!” exclaimed the gentleman, pitching him on the drivealmost at my feet; then he fell back again to a position where he couldlook up at the lady.

  “Harry Riddle,” cried the boy, “I’ll ride steeplechases and beat yousome day.”

  “Hush, Nick,” cried the lady, petulantly, “I’ll have no nerves left me.” She turned to the letter again, holding it very near to her eyes,and made a wry face of impatience. Then she held the sheet out to Mr.Riddle.

  “A pretty piece of news,” she said languidly. “Read it, Harry.”

  The gentleman seized her hand instead. The lady glanced at theclergyman, whose back was turned, and shook her head.

  “How tiresome you are!” she said.

  “What’s happened?” asked Mr. Riddle, letting go as the parson lookedaround.

  “Oh, they’ve had a battle,” said the lady, “and Moultrie and his Rebelshave beat off the King’s fleet.”

  “The devil they have!” exclaimed Mr. Riddle, while the parson startedforwards. “Anything more?”

  “Yes, a little.” She hesitated. “That husband of mine has fledCharlestown. They think he went to the fleet.” And she shot a meaninglook at Mr. Riddle, who in turn flushed red. I was watching them.

  “What!” cried the clergyman, “John Temple has run away?”

  “Why not,” said Mr. Riddle. “One can’t live between wind and water long.And Charlestown’s--uncomfortable in summer.”

  At that the clergyman cast one look at them--such a look as I shallnever forget--and went into the house.

  “Mamma,” said the boy, “where has father gone? Has he run away?”

  “Yes. Don’t bother me, Nick.”

  “I don’t believe it,” cried Nick, his high voice shaking. “I’d--I’ddisown him.”

  At that Mr. Riddle burst into a hearty laugh.

  “Come, Nick,” said he, “it isn’t so bad as that. Your father’s for hisMajesty, like the rest of us. He’s merely gone over to fight for him.” And he looked at the lady and laughed again. But I liked the boy.

  As for the lady, she curled her lip. “Mr. Riddle, don’t be foolish,” shesaid. “If we are to play, send your horse to the stables.” Suddenly hereye lighted on me. “One more brat,” she sighed. “Nick, take him to thenursery, or the stable. And both of you keep out of my sight.”

  Nick strode up to me.

  “Don’t mind her. She’s always saying, ‘Keep out of my sight.’” His voicetrembled. He took me by the sleeve and began pulling me around the houseand into a little summer bower that stood there; for he
had a masterfulmanner.

  “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  “David Trimble,” I said.

  “Have you seen my father in town?”

  The intense earnestness of the question surprised an answer out of me.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “In his house. My father left me with your father.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I related as much as I dared, leaving out Mr. Temple’s double dealing;which, in truth, I did not understand. But the boy was relentless.

  “Why,” said he, “my father was a friend of Mr. Lowndes and Mr. Mathews.I have seen them here drinking with him. And in town. And he ran away?”

  “I do not know where he went,” said I, which was the truth.

  He said nothing, but hid his face in his arms over the rail of thebower. At length he looked up at me fiercely.

  “If you ever tell this, I will kill you,” he cried. “Do you hear?”

  That made me angry.

  “Yes, I hear,” I said. “But I am not afraid of you.”

  He was at me in an instant, knocking me to the floor, so that the breathwent out of me, and was pounding me vigorously ere I recovered from theshock and astonishment of it and began to defend myself. He was tallerthan I, and wiry, but not so rugged. Yet there was a look about himthat was far beyond his strength. A look that meant, never say die.Curiously, even as I fought desperately I compared him with that otherlad I had known, Andy Jackson. And this one, though not so powerful,frightened me the more in his relentlessness.

  Perhaps we should have been fighting still had not some one pulled usapart, and when my vision cleared I saw Nick, struggling and kicking,held tightly in the hands of the clergyman. And it was all thatgentleman could do to hold him. I am sure it was quite five minutesbefore he forced the lad, exhausted, on to the seat. And then therewas a defiance about his nostrils that showed he was undefeated. Theclergyman, still holding him with one hand, took out his handkerchiefwith the other and wiped his brow.

  I expected a scolding and a sermon. To my amazement the clergyman saidquietly:--

  “Now what was the trouble, David?”

  “I’ll not be the one to tell it, sir,” I said, and trembled at mytemerity.

  The parson looked at me queerly.

  “Then you are in the right of it,” he said. “It is as I thought; I’llnot expect Nicholas to tell me.”

  “I will tell you, sir,” said Nicholas. “He was in the house with myfather when--when he ran away. And I said that if he ever spoke of it toany one, I would kill him.”

