All this I learnt from Walter Woodley, his fair sister supervising the lesson.
I remember it well, though it would be more a wonder if I had forgotten it.
Far was I from thinking it tedious. I could have undergone it twice over; stayed to study its details for a second season, and another crop; but, chance guest that I was, I could no longer intrude even upon Tennesseean hospitality, and I prepared to take my departure.
I had spent ten days on the plantation; and, although in the retrospect I see only sunshine, I can also remember that at the time there was just the suspicion of a shadow.
In the happy house of Squire Woodley, no stranger would have looked for a "skeleton;" and yet I suspected that there was one. It was only a suspicion, but strong enough to give me pain.
I had not forgotten Nat Bradley, or the free and easy fashion in which he had talked of the affairs of the family. I had not forgotten the confident tone in which he had alluded to "Corneel."
Several times during my stay, the name of this gentleman had come up in conversation. With regard to the hostility which his father entertained for him, Walter had spoken the truth. There could be no mistaking that, to judge from the terms the old gentleman employed when speaking of the "scoundrel," as he plainly called Bradley; and it was clear to me that the squire knew something to Nat Bradley's discredit—more than he thought prudent to communicate to the younger members of his family.
Neither of these took any pains to defend their old school fellow; for in childhood's days, according to backwoods custom, he had been the school companion of both. Neither ever attempted to speak a word in his favor. Walter even indorsed the sentiments of his father, while Miss Woodley was silent; but once or twice I fancied I could perceive in that silence some trace of embarrassment, and a desire on her part to escape from discussing the question. Could it be that there was some untold and secret history between this beautiful girl and that bold blackguard, Bradley? The thought pained me as a stranger—it pained me still more as my acquaintance with Miss Woodley assumed the familiarity of friendship.
True, it was only my own imagining; but this was strengthened by an incident that occurred previous to my leaving the plantation, and which in my mind had a sinister signification.
I had been several times down to the creek where the flat-boat was being built—that craft that was to carry the cotton crop more than a thousand miles to market. I could not help taking an interest in this native specimen of naval architecture—a sort of Noah's ark of the Western waters. It was being constructed under the superintendence of a white man, a flat-boat builder by profession.