After that my admiration for Nick Temple increased greatly, whether excited by his courage and presence of mind, or his ability to imitate men and women and creatures, I know not.One of our amusements, I recall, 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 were encouraging idolatry, and he himself took the chief in hand.
Another incident comes to me from those bygone days.
The fear of negro insurrections at the neighboring plantations being temporarily lulled, the gentry began to pluck up courage for their usual amusements.There were to be races at some place a distance away, and Nick was determined to 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 to say, 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 the coach?''
``No,'' she said, ``there is no room for you.''
Nicholas flared up.``Harry Riddle is going in the coach.I don't see why you 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 been putting into your head?''
``Nothing,'' said Nick, quite as angrily.``Any one can see that you like Harry.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 from the stables for me to ride, and insisted.And, supposing he was to go in the coach, Iput foot in the stirrup.The little beast would scarce stand still for me to mount.
``You'll not need the whip with her,'' said Nick, and led her around by the side of the house, in view of the portico, and stood there at her bridle.Presently, with a great noise and clatter of hoofs, the coach rounded the drive, the powdered negro coachman pulling up the four horses with much ceremony at the door.It was a wondrous great vehicle, the bright colors of its body flashing in the morning light.I had examined it more than once, and with awe, in the coach-house.It had glass windows and a lion on a blue shield on the door, and within it was all salmon silk, save the painted design on the ceiling.Great leather straps held up this house on wheels, to take the jolts of the road.And behind it was a platform.That morning two young negroes with flowing blue coats stood on it.They leaped to the ground when the coach stopped, 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 his riding clothes, for he was to race that day.
He handed her in, and got in after her.The coachman cracked his whip, the coach creaked off down the drive, Iin the trees one side waiting for them to pass, and wondering what Nick was to do.He had let go my bridle, folded his whip in 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, and pulled himself up.
What possessed the footman I know not.Perchance fear of his mistress was greater than fear of his young master; but he took the lad by the shoulders--gently, to be sure--and pushed him into the road, where he fell 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 a sheer fright, shrieking for mercy, his cries rivalled by those of the lady within.
The coachman frantically pulled his horses to a stand, the other footman jumped off, and Mr.Harry Riddle came flying out of the coach door, to behold Nicholas beating the negro with his riding-whip.
``You young devil,'' cried Mr.Riddle, angrily, striding forward, ``what are you doing?''
``Keep off, Harry,'' said Nicholas.``I am teaching this nigger that he is not to lay hands on his betters.'' With that he gave the boy one more cut, 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 a swoon.''
``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 a sign about the lad's nostrils.
``Harry Riddle,'' said the boy, ``if it weren't for you, I'd be riding in this coach to-day with my mother.Idon't want to ride with her, but I will go to the races.
If you try to take me down, I'll do my best to kill you,''
and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.
Mrs.Temple's beautiful face had by this time been thrust out of the door.
``For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with us.We're late enough as it is.''
Mr.Riddle turned on his heel.He tried to glare at Nick, but he broke into a laugh instead.
``Come down, Satan,'' says he.``God help the woman you love and the man you fight.''
And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach.
The footman picked himself up, more scared than injured, and the vehicle took its lumbering way for the race-course, I following.
I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that in the gorgeous dress of those who watched.There had been many, many more in former years, so I heard people say.This was the only sign that a war was in progress,--the scanty number of gentry present,--for all save the indifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere.I recall it dimly, as a blaze of color passing: merrymaking, jesting, feasting,--a rare contrast, I thought, to the sight Ihad beheld in Charlestown Bay but a while before.Yet so runs the world,--strife at one man's home, and peace and contentment at his neighbor's; sorrow here, and rejoicing not a league away.