  For a while the clergyman was silent, gazing with a strange tendernessat the lad, whose face was averted.

  “And you, David?” he said presently.

  “I--I never mean to tell, sir. But I was not to be frightened.”

  “Quite right, my lad,” said the clergyman, so kindly that it sent astrange thrill through me. Nicholas looked up quickly.

  “You won’t tell?” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “You can let me go now, Mr. Mason,” said he. Mr. Mason did. And he cameover and sat beside me, but said nothing more.

  After a while Mr. Mason cleared his throat.

  “Nicholas,” said he, “when you grow older you will understand thesematters better. Your father went away to join the side he believes in,the side we all believe in--the King’s side.”

  “Did he ever pretend to like the other side?” asked Nick, quickly.

  “When you grow older you will know his motives,” answered the clergyman,gently. “Until then; you must trust him.”

  “You never pretended,” cried Nick.

  “Thank God I never was forced to do so,” said the clergyman, fervently.

  It is wonderful that the conditions of our existence may wholly changewithout a seeming strangeness. After many years only vivid snatches ofwhat I saw and heard and did at Temple Bow come back to me. I understoodbut little the meaning of the seigniorial life there. My chief wondernow is that its golden surface was not more troubled by the winds thenbrewing. It was a new life to me, one that I had not dreamed of.

  After that first falling out, Nick and I became inseparable. Far slowerthan he in my likes and dislikes, he soon became a passion with me.Even as a boy, he did everything with a grace unsurpassed; the dash anddaring of his pranks took one’s breath; his generosity to those he lovedwas prodigal. Nor did he ever miss a chance to score those under hisdispleasure. At times he was reckless beyond words to describe, andagain he would fall sober for a day. He could be cruel and tender in thesame hour; abandoned and freezing in his dignity. He had an old negromammy whose worship for him and his possessions was idolatry. I can hearher now calling and calling, “Marse Nick, honey, yo’ supper’s done gotcole,” as she searched patiently among the magnolias. And suddenly therewould be a shout, and Mammy’s turban go flying from her woolly head, orMammy herself would be dragged down from behind and sat upon.

  We had our supper, Nick and I, at twilight, in the children’s diningroom. A little white room, unevenly panelled, the silver candlesticksand yellow flames fantastically reflected in the mirrors between thedeep windows, and the moths and June-bugs tilting at the lights. We satat a little mahogany table eating porridge and cream from round bluebowls, with Mammy to wait on us. Sometimes there floated in upon us thehum of revelry from the great drawing-room where Madame had her company.Often the good Mr. Mason would come in to us (he cared little for theparties), and talk to us of our day’s doings. Nick had his lessons fromthe clergyman in the winter time.

  Mr. Mason took occasion once to question me on what I knew. Some ofmy answers, in especial those relating to my knowledge of the Bible,surprised him. Others made him sad.

  “David,” said he, “you are an earnest lad, with a head to learn, and youwill. When your father comes, I shall talk with him.” He paused--“I knewhim,” said he, “I knew him ere you were born. A just man, and upright,but with a great sorrow. We must never be hasty in our judgments. Butyou will never be hasty, David,” he added, smiling at me. “You are agood companion for Nicholas.”

  Nicholas and I slept in the same bedroom, at a corner of the long house,and far removed from his mother. She would not be disturbed by thenoise he made in the mornings. I remember that he had cut in the solidshutters of that room, folded into the embrasures, “Nicholas Temple, HisMark,” and a long, flat sword. The first night in that room we slept butlittle, near the whole of it being occupied with tales of my adventuresand of my life in the mountains. Over and over again I must tell him ofthe “painters” and wildcats, of deer and bear and wolf. Nor was he eversatisfied. And at length I came to speak of that land where I had oftenlived in fancy--the land beyond the mountains of which Daniel Boone hadtold. Of its forest and glade, its countless herds of elk and buffalo,its salt-licks and Indians, until we fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  “I will go there,” he cried in the morning, as he hurried into hisclothes; “I will go to that land as sure as my name is Nick Temple. Andyou shall go with me, David.”

  “Perchance I shall go before you,” I answered, though I had small hopesof persuading my father.

  He would often make his exit by the window, climbing down into thegarden by the protruding bricks at the corner of the house; or sometimesgo shouting down the long halls and through the gallery to the greatstairway, a smothered oath from behind the closed bedroom doorsproclaiming that he had waked a guest. And many days we spent in thewood, playing at hunting game--a poor enough amusement for me, and onethat Nick soon tired of. They were thick, wet woods, unlike our woodsof the mountains; and more than once we had excitement enough with thesnakes that lay there.

