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27
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ANOTHER MAN'S COAT
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I followed the Prince without another word, and when he received the Princess I had the happiness of taking the Little Playmate by the hand and conducting her as gallantly as I could into the palace. And I was glad, for it helped to allay a kind of reproachful feeling in my heart, which would keep tugging and gnawing there whenever I was not thinking of anything else. I feared lest, in the throng and press of new experiences, I might a little have neglected or been in danger of forgetting the love of the many years and all the sweetness of our solitary companionship.
Nevertheless, I knew well that I loved those sweetest eyes of hers more than all the words of men and women and priests.
And even as I helped her to dismount, I went over and told her so.
It was just when I held her in my arms for a moment as she dismounted. She clung to me, and methought I heard a little sob.
"Do not ever be unkind, Hugo," she said. "I am very lonely. I wish, with all my heart, I were back again in the old Red Tower."
"Unkind--never while I live, little one," I whispered in her ear. "Cheer your heart, and to-morrow your sorrows will wear off, and you and I both shall find friendship in the strange land."
"I hate the Princess! And I shall never like her as long as I live!" she said, with that certain concentrated dislike which only good women feel towards those a degree less innocent, specially when the latter are well to look upon.
There was no time to reply immediately as I conducted her up the steps. For I had to keep my eyes open to observe how the Prince conducted himself, and in the easy ceremonial of Plassenburg it chanced that I happened upon nothing extravagant.
"But, Helene, you said a while ago that you hated _me_!" I said, after a little pause, smiling down at her.
"Did I?" she answered. "Surely nay!"
"Ah, but 'tis true as your eyes," I persisted. "Do you not remember when I had cut the calf's head off with the axe? You did not love the thought of the Red Tower so much then!"
"Oh, _that_!" she said, as if the discrepancy had been fully explained by the inflexion of her voice upon the word.
But she pressed my hand, so I cared not a jot for logic.
"You do not love her, you are sure?" she said, looking up at me when we came to the darker turn of the stairs, for the corkscrews were narrower in the ancient castle than in the new palace below.
"Not a bit!" said I, heartily, without any more pretence that I did not understand what she meant.
She pressed my hand again, momentarily slipping her own down off my arm to do it.
"It is not that I love you, Hugo, or that I want you to love me," she said, like one who explains that which is plain already, "except, of course, as your Little Playmate. But I could not bear that you should care about that--that woman."
It was evident that there were to be stirring times in the Castle of Plassenburg, and that I, Hugo Gottfried, was to have my share of them.
As soon as we had arrived at the banqueting-hall, the Prince beckoned me and presented me formally to the Lady Ysolinde.
"Your Highness, this is Captain Hugo Gottfried, my new officer-in-waiting."
The Princess bowed gravely and held out her hand. Her aqua-marine eyes were bent upon me, suffused with a certain quick and evident pleasure which became them well.
"Your Highness has chosen excellently. I can bear witness that the Captain Gottfried is a brave--a very brave man," she said.
And at that moment I was most grateful to her for the testimony. For behind us stood the young Von Reuss, pulling at his mustache and looking very superciliously over at me.
Then the Lady Ysolinde withdrew to her own apartments, and that day I got no more words with her nor yet with Helene.
The Prince also went to his room, and I remained where I was, deeming that for the present my duty was done.
The servant of the man whose coat I wore stood with another servitor close at hand--indeed, many of all ranks stood about.
"That is the fellow," I heard one say, tauntingly, meaning me to hear--"peacocking it there in my master's coat!"
His companion laughed contumeliously, at which the passion within me suddenly stirred. I gave one of them the palm of my hand, and as the other fell hastily back my foot took him.
"What ho, there! No quarrelling among the lackeys!" cried Von Reuss, insolently, from the other side of the room.
"Were you, by any chance, speaking to me?" said I, politely, looking over at him.
"Why, yes, fellow!" he said. "If you squabble with the waiting-men concerning cast-off clothes, you had better do it in the stables, where, as you say, your own wardrobe is kept."
"Sir," said I, "the coat I wear, I wear by the command of your Prince. It shall be immediately returned to you when the Prince permits me to go off duty. In the mean time, pray take notice that I am Captain Hugo Gottfried, officer-in-waiting to the Prince Karl of Plassenburg, and that my sword is wholly at your service."
"You are," retorted Von Reuss, "the son of my uncle Casimir's Hereditary Executioner, and one day you may be mine. Let that be sufficient honor for you."
"That I may be yours is the only part of my father's hereditary office I covet!" said I, pointedly.
And certainly I had him there, for immediately he turned on his heel and would have walked away.
But this I could not permit. So I strode sharply after him, and seizing him by his embroidered shoulder-strap, I wheeled him about.
"But, sir," said I, "you have insulted an officer of the Prince. Will you answer for that with your sword, or must I strike you on the face each time I meet you to quicken your sense of honor?"
Before he had time to answer the Prince came in.
"What, quarrelling already, young Spitfire!" he cried. "I made you my orderly--not my disorderly."
Von Reuss and I stood blankly enough, looking away from one another.
"What was the quarrel?" asked the Prince, when he had seated himself at table.
I looked to Von Reuss to explain. For indeed I was somewhat awed to think that thus early in my new career I had embroiled myself with the nephew of Duke Casimir, even though, like myself, he was in exile and dependent upon, the liberality of Prince Karl.
