"Humph!" grunted Mr. Goodlett, giving the lad a severe look. He started to climb into his seat, but turned to Gabriel. "Is she got a wen?" he asked, with something like a scowl.
"Yes, she has a wen," replied the lad, blushing again, but this time for Mr. Goodlett.
"Well, then, ef she's got a wen, ef Polly Gaithers is got a wen, she's livin' in that house, bekaze, no longer'n last Sat'day, she come roun' for to borry some meal; an' whatsomever she use to have, an' whatsomever she mought have herearter, she's got a wen now, an' I'll tell you so on a stack of Bibles as high as the court-house."
The young lady laughed, but immediately controlled herself with a half-petulant "Oh dear!" Laughter became her well, for it smoothed away a little frown of perplexity that had established itself between her eyebrows.
"Oh, we'll take the young man's word for it," said the invalid, "and we are very much obliged to him. What is your name?" When Gabriel had told her, she repeated the name over again. "I used to know your grandmother very well," she said. "Tell her Margaret Bridalbin has returned home, and would be delighted to see her."
"Then, ma'am, you must be Margaret Gaither," remarked Mr. Sanders.
"Yes, I was Margaret Gaither," replied the invalid. "I used to know you very well, Mr. Sanders, and if I had changed as little as you have, I could still boast of my beauty."
"Yet nobody hears me braggin' of mine, Margaret," said Mr. Sanders with a smile that found its reflection in the daughter's face; "but I hope from my heart that home an' old friends will be a good physic for you, an' git you to braggin' ag'in. Anyhow, ef you don't brag on yourself, you can take up a good part of the time braggin' on your daughter."
"Oh, thank you, sir, for the clever joke. My mother has told me long ago how full of fun you are," said the young lady, blushing sufficiently to show that she did not regard the compliment as altogether a joke. "You may drive on now," she remarked to Mr. Goodlett. Whereupon that surly-looking veteran slapped his mismatched team with the loose ends of the reins, and the shabby old hack moved off toward Shady Dale. Mr. Sanders waited for the vehicle to get some distance ahead, and then he too urged his team forward.
"The word is Home," he said; "I reckon Margaret has had her sheer of trouble, an' a few slices more. She made her own bed, as the sayin' is, an' now she's layin' on it. Well, well, well! when time an' occasions take arter you, it ain't no use to run; you mought jest as well set right flat on the ground an' see what they've got ag'in you."
The remark was not original, nor very deep, but it recurred to Gabriel when trouble plucked at his own sleeve, or when he saw disaster run through a family like a contagion.
In no long time the waggon reached the outskirts of the town, where the highway became a part of the wide street that ran through the centre of Shady Dale, flowing around the old court-house in the semblance of a wide river embracing a small island. Gabriel and Cephas were on the point of leaving the waggon here, but Mr. Sanders was of another mind.
"Ride on to Dorrin'tons' wi' us," he said. "I want to swap a joke or two wi' Mrs. Ab."
"She's sure to get the best of it," Gabriel warned him.
"Likely enough, but that won't spile the fun," responded Mr. Sanders.
Mrs. Absalom, as she was called, was the wife of Mr. Goodlett, and was marked off from the great majority of her sex by her keen appreciation of humour. Her own contributions were spoiled for some, for the reason that she gave them the tone of quarrelsomeness; whereas, it is to be doubted whether she ever gave way to real anger more than once or twice in her life. She was Dr. Randolph Dorrington's housekeeper, and was a real mother to Nan, who was motherless before she had drawn a dozen breaths of the poisonous air of this world.
By the time the waggon reached Dorrington's, Gabriel, acting on the instructions of Mr. Sanders, had crawled under the cover of the waggon, and was holding out a pair of old shoes, so that a passer-by would imagine that some one was lying prone in the waggon with his feet sticking out.