  I believe that in a week’s time Nick was as conversant with my life as Imyself. For he made me tell of it again and again, and of Kentucky.And always as he listened his eyes would glow and his breast heave withexcitement.

  “Do you think your father will take you there, David,
when he comes foryou?”

  I hoped so, but was doubtful.

  “I’ll run away with you,” he declared. “There is no one here who caresfor me save Mr. Mason and Mammy.”

  And I believe he meant it. He saw but little of his mother, and nearlyalways something unpleasant was coupled with his views. Sometimes weran across her in the garden paths walking with a gallant,--oftenest Mr.Riddle. It was a beautiful garden, with hedge-bordered walks and flowerswondrously massed in color, a high brick wall surrounding it. FrequentlyMrs. Temple and Mr. Riddle would play at cards there of an afternoon,and when that musical, unbelieving laugh of hers came floating over thewall, Nick would say:--

  “Mamma is winning.”

  Once we heard high words between the two, and running into the gardenfound the cards scattered on the grass, and the couple gone.

  Of all Nick’s escapades,--and he was continually in and out of them,--Irecall only a few of the more serious. As I have said, he was a wildlad, sobered by none of the things which had gone to make my life, andwhat he took into his head to do he generally did,--or, if balked, flewinto such a rage as to make one believe he could not live. Life wasalways war with him, or some semblance of a struggle. Of his many wilddoings I recall well the time when--fired by my tales of hunting--hewent out to attack the young bull in the paddock with a bow and arrow.It made small difference to the bull that the arrow was too blunt toenter his hide. With a bellow that frightened the idle negroes at theslave quarters, he started for Master Nick. I, who had been taught bymy father never to run any unnecessary risk, had taken the precaution toprovide as large a stone as I could comfortably throw, and took stationon the fence. As the furious animal came charging, with his headlowered, I struck him by a good fortune between the eyes, and Nicholasgot over. We were standing on the far side, watching him pawing thebroken bow, when, in the crowd of frightened negroes, we discovered theparson beside us.

  “David,” said he, patting me with a shaking hand, “I perceive that youhave a cool head. Our young friend here has a hot one. Dr. Johnson maynot care for Scotch blood, and yet I think a wee bit of it is not to bedespised.”

  I wondered whether Dr. Johnson was staying in the house, too.

  How many slaves there were at Temple Bow I know not, but we used to seethem coming home at night in droves, the overseers riding beside themwith whips and guns. One day a huge Congo chief, not long from Africa,nearly killed an overseer, and escaped to the swamp. As the day fell,we heard the baying of the bloodhounds hot upon his trail. More ominousstill, a sound like a rising wind came from the direction of thequarters. Into our little dining-room burst Mrs. Temple herself,slamming the door behind her. Mr. Mason, who was sitting with us, roseto calm her.

  “The Rebels!” she cried. “The Rebels have taught them this, with theiraccursed notions of liberty and equality. We shall all be murdered bythe blacks because of the Rebels. Oh, hell-fire is too good for them.Have the house barred and a watch set to-night. What shall we do?”

  “I pray you compose yourself, Madame,” said the clergyman. “We can sendfor the militia.”

  “The militia!” she shrieked; “the Rebel militia! They would murder us assoon as the niggers.”

  “They are respectable men,” answered Mr. Mason, “and were at FanningHall to-day patrolling.”

  “I would rather be killed by whites than blacks,” said the lady. “Butwho is to go for the militia?”

  “I will ride for them,” said Mr. Mason. It was a dark, lowering night,and spitting rain.

  “And leave me defenceless!” she cried. “You do not stir, sir.”

  “It is a pity,” said Mr. Mason--he was goaded to it, I suppose--“‘tis apity Mr. Riddle did not come to-night.”

  She shot at him a withering look, for even in her fear she would brookno liberties. Nick spoke up:--

  “I will go,” said he; “I can get through the woods to Fanning Hall--”

  “And I will go with him,” I said.

  “Let the brats go,” she said, and cut short Mr. Mason’s expostulations.She drew Nick to her and kissed him. He wriggled away, and without moreado we climbed out of the dining-room windows into the night. Runningacross the lawn, we left the lights of the great house twinkling behindus in the rain. We had to pass the long line of cabins at the quarters.Three overseers with lanterns stood guard there; the cabins were dark,the wretches within silent and cowed. Thence we felt with our feetfor the path across the fields, stumbled over a sty, and took our waythrough the black woods. I was at home here, and Nick was not to befrightened. At intervals the mournful bay of a bloodhound came to usfrom a distance.