But, since he did not speak, I made bold to say: "Sire, the Count von Reuss taunted me with wearing a borrowed coat, and called me a servitor, because by birth I am the son of the Hereditary Executioner of the Wolfmark. So I told him I was an officer of your household, and that my sword was much at his service."
"So you are," cried the Prince--"so you are--a servitor! So is he--young fools both! And as for being son of the Hereditary Executioner, it is throughout all our German land an honorable office. Once I was assistant executioner myself, and wished with all my heart that I had been principal, and so pocketed the guilders. No more of this folly, Von Reuss. I am ashamed of you, and to a new-comer! Hear ye, sir, I will not have it! I will e'en resume my old trade and do a little justicing on my own account. Shake hands this instant, you young bantams!"
And the Prince sat back in his chair and looked grimly at us. I went a step forward. But Von Reuss held aloof.
"Provost Marshal!" cried the Prince, in a voice which made every one in the room jump and all the glasses ring on the table--"bring a guard!"
The Provost Marshal advanced, bowed, and was departing, when Von Reuss came forward and held his hand out, at first sulkily, but afterwards readily enough.
Then we shook hands solemnly and stiffly, of course loving each other not one whit better.
"Ah," said the Prince, "I thought you would! For if you had not, your uncle, Duke Casimir, might have been a Duke without either an heir to his Dukedom or a successor to his Hereditary Justicer."
"Now sit down, lads, sit down and agree!" he said, after a pause. "The ladies come not to table to-night. So now begin and tell me all the affair of the Earthhouses. I must ride and see the place. I declare I grow rotten and thewless in this dull Plassenburg, where they dare not stick so much as a knife in one another, all for fear of Karl Miller's Son! Since I cannot adventure forth on my own account, I am become a man that wearies for news. Tell me every part of the affair, concealing nothing. But if you can, relate even your own share in it as faithfully as becomes a modest youth."
So I told him at length all that hath already been told, giving as far as I could the credit to Jorian and Boris, as indeed was only their desert.
Whereupon the tale being finished, the Prince said: "Have the two archers up!"
And while the pursuivant had gone for them, the old Councillor leaned across the table and whispered: "Enter Field-Marshal Jorian and General Boris!"
But when the archers came in and stood like a pair of kitchen pokers, the Prince ordered them to tell the story.
Jorian turned his head to Boris, and Boris turned his head to Jorian. They both made a little impatient gesture, which said: "Tell it you!"
But neither appeared to be able to speak first.
"Wind them up with a cup of wine apiece!" cried the hearty Prince; "surely that will set one of them off."
Two great flagons of wine were handed to Jorian and Boris, and they drank as if one machine had been propelling their internal workings, throwing off the liquor with beautiful unanimity and then bringing their cups to the position of salute as if they had been musketoons at the new French drill. After which each of them, having finished, gave the little cough of content and appreciation, which among the archers means manners.
But nevertheless the Prince's information with regard to the affair of Erdberg was not increased.
"Go on!" he cried, impatiently, looking at Jorian and Boris sternly.
They were still silent.
"This officer, Captain Hugo Gottfried," said the Prince, looking at me, "tells me that the credit of the preservation of the Princess among the cave folk is due to you two brave men."
"He lies!" said Wendish Jorian, with a face like a blank wall.
"Good!" muttered Boris, approvingly.
"He did it himself!" said Boris, adding, after a pause--"with an axe!"
"Good!" quoth Jorian.
"He cut a calf's head off!" said Jorian, as a complete explanation of how the preserving of the Princess was effected.
Whereat all laughed, and the Prince more than any. For ever since he drank his first draught of wine, he had begun to mellow.
"Well, hearty fellows, what reward would you have for your great bravery?"
They turned their heads simultaneously inward without moving any other part of their bodies. They nodded to one another.
"Well," cried the Prince, "what reward do you desire?"
"Now for the Field-Marshal's wand!" said the Councillor near to me, under his breath.
"Twelve dozen Rhenish!" said Jorian.
The Prince looked at Boris.
"And you?" he said.
"Twelve dozen Rhenish!" said Boris, without moving a muscle.
"God Bacchus!" cried the Prince, "you will empty my cellars between you, and I shall not have a sober archer for a month. But you shall have it. Go!"
Jorian and Boris saluted with a wink to each other as they wheeled, which said, as plain as monk's script or plainer, "Good!"
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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28
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THE PRINCE'S COMPACT
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In spite of all drawbacks and difficulties (and I had my share of them) I loved Plassenburg. And especially I loved the Prince. The son, so they said, of a miller in the valley of the Almer, he had entered the guard of the last Prince of Plassenburg, much as I had now entered his own service. Prince Dietrich had taken a fancy to him, and advanced him so rapidly that, after the disastrous war with Duke Casimir of the Mark and the death of the last legitimate Prince, Karl, the miller's son, having set himself to reorganize the army, succeeded so well that it was not long before he found himself the source of all authority in Plassenburg.
Thereafter he gave to the decimated and heartless land adequate defences and complete safety against foreign foes, together with security for life and property, under equal laws, within its own borders. So, in time, no man saying him nay, Karl Miller's Son became the Prince of Plassenburg, and his seat was more secure upon his throne than that of any legitimate prince for a thousand miles all round about.
