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 the bower.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 breath went out of me, and was pounding me vigorously ere I recovered from the shock and astonishment of it and began to defend myself.He was taller than I, and wiry, but not so rugged.Yet there was a look about him that was far beyond his strength.A look that meant, NEVER SAY DIE.Curiously, even as I fought desperately I compared him with that other lad 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 us apart, and when my vision cleared I saw Nick, struggling and kicking, held tightly in the hands of the clergyman.And it was all that gentleman could do to hold him.I am sure it was quite five minutes before he forced the lad, exhausted, on to the seat.And then there was a defiance about his nostrils that showed he was undefeated.The clergyman, still holding him with one hand, took out his handkerchief with the other and wiped his brow.
I expected a scolding and a sermon.To my amazement the clergyman said quietly:--``Now what was the trouble, David?''
``I'll not be the one to tell it, sir,'' I said, and trembled at my temerity.
The parson looked at me queerly.
``Then you are in the right of it,'' he said.``It is as I thought; I'll not expect Nicholas to tell me.''
``I will tell you, sir,'' said Nicholas.``He was in the house with my father when--when he ran away.And Isaid that if he ever spoke of it to any one, I would kill him.''
For a while the clergyman was silent, gazing with a strange tenderness at 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 a strange 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 came over 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 these matters 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 change without a seeming strangeness.After many years only vivid snatches of what I saw and heard and did at Temple Bow come back to me.I understood but little the meaning of the seigniorial life there.My chief wonder now is that its golden surface was not more troubled by the winds then brewing.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 slower than 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 and daring of his pranks took one's breath; his generosity to those he loved was prodigal.Nor did he ever miss a chance to score those under his displeasure.At times he was reckless beyond words to describe, and again he would fall sober for a day.He could be cruel and tender in the same hour; abandoned and freezing in his dignity.He had an old negro mammy whose worship for him and his possessions was idolatry.I can hear her now calling and calling, ``Marse Nick, honey, yo' supper's done got cole,'' as she searched patiently among the magnolias.
And suddenly there would be a shout, and Mammy's turban go flying from her woolly head, or Mammy herself would be dragged down from behind and sat upon.
We had our supper, Nick and I, at twilight, in the children's dining room.A little white room, unevenly panelled, the silver candlesticks and yellow flames fantastically reflected in the mirrors between the deep windows, and the moths and June-bugs tilting at the lights.We sat at a little mahogany table eating porridge and cream from round blue bowls, with Mammy to wait on us.
Sometimes there floated in upon us the hum 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 the parties), and talk to us of our day's doings.Nick had his lessons from the clergyman in the winter time.
Mr.Mason took occasion once to question me on what I knew.Some of my 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 you will.When your father comes, I shall talk with him.'' He paused--``I knew him,'' said he, ``Iknew him ere you were born.A just man, and upright, but with a great sorrow.We must never be hasty in our judgments.But you will never be hasty, David,'' he added, smiling at me.``You are a good 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 the noise he made in the mornings.