  “Suppose we should meet the Congo chief,” said Nick, suddenly.

  The idea had occurred to me.

  “She needn’t have been so frightened,” said he, in scornful remembranceof his mother’s actions.

  We pressed on. Nick knew the path as only a boy can. Half an hourpassed. It grew brighter. The rain ceased, and a new moon shot outbetween the leaves. I seized his arm.

  “What’s that?” I whispered.

  “A deer.”

  But I, cradled in woodcraft, had heard plainly a man creeping throughthe underbrush beside us. Fear of the Congo chief and pity for thewretch tore at my heart. Suddenly there loomed in front of us, on thepath, a great, naked man. We stood with useless limbs, staring at him.

  Then, from the trees over our heads, came a chittering and a chatteringsuch as I had never heard. The big man before us dropped to theearth, his head bowed, muttering. As for me, my fright increased. Thechattering stopped, and Nick stepped forward and laid his hand on thenegro’s bare shoulder.

  “We needn’t be afraid of him now, Davy,” he said. “I learned that trickfrom a Portuguese overseer we had last year.”

  “You did it!” I exclaimed, my astonishment overcoming my fear.

  “It’s the way the monkeys chatter in the Canaries,” he said. “Manuel hada tame one, and I heard it talk. Once before I tried it on the chief,and he fell down. He thinks I’m a god.”

  It must have been a weird scene to see the great negro following twoboys in the moonlight. Indeed, he came after us like a dog. At length wewere in sight of the lights of Fanning Hall. The militia was there. Wewere challenged by the guard, and caused sufficient amazement when weappeared in the hall before the master, who was a bachelor of fifty.

  “‘Sblood, Nick Temple!” he cried, “what are you doing here with that bigCongo for a dog? The sight of him frightens me.”

  The negro, indeed, was a sight to frighten one. The black mud of theswamps was caked on him, and his flesh was torn by brambles.

  “He ran away,” said Nick; “and I am taking him home.”

  “You--you are taking him home!” sputtered Mr. Fanning.

  “Do you want to see him act?” said Nick. And without waiting for a replyhe filled the hall with a dozen monkeys. Mr. Fanning leaped back intoa doorway, but the chief prostrated himself on the floor. “Now do youbelieve I can take him home?” said Nick.

  “‘Swounds!” said Mr. Fanning, when he had his breath. “You beat thedevil, Nicholas Temple. The next time you come to call I pray you leaveyour travelling show at home.”

  “Mamma sent me for the militia,” said Nick.

  “She did!” said Mr. Fanning, looking grim. “An insurrection is a badthing, but there was no danger for two lads in the woods, I suppose.”

  “There’s no danger anyway,” said Nick. “The niggers are all scared todeath.”

  Mr. Fanning burst out into a loud laugh, stopped suddenly, sat down, andtook Nick on his knee. It was an incongruous scene. Mr. Fanning almostcried.

  “Bless your soul,” he said, “but you are a lad. Would to God I had youinstead of--”

  He paused abruptly.

  “I must go home,” said Nick; “she will be worried.”

  “She will be worried!” cried Mr. Fanning, in a burst of anger. Then hesaid: “You shall have the militia. You shall have the militia.” He ranga bell and se
nt his steward for the captain, a gawky country farmer, whogave a gasp when he came upon the scene in the hall.

  “And mind,” said Nick to the captain, “you are to keep your men awayfrom him, or he will kill one of them.”

  The captain grinned at him curiously.

  “I reckon I won’t have to tell them to keep away,” said he.

  Mr. Fanning started us off for the walk with pockets filled withsweetmeats, which we nibbled on the way back. We made a queerprocession, Nick and I striding ahead to show the path, followed bythe now servile chief, and after him the captain and his twenty menin single file. It was midnight when we saw the lights of Temple Bowthrough the trees. One of the tired overseers met us near the kitchen.When he perceived the Congo his face lighted up with rage, and heinstinctively reached for his whip. But the chief stood before him,immovable, with arms folded, and a look on his face that meant danger.

  “He will kill you, Emory,” said Nick; “he will kill you if you touchhim.”

  Emory dropped his hand, limply.

  “He will go to work in the morning,” said Nick; “but mind you, not alash.”

  “Very good, Master Nick,” said the man; “but who’s to get him in hiscabin?”

  “I will,” said Nick. He beckoned to the Congo, who followed him over toquarters and went in at his door without a protest.

  The next morning Mrs. Temple looked out of her window and saw themilitiamen on the lawn.

  “Pooh!” she said, “are those butternuts the soldiers that Nick went tofetch?”