After the quarrel with Von Reuss, the Prince, for reasons of his own, favored me with a great deal of his society. He was often graciously pleased to talk concerning his early difficulties.
"When I was an understrapper," he was wont to say, "the land was overswarmed and eaten up by officialdom. I could not see the good meat wasted upon crawlers. 'Get to work,' said I, 'or ye shall neither eat nor crawl!' " 'We must eat--to beg we are not ashamed, to steal is the right of our noble Ritterdom,' the crawlers replied. " 'So,' said I, '_bitte_--as to that we shall see!'
"Then I made me a fine gallows, builded like that outside Paris, which I had seen once when on an embassy for Prince Dietrich. It was like a castle, with walls twelve feet thick, and on the beams of it room for a hundred or more to swing, each with his six feet of clearance, all comfortable, and no complaints.
"Then came the crawlers and asked me what this fine thing was for. " 'For the sacred Ritterdom of Plassenburg!' answered I, 'if it will not cease to burn houses and to ravish and carry off honest men's wives and daughters.' " 'But you must catch us!' quoth Crawlerdom. 'Walls fourteen feet thick!' said they. " 'Content,' cried I; 'there is the more fun in catching you. Only the end is the same--that is to say, my new, well-ventilated castle out there on the heath, fine girdles and neck-pieces and anklets of iron, and six feet of clearance for each of you to swing in.'
"So they went back to their castles, and robbed and ravished and rieved, even as did their fathers for a thousand years, thinking no evil. But I took my soldiers, whom in seven years' service I had taught to obey orders-two foot of clearance did well enough for the disobedient among them, not being either ritters or men of mark. And I, Karl the Miller's brat, as at that time they called me in contempt, borrowed cannon-- great lumbering things--from my friend the Margrave George, down there to the south. A great work we had dragging them up to Plassenburg by rope and chain and laboring plough oxen. We shot them off before the fourteen-feet walls. Then arose various clouds of dust, shriekings, surrenderings, crying of 'Forgive us, great Prince, we never meant to do it,' followed, as I had said, by the six-feet clearances. But these in time I had to reduce to four--so great became the competition for places in my new Schloss Müllerssohn.
"But 'Once done, well done--done forever!' is my motto. So since that time the winds have mostly blown through my Schloss untainted, and the sons of Ritterdom, magnanimous captains and honest bailies of quiet bailiwicks, are my very good friends and faithful officers."
Prince Karl the Miller's Son was silent a moment.
"But I am still looking out for another man with a head-piece to come after me. I have no son, and if I had, the chances are ten to one that he would be either a milksop or a flittermouse painted blue. Milksops I hate, and send to the monkeries. I can endure flittermice painted blue, but they must wear petticoats--and pretty petticoats too. Have you observed those of the Princess?" said he, abruptly changing the subject.
"The Princess's flittermice?" I faltered, not well knowing what I said, for he had turned roughly and suddenly upon me.
"Aye, marry, you may say it! But I meant the Princess's wilicoats!"
"No," said I, as curtly as I could, for the subject had its obvious limitations.
"Ah, they are pretty ones," said Karl, "I assure you. She has at least an undeniable taste in lace and cambric. They say in other lands--not in this--though I would not hinder them if they did--that she wears the under-garments of men and rules the state. But I think not so. The Princess is a better Queen than wife, a better woman than either."
On this subject also I had nothing to say which I dared venture to the husband of the Lady Ysolinde.
"She read my horoscope," said I, weakly, searching for something in the corners of my brain to change the subject.
"How so?" said the Prince, quickly.
"First in a crystal and then in a pool of ink," I replied.
"It was a good horoscope and of a fortunate ending?"
"On the whole--yes!" said I; "though there was much in it that I could not understand."
"Like enow!" laughed the Prince; "I warrant she could not understand it herself! It is ever the way of the ink-pool folk."
Then ensued a silence between us.
Prince Karl remained long with his head resting on his hand. He looked critically at the twisted stem of his wineglass, twirling it between his thick fingers.
"The Princess loves you!" he said, at last, looking shrewdly at me from beneath his gray brows.
It was spoken half as a question and half as information.
"Loves me?" stammered I, the blood sucking back to my heart and leaving my head light and tingling.
The Prince nodded calmly.
"So they say!" said he.
"My Lord, it is a thing impossible!" cried I, earnestly. "I am but a poor lad--and she has been kind to me. But of love no word has been spoken. Besides--" And I stopped.
"Out with it, man!" said the Prince, more like, as it seemed to me, a comrade inviting a confidence than a great Prince speaking to a newly made officer.
"Well, I--I love the Little Playmate."
It came out with a rush at last.
"Oh!" said he; "that is bad. I hope that is not a matter arranged, a thing serious. For if the Princess knows as much, the young woman will not have her troubles to seek in the Palace of Plassenburg."
I hung my head and said naught, save that Helene declared she loved me not, but that I thought she was mistaken.
"Ah, then," cried the Prince, like one exceedingly relieved, "it is but some boy and girl affair. That is better. She may change her mind, as you will certainly change yours--and that several times--among the ladies of the court. I was in hopes--" And the Prince stopped in his turn, not from bashfulness, but rather like a man who desires more carefully to choose his words.