When the waggon reached the Dorrington Place, Mr. Sanders drew rein, and hailed the house, having signed to Cephas to make himself invisible. Evidently Mrs. Absalom was in the rear, or in the kitchen, which was a favourite resort of hers, for the "hello" had to be repeated a number of times before she made her appearance. She came wiping her face on her ample apron, and brushing the hair from her eyes. She was always a busy housekeeper.
"We're huntin', ma'am, for a place called Cloptons'," said Mr. Sanders in a falsetto voice, his hat pulled down over his eyes; "an' we'd thank you might'ly ef you'd put us on the right road. About four mile back, we picked up a' old snoozer who calls himself William H. Sanders, an' he keeps on talkin' about the Clopton Place."
"Why, the Clopton Place is right down the road a piece. What in the world is the matter wi' old Billy?" she inquired with real solicitude. "Was he wounded in the war, or is he jest up to some of his old-time devilment?"
"Well, ma'am, from the looks of the jimmyjon we found by his side, he must 'a' shot hisself in the neck. He complains of cold feet, an' he's got 'em stuck out from under the kiver."
"Don't you worry about that," said Mrs. Absalom; "the climate will never strike in on old Billy's feet till he gits better acquainted wi' soap an' water."
"An' he talks in his sleep about a Mrs. Absalom," Mr. Sanders went on, "an' he cries, an' says she used to be his sweetheart, but he had to jilt her bekaze she can't cook a decent biscuit."
"The old villain!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom, with well simulated indignation; "he can't tell the truth even when he's drunk. If he ever sobers up in this world, I'll give him a long piece of my mind. Jest drive on the way you've started, an' ef you can keep in the middle of the road wi' that drunken old slink in the waggin, you'll come to Cloptons' in a mighty few minutes."
At this juncture Mr. Sanders was obliged to laugh, whereupon, Mrs. Absalom, looking narrowly at the travellers, had no difficulty in recognising them. "Well, my life!" she exclaimed, raising her hands above her head in a gesture of amazement. "Why, that's old Billy, an' him sober; and Franky Bethune, an' him not a primpin'! Well, well! I'd 'a' never believed it ef I hadn't 'a' seed it. I vow I'm beginnin' to believe that war's a real good thing; it's like a revival meetin' for some folks. I'm sorry Ab didn't take his gun an' jine in—maybe he'd 'a' shed his stinginess. But I declare to gracious, I'm glad to see you all; the sight of you is good for the sore eyes. An' Frank tryin' to raise a beard! Well, honey, I'll send you a bottle of bergamot grease to rub on it."
Mrs. Absalom came out to the waggon and shook hands with the returned warriors very heartily, and, sharp as her tongue was, there were tears in her eyes as she greeted them; for in that region, nearly all had feelings of kinship for their neighbours and friends, and in that day and time, people were not ashamed of their emotions.
"Margaret Gaither has come back," remarked Mr. Sanders. "Ab fetched her in his hack."
"Well, the poor creetur'!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom; "they say she's had trouble piled on her house-high."
"She won't have much more in this world ef looks is any sign," Mr. Sanders replied. "She ain't nothin' but a livin' skeleton, but she's got a mighty lively gal."
The waggon moved on and left Mrs. Absalom leaning on the gate, a position that she kept for some little time. Farther down the road, Gabriel, whose example was followed by Cephas, bade Mr. Sanders good-bye, nodded lightly to Francis Bethune, and jumped from the waggon.
"Wait a moment, Tolliver," said Bethune. "I want you to come to see me—and bring Cephas with you. I am going to make you like me if I can. The home folks have been writing great things about you. Oh, you must come," he insisted, seeing that Gabriel was hesitating. "I want to show you what a good fellow I can be when I try right hard."
"Yes, you boys must come," said Mr. Sanders; "an' ef Frank is off courtin' that new gal—I ketched him cuttin' his eye at her—you can hunt me up, an' I'll tell you some old-time tales that'll make your hair stan'