  CHAPTER V. CRAM’S HELL

  After that my admiration for Nick Temple increased greatly, whetherexcited by his courage and presence of mind, or his ability to imitatemen and women and creatures, I know not. One of our amusements, Irecall, was to go to the Congo’s cabin to see him fall on his face,until Mr. Mason put a stop to it. The clergyman let us know that we wereencouraging idolatry, and he himself took the chief in hand.

  Another incident comes to me from those bygone days. The fear of negroinsurrections at the neighboring plantations being temporarily lulled,the gentry began to pluck up courage for their usual amusements. Therewere to be races at some place a distance away, and Nick was determinedto go. Had he not determined that I should go, all would have been well.The evening before he came upon his mother in the garden. Strange tosay, she was in a gracious mood and alone.

  “Come and kiss me, Nick,” she said. “Now, what do you want?”

  “I want to go to the races,” he said.

  “You have your pony. You can follow the coach.”

  “David is to ride the pony,” said Nick, generously. “May I go in thecoach?”

  “No,” she said, “there is no room for you.”

  Nicholas flared up. “Harry Riddle is going in the coach. I don’t see whyyou can’t take me sometimes. You like him better than me.”

  The lady flushed very red.

  “How dare you, Nick!” she cried angrily. “What has Mr. Mason beenputting into your head?”

  “Nothing,” said Nick, quite as angrily. “Any one can see that you likeHarry. And I will ride in the coach.”

  “You’ll not,” said his mother.

  I had heard nothing of this. The next morning he led out his pony fromthe stables for me to ride, and insisted. And, supposing he was to goin the coach, I put foot in the stirrup. The little beast would scarcestand still for me to mount.

  “You’ll not need the whip with her,” said Nick, and led her around bythe side of the house, in view of the portico, and stood there at herbridle. Presently, with a great noise and clatter of hoofs, the coachrounded the drive, the powdered negro coachman pulling up the fourhorses with much ceremony at the door. It was a wondrous great vehicle,the bright colors of its body flashing in the morning light. I hadexamined it more than once, and with awe, in the coach-house. It hadglass windows and a lion on a blue shield on the door, and within it wasall salmon silk, save the painted design on the ceiling. Great leatherstraps held up this house on wheels, to take the jolts of the road. Andbehind it was a platform. That morning two young negroes with flowingblue coats stood on it. They leaped to the ground when the coachstopped, and stood each side of the door, waiting for my lady to enter.

  She came down the steps, laughing, with Mr. Riddle, who was in hisriding clothes, for he was to race that day. He handed her in, and gotin after her. The coachman cracked his whip, the coach creaked offdown the drive, I in the trees one side waiting for them to pass, andwondering what Nick was to do. He had let go my bridle, folded his whipin his hand, and with a shout of “Come on, Davy,” he ran for the coach,which was going slowly, caught hold of the footman’s platform, andpulled himself up.

  What possessed the footman I know not. Perchance fear of his mistresswas greater than fear of his young master; but he took the lad by theshoulders--gently, to be sure--and pushed him into the road, where hefell and rolled over. I guessed what would happen. Picking himself up,Nick was at the man like a hurricane, seizing him swiftly by the leg.The negro fell upon the platform, clutching wildly, where he lay in asheer fright, shrieking for mercy, his cries rivalled by those of thelady within. The coachman frantically pulled his horses to a stand, theother footman jumped off, and Mr. Harry Riddle came flying out of thecoach door, to behold Nicholas beating the negro with his riding-whip.

  “You young devil,” cried Mr. Riddle, angrily, striding forward, “whatare you doing?”

  “Keep off, Harry,” said Nicholas. “I am teaching this nigger that heis not to lay hands on his betters.” With that he gave the boy one morecut, and turned from him contemptuously.

  “What is it, Harry?” came in a shrill voice from within the coach.

  “It’s Nick’s pranks,” said Mr. Riddle, grinning in spite of his anger;“he’s ruined one of your footmen. You little scoundrel,” cried Mr.Riddle, advancing again, “you’ve frightened your mother nearly to aswoon.”

  “Serves her right,” said Nick.

  “What!” cried Mr. Riddle. “Come down from there instantly.”

  Nick raised his whip. It was not that that stopped Mr. Riddle, but asign about the lad’s nostrils.

  “Harry Riddle,” said the boy, “if it weren’t for you, I’d be riding inthis coach to-day with my mother. I don’t want to ride with her, butI will go to the races. If you try to take me down, I’ll do my best tokill you,” and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.