"I was in hopes," he went on, speaking slowly, "that if the Princess loved your boy's face and liked my conversation (which I may say without pride that I think she does) you and I together might have kept her at home. So over-much wandering is not good for the state. Also it gets her a name beyond all manner of ill-doing within-doors."
Once more I knew not well what to answer to this speech of the Prince's, so I remained discreetly silent.
"I have seen the Princess's flittermice about her before, often enough (I thank thee for the word, Sir Captain.) , but this is the first time she has performed the ink-pool and crystal foolery with any man. There is no great harm in the Princess. In the things of love she is as inflammable as the ink, and as soft as the crystal. Fear not, Joseph, Potiphera may be depended upon not to proceed to extremities. But I was in some hopes that you and I could have arranged matters between us, being both men--aye, and honorable men."
I saw that Karl Miller's Son looked sad and troubled.
"Prince, you love the Princess!" said I, thrusting out my hand to him before I thought. He did not take it, but instead he thrust a flagon of wine into it, as if I had asked for that--yet the thing was not done by way of a rebuff. I saw that plainly.
"Pshaw! What does a grizzle-pate with love?" said he, gruffly. "Nevertheless, I was in hopes."
"Prince Karl," said I, "I give you word of honor, 'tis not as you say or they say. The Princess has indeed done me the honor to be friendly--" "To hold your hand!" he murmured, softly, like a chorus.
"Well, to be friendly, and--" "To caress your cheek?" put in the Prince, gently as before.
"Done me the honor to be friendly--" "To play with your curls, lad?"
"The Princess--" I began, all in a tremor. For anything more awkward than this conversation I had never experienced. It bathed me in a drip of cold sweat.
"To kiss you, perhaps, at the waygoing?" he insinuated.
"No!" thundered I, at last. "Prince, you do your Princess great wrong."
He lifted his hand in a gentle, deprecating way, most unlike the rider who had ridden so fast and so hotly that night of our coming.
"You mistake me, sir," he said. "On the contrary, I have the greatest respect for the Princess Ysolinde. I would not wrong her for the world. But I know her track of old. You are a brave lad, and, after all, I fear there is something in that calf-love of yours--devil take it!"
I thought I could now dimly discern whither the Prince's plans were tending.
"Your Highness," said I, "I am a young man and of little experience. I cannot tell why you have chosen to speak so freely to me. But I am your servant, and, in all that hurts not the essence and matter of my love for the Little Playmate, I will do even as you say."
Prince Karl grasped my hand.
"Ah, well said!" he cried. "You are running your head into a peck of troubles, though. And you are likely to have some experience of womenkind shortly--a thing which does no brisk young fellow any harm, unless he lets them come between him and his career. Women are harmless enough, so that you keep them well down to leeward. I am Baltic-bred, and have ever held to this--that you may sail unscathed through fleets of farthingales, so being that you keep the wind well on your quarter, and see the fair-way clear before you."
I did not at the time understand half he said, but I knew we had made some sort of a bargain. And I thought, with an aching, unsatisfied heart, that though it might be well enough for an iron-gray and cynical old Prince, the thing would hardly commend itself to Helene, my Little Playmate, to whom I had so recently spoken loving words, sweeter than ever before.
"Devil take all Princes and Princesses!" I said, as I thought, to myself. But I must have spoken aloud, for the Prince laughed.
"Do not waste good prayers needlessly," he said; "he will!"
And so, with a careless and humorsome wave of his hand to one side, he went down the staircase, and so out into the quadrangle of the Palace.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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29
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LOVES ME--LOVES ME NOT
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Now how this plan of my Lord Prince's worked in the Palace of Plassenburg I find it difficult to tell without writing myself down a "painted flittermouse," as the Prince expressed it. I was in high favor with my master; well liked also by most of the hard-driving, rough-riding young soldiers whom the miller's son had made out of the sons of dead and damned Ritterdom. I got my share of honor and good service, too, in going to different courts and bringing back all that Prince Karl needed. To exercise myself in the art of war, I hunted the border thieves and gave them short enough shrift. In a year I had made such an assault as that of the inn at Erdberg an impossibility all along the marches of our provinces.
The crusty old councillor, Leopold Dessauer, who had held office under the last Prince of the legitimate line, was ever ready to assist me with the kindest of deeds and the bitterest and saltest of words.
"What did I tell you about being Field-Marshal?" said he one day--"in Karl's kingdom the shorter the service, the higher the distinction. If you and the Prince live long enough, I shall see you carry a musketoon yet, and not one of the latest pattern, either. You will be promoted down, like a booby who has been raised by chance to the top of the class!"
"Well," said I, humbly, for I always reverenced age, "then I hope, High-Chancellor Dessauer, that I shall carry my musketoon as becomes a brave man!"
"I do not doubt it!" said he. "And that is the most hopeful thing I have seen about you yet. It is just possible, on the other hand, that you may yet rule and the Prince carry the piece."
"God forbid!" said I, heartily. For next to my own father, of all men I loved the Prince.
"The Princess hath a pretty hand," remarked Dessauer casually, as if he had said, "It will rain to-morrow!"
"I' faith, yes!" said I; "what have you been at to find out that?"
"Weak--weak!" he said, shaking his head. "I fear you will wreck on that rock. It is your blind peril!"