  Mrs. Temple’s beautiful face had by this time been thrust out of thedoor.

  “For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with us. We’re lateenough as it is.”

  Mr. Riddle turned on his heel. He tried to glare at Nick, but he brokeinto a laugh instead.

  “Come down, Satan,” says he. “God help the woman you love and the manyou fight.”

  And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach. The footman pickedhimself up, more scared than injured, and the vehicle took its lumberingway for the race-course, I following.

  I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that in the gorgeousdress of those who watched. There had been many, many more in formeryears, so I heard people say. This was the only sign that a war wasin progress,--the scanty number of gentry present,--for all save theindifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere. I recall it dimly,as a blaze of color passing: merrymaking, jesting, feasting,--a rarecontrast, I thought, to the sight I had beheld in Charlestown Bay buta while before. Yet so runs the world,--strife at one man’s home, andpeace and contentment at his neighbor’s; sorrow here, and rejoicing nota league away.

  Master Nicholas played one prank that evening that was near to costingdear. My lady Temple made up a party for Temple Bow at the course, twoother coaches to come and some gentlemen riding. As Nick and I wererunning through the paddock we came suddenly upon Mr. Harry Riddle anda stout, swarthy gentleman standing together. The stout gentleman wascounting out big gold pieces in his hand and giving them to Mr. Riddle.

  “Lucky dog!” said the stout gentleman; “you’ll
ride back with her, andyou’ve won all I’ve got.” And he dug Mr. Riddle in the ribs.

  “You’ll have it again when we play to-night, Darnley,” answered Mr.Riddle, crossly. “And as for the seat in the coach, you are welcome toit. That firebrand of a lad is on the front seat.”

  “D--n the lad,” said the stout gentleman. “I’ll take it, and you canride my horse. He’ll--he’ll carry you, I reckon.” His voice had a way ofcracking into a mellow laugh.

  At that Mr. Riddle went off in a towering bad humor, and afterwards Iheard him cursing the stout gentleman’s black groom as he mounted hisgreat horse. And then he cursed the horse as it reared and plunged,while the stout gentleman stood at the coach door, cackling at hisdiscomfiture. The gentleman did ride home with Mrs. Temple, Nick goinginto another coach. I afterwards discovered that the gentleman hadbribed him with a guinea. And Mr. Riddle more than once came nearrunning down my pony on his big charger, and he swore at me roundly,too.

  That night there was a gay supper party in the big dining room at TempleBow. Nick and I looked on from the gallery window. It was a prettysight. The long mahogany board reflecting the yellow flames of thecandles, and spread with bright silver and shining dishes loaded withdainties, the gentlemen and ladies in brilliant dress, the hurryingservants,--all were of a new and strange world to me. And presently,after the ladies were gone, the gentlemen tossed off their wine androared over their jokes, and followed into the drawing-room. This Inoticed, that only Mr. Harry Riddle sat silent and morose, and that hehad drunk more than the others.

  “Come, Davy,” said Nick to me, “let’s go and watch them again.”

  “But how?” I asked, for the drawing-room windows were up some distancefrom the ground, and there was no gallery on that side.

  “I’ll show you,” said he, running into the garden. After searchingawhile in the dark, he found a ladder the gardener had left against atree; after much straining, we carried the ladder to the house andset it up under one of the windows of the drawing-room. Then we bothclambered cautiously to the top and looked in.

  The company were at cards, silent, save for a low remark now and again.The little tables were ranged along by the windows, and it chanced thatMr. Harry Riddle sat so close to us that we could touch him. On hisright sat Mr. Darnley, the stout gentleman, and in the other seats twoladies. Between Mr. Riddle and Mr. Darnley was a pile of silver and goldpieces. There was not room for two of us in comfort at the top of theladder, so I gave place to Nick, and sat on a lower rung. Presently Isaw him raise himself, reach in, and duck quickly.

  “Feel that,” he whispered to me, chuckling and holding out his hand.

  It was full of money.

  “But that’s stealing, Nick,” I said, frightened.

  “Of course I’ll give it back,” he whispered indignantly.

  Instantly there came loud words and the scraping of chairs within theroom, and a woman’s scream. I heard Mr. Riddle’s voice say thickly, amidthe silence that followed:--

  “Mr. Darnley, you’re a d--d thief, sir.”

  “You shall answer for this, when you are sober, sir,” said Mr. Darnley.

  Then there came more scraping of chairs, all the company talkingexcitedly at once. Nick and I scrambled to the ground, and we did thevery worst thing we could possibly have done,--we took the ladder away.

  There was little sleep for me that night. I had first of all besoughtNick to go up into the drawing-room and give the money back. But somestrange obstinacy in him resisted.

  “‘Twill serve Harry well for what he did to-day,” said he.

  My next thought was to find Mr. Mason, but he was gone up the river tovisit a sick parishioner. I had seen enough of the world to know thatgentlemen fought for less than what had occurred in the drawing-roomthat evening. And though I had neither love nor admiration for Mr.Riddle, and though the stout gentleman was no friend of mine, I carednot to see either of them killed for a prank. But Nick would not listento me, and went to sleep in the midst of my urgings.

  “Davy,” said he, pinching me, “do you know what you are?”

  “No,” said I.

  “You’re a granny,” he said. And that was the last word I could get outof him. But I lay awake a long time, thinking. Breed had whiled awayfor me one hot morning in Charlestown with an account of the gentry andtheir doings, many of which he related in an awed whisper that I couldnot understand. They were wild doings indeed to me. But strangest of allseemed the duels, conducted with a decorum and ceremony as rigorous asthe law.

  “Did you ever see a duel, Breed?” I had asked.

  “Yessah,” said Breed, dramatically, rolling the whites of his eyes.

  “Where?”

  “Whah? Down on de riveh bank at Temple Bow in de ea’ly mo’nin’! Dey mos’commonly fights at de dawn.”

  Breed had also told me where he was in hiding at the time, and that waswhat troubled me. Try as I would, I could not remember. It had soundedlike Clam Shell. That I recalled, and how Breed had looked out at thesword-play through the cracks of the closed shutters, agonized betweenfear of ghosts within and the drama without. At the first faint lightthat came into our window I awakened Nick.

  “Listen,” I said; “do you know a place called Clam Shell?”

  He turned over, but I punched him persistently until he sat up.

  “What the deuce ails you, Davy?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “Have younightmare?”

  “Do you know a place called Clam Shell, down on the river bank, Nick?”

  “Why,” he replied, “you must be thinking of Cram’s Hell.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a house that used to belong to Cram, who was an overseer. Theniggers hated him, and he was killed in bed by a big black niggerchief from Africa. The niggers won’t go near the place. They say it’shaunted.”

  “Get up,” said I; “we’re going there now.”

  Nick sprang out of bed and began to get into his clothes.

  “Is it a game?” he asked.

  “Yes.” He was always ready for a game.

  We climbed out of the window, and made our way in the mist through thelong, wet grass, Nick leading. He took a path through a dark forestswamp, over logs that spanned the stagnant waters, and at length,just as the mist was growing pearly in the light, we came out at atumble-down house that stood in an open glade by the river’s bank.

  “What’s to do now?” said Nick.

  “We must get into the house,” I answered. But I confess I didn’t carefor the looks of it.

  Nick stared at me.

  “Very good, Davy,” he said; “I’ll follow where you go.”

  It was a Saturday morning. Why I recall this I do not know. It has nospecial significance.

  I tried the door. With a groan and a shriek it gave way, disclosing theblackness inside. We started back involuntarily. I looked at Nick, andNick at me. He was very pale, and so must I have been. But such was therespect we each held for the other’s courage that neither dared flinch.And so I walked in, although it seemed as if my shirt was made of needlepoints and my hair stood on end. The crackings of the old floor were tome like the shots in Charlestown Bay. Our hearts beating wildly, we madeour way into a farther room. It was like walking into the beyond.

  “Is there a window here?” I asked Nick, my voice sounding like a shout.

  “Yes, ahead of us.”

  Groping for it, I suddenly received a shock that set me reeling. Humannature could stand no more. We both turned tail and ran out of the houseas fast as we could, and stood in the wet grass, panting. Then shamecame.

  “Let’s open the window first,” I suggested. So we walked around thehouse and pried the solid shutter from its fastenings. Then, gatheringour courage, we went in again at the door. In the dim light let intothe farther room we saw a four-poster bed, old and cheap, with raggedcurtains. It was this that I had struck in my groping.

  “The chief killed Cram there,” said Nick, in an awed voice, “in thatbed.
What do you want to do here, Davy?”

  “Wait,” I said, though I had as little mind to wait as ever in my life.“Stand here by the window.”

  We waited there. The mist rose. The sun peeped over the bank of densegreen forest and spread rainbow colors on the still waters of the river.Now and again a fish broke, or a great bird swooped down and slit thesurface. A far-off snatch of melody came to our ears,--the slaves weregoing to work. Nothing more. And little by little grave misgivingsgnawed at my soul of the wisdom of coming to this place. Doubtless therewere many other spots.