"My blind peril!" cried I. "What may that be, High Councillor?"
"Ah, lad," he said, smiling with that wise, all-patient smile which the aged affect when they mean to be impressive, yet know how useless is their wisdom, "it was never intended by the Almighty that any man should have eyes all round his head. That is why He fixed two in front, and made them look straight forward. That is also why He made us a little lower (generally a good deal lower) than the angels!"
I heard him as if I heard him not.
"You do me the honor to follow me?" he said, looking at me. He was, I think, conscious that my eyes wandered to the door, for indeed I was expecting the Little Playmate to come down every minute.
"Ah! yes, you follow indeed," he said, bitterly, "but it is the trip of feet, the flirt of farthingales down the turret steps. No matter! As I was saying, every man has his blind peril. He can see the thousand. He provides laboriously against them. He blocks every avenue of risk, he locks every dangerous door, and lo! there is the thousand-and-first right before him, yawning wide open, which he does not see--his Blind Peril!"
"And what, High-Councillor Dessauer, is my blind peril?"
"I will tell you, Hugo," he said; "not that you will believe or alter a hair. A man may do many things in this world, but one thing he cannot do. He cannot kiss the fingers of a Princess--dainty fingers, too, separating finger from finger--and kiss also the Princess's maid of honor on the mouth. The combination is certainly entertaining, but like the Friar's powder it is somewhat explosive."
"And how," asked I, "may you know all that ?"
The old man nodded his head sagely.
"Neither by ink-pool nor yet by scrying! All the same, I know. Moreover, your peril is not a blind peril only, but a blind man's peril. Ye must choose, and that quickly, little son--fingers or lips."
I heard the rustle of a skirt down the stair. It was the light, springing tread of the one I loved first and best, last and only.
"By the twelve gods, lips!" cried I, and made for the door.
And I heard the chuckling laughter of High-Chancellor Dessauer behind me as I followed Helene down the stairs. It sounded like the decanting of mellow wine, long hidden in darksome cellars, and now, in the flower of its age, bringing to the light the smiling of ancient vineyards and the shining of forgotten suns.
I found Helene arrived before me in the rose-garden. She did not turn round as I came, though she heard me well enough. Instead she walked on, plucking at a marguerite.
"Loves me--loves me _not_!" she said, bearing upon the last word with triumphant accent, as she continued to dismantle the poor flower.
And flashing round upon me with the solitary petal in her hand, she presented it with a low bow, in elfish mockery of the manner of the court exquisite.
"Ah, true flower!" she said, apostrophizing the bare stalk, "a flower cannot lie. It has not a glozing tongue. It cannot change back and forth. The sun shines. It turns towards the sun. The sun leaves the skies. It shuts itself up and waits his return. Ah,-true flower, dear flower, how unlike a man you are!"
"Helene," said I, "you have learned conceits from the catch-books. You quarrel by rote. Were I as eager to answer me, I might say: 'Ah, false flower, you grow out of the foulness underneath. You give your fragrance to all without discretion--a common lover, prodigal of favors, fit only to be torn to shreds by pretty, spiteful fingers, and to die at last with a lie in your mouth. Again I say--false flower!'"
"You can turn the corners, Sir Juggler, with the cup and ball of words," answered Helene. "So much they have already taught you in a court. But there is one thing that your fine-feathered tutors have not taught you--to make love to two women in one house and hide it from both of them. Hot and cold may not come too near each other. They will mix and make lukewarm of both."
A wise observation, and one that I wished I had made myself.
"May the devil take all princes and princesses!" I began, as I had done to the Prince himself.
Helene shook her head.
"Hugo," she said, "I was but a simpleton when I came hither, and knew nothing. Now I am wise, and I know!"
She touched her forehead with her finger, just where the curls were softest and prettiest.
"Oh, you have learned to be thrice more beautiful than ever you were!" I said, impetuously.
"So I am often told," answered she, calmly.
"Who dared tell you ?" cried I, quick as fire, laying my hand on my sword.
"The false common flowers by the wayside tell me!" said Helene, pertly.
"Let them beware, or I will take their heads off for rank weeds!" I answered.
For at that time, in the Court of Plassenburg, we talked in figures and romance words. We had indeed become so familiar with the mode that we could use no other, even in times of earnestness. So that a man would go to be hanged or married with a quipsome conceit on his lips.
"I think, Sir Janus Double-tongue," she said, "that you would not be the worse of a little medicine of your own concocting."
And with that she swept her skirts daintily about and tripped down in to the pleasaunce of flowers, to make which the Prince Karl had brought a skilled gardener all the way from France.
I prowled about the higher terrace, moodily watching the sky and thinking on the morrow's weather. And by-and-by I saw one come forth from among the cropped Dutch hedges, and stride across to where Helene walked with something white in her hand. I could see her again picking a flower to pieces, and methought I could hear the words. My jealous fancy conjured up the ending, "Loves me not--loves me! Loves me not!"
She turned even as she had done to me. The newcomer was that sneering Court fop, the Count von Reuss, Duke Casimir's nephew--still in hiding from the wrath of his uncle. For at that time hardly any court in Germany was without one or two of these hangers-on, and a bad, reckless, ill-contriving breed they were at Plassenburg, as doubtless elsewhere.
Then grew my heart hard and bitter, and yet, in a moment afterwards, was again only wistful and sad.
"She had been safer," thought I, "in the old Red Tower than playing flower fancies with such a man!"
For I had seen the very devil look out of his eye--which indeed it did as often as he cast it on a fair woman. In especial, I longed to throttle him each time he turned to watch Helene as she went by. And here she was walking with him, and talking pleasantly too, in the rose garden of the palace.
"Ah, devil take all princes and princesses!" said I. This one, it is true, was only a count, and disinherited. But I felt that the thing was the Prince's doing, and that it was for the sake of the covenant he had made with me that I was compelled to put up with such a toad as Von Reuss crawling and besliming the fair garden of my love.
It was an evening without clouds--everything shining clear after rain, the scent of the flowers rising like incense so full and sweet that you could almost see it. The unnumbered birds were every one awake, responsive and emulous. The deep silence of midsummer was broken up. It was like another spring.
The Princess Ysolinde came out to take the air. She was wrapped in her gown of sea-green silk, with sparkles of dull copper upon it. The dress fitted her like a snake's skin, and glittered like it too as she swayed her lithe body in walking.
"Ha, Hugo," she said, "I thought I should find you here!"
I did not say that if another had been kinder she might have found me elsewhere and otherwise employed. I had at least the discretion to leave things as they were. For the time to speak plainly was not yet.
She took my arm, and we paced up and down.
"Princess--" I began.
"Ysolinde!" corrected she, softly.
It was an old and unsettled contention between us.
"Well then, Ysolinde, to-morrow must I ride to fight the men of mine own country of the Wolfmark. I like not the duty. But since it must be, for the sake of the brave Prince, it shall be well done."
"You do not say 'For your sake, Ysolinde'?" she answered, pensively.
"No," I said, bluntly, "'for the Prince's sake.'"
"You would do all things for the Prince's sake--nothing for mine!" said the Princess, withdrawing her hand.
"On the contrary, Lady Ysolinde," I made answer, "I do all things for your sake. Save for the sake of your good-will, I should now be elsewhere."
Which was true enough. I should have been in the garden pleasaunce beneath, and probably with my sword out, arguing the case with Von Reuss.
But she pressed my arm, for she understood that I had delayed a day from my duty for her sake. So touched at heart was Ysolinde that she slipped her hand down from my arm and took my hand instead, flirting a corner of her shawl cleverly over both, to hide the fact from the men-at-arms--as Helene could not have done to save her life. But every maid of honor who passed noted and knew, lifting eyebrows at one another, I doubt not, as soon as we passed, which thing made me feel like a fool and blush hotly. For I knew that ere they were couched that night every maid of them would tell Helene, and with pleasure in the telling too.
"Devil take--" I began and stopped.
"What did you say?" asked Ysolinde, almost tenderly.
"That if I come not back again from the Wolfmark it will be the better for all of us!" I made answer, which was indeed the sense if not the exact text of my remark.
"Nay," she said, shuddering, "not better for me that am companionless!"
"Why so?" said I, boldly. "You do not love me. Deep at the bottom of your heart you love your husband, Karl the Prince. You know there is no man like him. Me you do not love at all."
"You will not let me," she said, softly, almost like a shy country maiden.
"Ah, if I had, you would have slain me long ere this," said I, "for I read you like a child's horn-book that he plays battledore with. 'Have not--_love_! Have--_hate_.' There you are, all in brief, my Lady Ysolinde."
"It is false," laughed she; "but nevertheless I love greatly to hear you call me Ysolinde."
She netted her fingers in mine beneath the shawl. Well might the High Councillor say that she had a beautiful hand. Though, God wot, much he knew about it. For Ysolinde of Plassenburg could speak with her hand, love with it, be angry with it, hate with it--and kill with it.
"I am an experiment," said I; "one indeed that has lasted you a little longer than the others, my Lady Ysolinde, only because you have not come to the end of me so soon."
"Pshaw!" she said, pushing me from her, for we were at the turning of a path, "you love another. That is the amulet against infection that you carry. Yet sometimes I think that that other is only your hateful, plain-favored, vainly conceited self!"
I saw the Prince sit alone, according to his custom, in an arbor behind us at that very moment--and judge if I blushed or no. But the Princess saw him not, being eager upon her flouting of me.
"I tell you," she cried, scornfully and disdainfully, "there is nothing interesting about you but the blueness of your eyes, and that any monk can make upon parchment, aye, and deeper and bluer, with his lapis-lazuli. An experiment! --Why should I, Ysolinde of Plassenburg, experiment with you, the son of the Red Axe of the Wolfsberg ?"
"Nay, that I know not," I answered; "but yet I am indeed no more than your arrow-butts, your target of practice, your whipping-boy, to be slung at and arrow-drilled and bullet-pitted at your pleasure!"
"I dare say," she said, bitterly; "and all the time you go scathless--no more heart-stricken than if summer flies lighted on thee. Away with such a man; he is the ghost of a man--a simulacrum--no true lover!"
"At your will, Princess. I shall indeed go away. I will to-morrow seek the spears. But, after all, you will not send me forth in anger?" I said, with a strong conviction that I knew the answer.
"And why not?" said she.