  “Davy,” said Nick, at last, “I’m sorry I took that money. What are wehere for?”

  “Hush!” I whispered; “do you hear anything?”

  I did, and distinctly. For I had been brought up in the forest.

  “I hear voices,” he said presently, “coming this way.”

  They were very clear to me by then. Emerging from the forest pathwere five gentlemen. The leader, more plainly dressed than the others,carried a leather case. Behind him was the stout figure of Mr. Darnley,his face solemn; and last of all came Mr. Harry Riddle, very pale, butcutting the tops of the long grass with a switch. Nick seized my arm.

  “They are going to fight,” said he.

  “Yes,” I replied, “and we are here to stop them, now.”

  “No, not now,” he said, holding me still. “We’ll have some more fun outof this yet.”

  “Fun?” I echoed.

  “Yes,” he said excitedly. “Leave it to me. I shan’t let them fight.”

  And that instant we changed generals, David giving place to Nicholas.

  Mr. Riddle retired with one gentleman to a side of the little patch ofgrass, and Mr. Darnley and a friend to another. The fifth gentleman tooka position halfway between the two, and, opening the leather case, laidit down on the grass, where its contents glistened.

  “That’s Dr. Ball,” whispered Nick. And his voice shook with excitement.

  Mr. Riddle stripped off his coat and waistcoat and ruffles, and hissword-belt, and Mr. Darnley did the same. Both gentlemen drew theirswords and advanced to the middle of the lawn, and stood opposite oneanother, with flowing linen shirts open at the throat, and bared heads.They were indeed a contrast. Mr. Riddle, tall and white, with closedlips, glared at his opponent. Mr. Darnley cut a merrier figure,--rotundand flushed, with fat calves and short arms, though his countenance wassober enough. All at once the two were circling their swords in the air,and then Nick had flung open the shutter and leaped through the window,and was running and shouting towards the astonished gentlemen, all ofwhom wheeled to face him. He jingled as he ran.

  “What in the devil’s name now?” cried Mr. Riddle, angrily. “Here’s thisimp again.”

  Nicholas stopped in front of him, and, thrusting his hand in hisbreeches pocket, fished out a handful of gold and silver, which he heldout to the confounded Mr. Riddle.

  “Harry,” said he, “here’s something of yours I found last night.”

  “You found?” echoed Mr. Riddle, in a strange voice, amidst a deadsilence. “You found where?”

  “On the table beside you.”

  “And where the deuce were you?” Mr. Riddle demanded.

  “In the window behind you,” said Nick, calmly.

  This piece of information, to Mr. Riddle’s plain discomfiture, wasgreeted with a roar of laughter, Mr. Darnley himself laughing loudest.Nor were these gentlemen satisfied with that. They crowded around Mr.Riddle and slapped him on the back, Mr. Darnley joining in with therest. And presently Mr. Riddle flung away his sword, and laughed, too,giving his hand to Mr. Darnley.

  At length Mr. Darnley turned to Nick, who had stood all this whilebehind them, unmoved.

  “My friend,” said he, seriously, “such is your regard for human life,you will probably one day be a pirate or an outlaw. This time we’vehad a laugh. The next time somebody will be weeping. I wish I were yourfather.”

  “I wish you were,” said Nick.

  This took Mr. Darnley’s breath. He glanced at the other gentlemen, whoreturned his look significantly. He laid his hand kindly on the lad’shead.

  “Nick,” said he, “I wish to God I were your father.”

  After that they all went home, very merry, to breakfast, Nick and Icoming after them. Nick was silent until we reached the house.

  “Davy,” said he, then, “how old are you?”

  “Ten,” I answered. “How old did you believe me?”

  “Eighty,” said he.

  The next day, being Sunday, we all gathered in the little church to hearMr. Mason preach. Nick and I sat in the high box pew of the family withMrs. Temple, who paid not the least attention to the sermon. As for me,the rhythm of it held me in fascination. Mr. Mason had written it outand that afternoon read over this part of it to Nick. The quotation Irecall, having since read it many times, and the gist of it was in thiswise:--

  “And he said unto him, ‘What thou wilt have thou wilt have, despitethe sin of it. Blessed are the stolid, and thrice cursed he who hathimagination,--for that imagination shall devour him. And in thy life asin shall be presented unto thee with a great longing. God, who is inheaven, gird thee for that struggle, my son, for it will surely come.That it may be said of you, ‘Behold, I have refined thee, but not withsilver, I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.’ Seven daysshalt thou wrestle with thy soul; seven nights shall evil haunt thee,and how thou shalt come forth from that struggle no man may know.’”