"Because," I replied, looking at her, "I am, after all, the one man who believes thoroughly in your heart's deep inward goodness. I believe in you even when you do not believe in yourself. I can affirm, for I know better than you know yourself. You cover the beauty of your heart from others. You flout and jeer. Above all, you experiment dangerously with words and actions. But, after all, I am necessary to you. You will not send me away in anger. For you need some one to believe in the soundness of your heart. And I, Hugo Gottfried, am that man!"
"Hence, flatterer!" cried the lady, smiling, but well pleased. "It is known to all that I am the Old Serpent--the deceiver--the ill fruit of the Knowledge of Evil. And now you say of Good also! And what is more and worse, you expect me to believe you. Wherein you also experiment! I pray you, do not so. That is to you the forbidden fruit. Good-night. Go, now, and pray for a more truthful tongue!"
And with that she went in, the copper spangles glancing at her waist red as the light on ripe wheat, and all her tall figure lissome as the bending corn.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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30
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INSULT AND CHALLENGE
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Now, because there is still so much to tell, and so little time and space to tell it in, I must go forward rapidly. In these dull times of grouting peace, when men become like penned pigs, waking up only at feeding-time, they have no knowledge of how swiftly life went when every day brought a new living friend or a new dead enemy, when love and hate awakened fresh and fresh with each morrow's sun--and when I was young.
Perhaps that last is the true reason. But when the Baltic norther snorts without, and mine ancient thigh-wound twinges down where my hand rests, naturally I have no better resource than to fall to the goose-quill. And lo! long ere I am done with the first page, and have the ink no more than half-way to the roots of my hair, I am again in the midst of the ringing hoofs of the foray. I hear the merry dinting of steel on steel; the sullen _chug-chug_ of the wheels of Foul Peg, the Margrave's great cannon, which more than once he lent our Prince; the oaths of the men-at-arms shouldering her up, apostrophizing most indecently her fat haunches, and the next moment getting tossed aside like ninepins by her unexpected lurches. Ah, the times that were when I was young!
I see these gallants about our later courts--Lord help them, sons of mine own, too, some of them--year in and year out, crossing their legs and staring at the gilded points of their shoon. All are grown so tame--none now to ride a-questing in the Baltic forest for border brigands --indeed, there be no brigands to quest for.
But I forget. Time was when I looked love, and I too had shoon, aye, with golden tips to match the armor of honor which the Prince gave me after I had led my first regiment to victory--even as the Lady Ysolinde had said. And noble shoes of price they were.
And I could make love, too, when I had the chance. But, nevertheless, not more than one day in six--spending the rest in the new training of my men, the perfecting of their equipment, the choosing of their horses, and the providing for their stores.
God wot--it was a good time. I mind me the year when the Prince fell out with Duke Casimir, and we played over again the old tricks with him.
Never was I gladder of any quest than that to ride within sight of the Red Tower, and wave the blue and yellow of my master under the very ramparts of the Wolfsberg, and almost within hearing of the inhuman howling of its blood-hounds.
"Singe his beard!" said my master. And with a hundred riders I did it too. For though the burghers clattered to their gates, I rode to the very walls of the Wolfsberg, which for bravado I summoned to surrender. And the best of it was that no man knew me. For I had grown soldierlike and strong, and was most unlike the lad who had ridden away so meekly and almost in tears out of the gate of that very Wolfsberg.
Of my father, thank God, I saw nothing--though I doubt not he observed my troop. For doubtless he would be with his master--aged now, soured, and prone to cower about behind his guard, fearing the dagger or the poisoned bowl, seeing an enemy in every shadowy corner, and hearing the whistle of the assassin's bullet in every wind.
And, save when an honest burgher was slain by the Black Riders, the beasts of the kennels were fed on diet more ordinary than of old.
So we rode back with our prisoners, and as much plunder as we could screw out of old Burgomeister Texel and his citizens by threats of sacking the city--a deed which I was main sorry for afterwards, in the light of that which happened at a later day. But I knew not the future then, and it was as well. For the guilders paid nobly for the new-fashioned ordnance which stood us in such good stead that autumn, when we had sterner work in hand than singeing the gray beard of Duke Casimir.
Within Schloss Plassenburg things went on much as usual. Perhaps I was lax in my wooing--I cannot tell; I loved sincerely enough, of a certainty. Nor, after this, was I backward in telling Helene of it, and sometimes she would love me well enough, and then again she would not. So that I could not tell what she would be at.
Looking back upon everything now, I see clearly how that the rankling secret thorn was the accursed understanding with the Prince, that for his peace's sake I was to abide friendly with the Princess and let her try her fool experiments on me. Which she did, God wot, innocently enough--that is, for all the harm they did me. But, nevertheless, without knowing it, I kept the Little Playmate with a sore and aching heart for many and many a day.
But I made nothing of it--thinking, like a careless, ill-deserving soldier-lover, eager for success and dazzled with ambition, chiefly of my profession, of how to win battles and take fortresses against the surrounding princelings, our Karl's enemies, till one day I found Helene with her cheeks wet and her pretty lips bitten till the blood had come.
"What is't, little one? Tell me!" said I, going to her and putting my arm about her, as indeed I had some right to do, if no more than the right of having carried her up into the Red Tower in her white gown so long ago.
But she wrested herself determinedly out of my hold, saying: "Do not touch me, sir. 'Tis all your fault!"
"What is my fault, dear lass?" said I. "Tell me, and I will instantly amend it."
"Oh!" she cried, casting her hands out from her in bitter complaint, "there is nothing so meanly selfish as a man! He will say tender things--aye, and do them, too, when it liketh him. He can be, oh, so devoted and so full of his eternal affections. He is dying all for love! And then, soon as he passes out of the door he ties his sword-knot and points his mustache to his liking, and lo! there is no more of him. He goes and straightway forgets till it shall please his High Mightiness to call again. Oh! and we--we women, poor things, must stand about with our mouths open, like mossy carp in a pond, and struggle and push for such crumbs of comfort as he will deign to throw us from the full larder of his self-satisfaction!"
This was a most mighty speech for the Little Playmate, and took me entirely by surprise. For mostly she was still enough and quiet enough in her ways and speakings. " 'Tis true, sweetheart, that some men are like that," I replied, gently, "but not Hugo Gottfried, surely. When did you ever find me unkind, unthankful, unfaithful? When went I ever away and left you alone?"
"Oh, you did--you did," she cried, the tears starting from her lovely eyes, "or I should never have been insulted--treated lightly, spoken to as a staled thing of courts and camps!"
And Helene sank down beside the garden wall in an abandonment of sorrow--so that my heart grew hot and angry at the cause of her grief, to me then unknown.
I knelt down beside her and touched her lightly on one rounded, heaving shoulder.
"Dearest," said I, "I knew nothing of this. Tell me who has insulted you. As God is in His heaven, I will have my sword in his heart or nightfall, were it the Prince himself! Tell me, and by the Lord of the Innocents, I will make him eat cold steel and drink his own blood therewith!"
"Oh, it was my own fault--I know I should not have met him--let him speak to me in the garden. But you were so cold to me, Hugo. And then I thought--I thought that the Woman was taking you away from me. Also she sent me out to be--to be in his path!"
"In whose path, I bid you tell me, and what woman?"
Though the latter I knew well enough.
"The Princess," she answered, "and the Count von Reuss. To-day he spoke to me of love, and spoke it hatefully, shamefully, when the Princess had bidden me go and carry her message to him. But it was with me that he desired to meet. And I--at first many days ago--I walked by his side and listened, for then he spoke courteously and like a gentleman. For you were on the high terrace, and I wished you to see. I thought--I hoped--" And the little one broke off with tears.
"I know, I know!" cried I, contritely; "I am a blind, doting fool. In this Prince's court I thought no more of such dangers than when I had you safe and innocent, my Playmate of the Red Tower. But what did or said Von Reuss?"
"Truly he did naught, but only spoke--things for which I would have smitten him to death had I possessed a dagger. I bade him begone. And he swore he would execute his purpose yet in spite of every town's Executioner in the Empire."
"Ah, will he?" said I, a calm chill of hatred settling about my heart. "I, Hugo Gottfried, will execute him, if I have to send for my father's Red Axe to do it with--singed and scented monkey that he is."
"Nay," said Helene, "then I wish I had not told you. Perhaps he will not meddle with me again, and if you cross him he may slay thee. Remember, I have no friend here but you, Hugo!"
"Count von Reuss slay me! I could eat him up without salt or savory--a weak reed, a kerl without backbone save of buckram; why, I will shake him this day like a rat between my hands!"
So I spoke in my anger, hot with myself that I had let the Little Playmate suffer these things, and resolved that neither Prince nor Princess would stand between me and my love a moment longer.
But in all lands it takes more than Say-so to budge the stubborn wheels of circumstance.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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31
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I FIND A SECOND
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I meant to go directly to the Prince in his chamber and tell him that from this time forth Helene and I had resolved to battle out our lives together. But it chanced that I passed through the higher terrace on my way to the lower--a bosky place of woods, where the Prince loved to linger in of a summer afternoon, drowsing there to the singing of birds and the falling of waters. For our Karl had tastes quite beyond sour black Casimir, with his church-yard glooms and raw-bone terrors.
On the upper terrace I found Von Reuss, lolling against the parapet with other blue flittermice, his peers--he himself no flittermouse, indeed, but of the true Casimir vampire breed, horrid of tooth, nocturnal, desirous of lusts and blood.
At sight of him I went straight at mine enemy, as if I had been leading a charge.
"Sir," said I, "you are a base rascal. You have insulted the Lady Helene, maid of honor to the Princess, the adopted child of my father. Her wrongs are mine. You will do me the honor of crossing weapons with me!"
"I have not learned the art of the axe," said he, turning about, listlessly. "You expect too much, Sir Executioner!"
I wasted no more words upon him, for I had not sought him to barter insults, but to force him to meet me where I could have my anger out upon him, and avenge the tears in the eyes of my Little Playmate.
Von Reuss was drawing a glove of yellow dressed kid through his hand as he spoke. This I plucked from his fingers ere he was aware, and struck him soundly on either cheek with it before flinging it crumpled up in his face.
"Now will you fight, or must I strike you with my open hand?"
Then I saw the look of his uncle stand hell-clear in his eyes. But he was not frightened, this one, only darkly and unscrupulously vengeful.
"Foul toad's spawn, now I will have your blood!" he cried, tugging at his sword.
"We cannot fight here," said I, "within sight of the palace windows. But to-night at sundown, or to-morrow at dawn, I am at your service."
"Let it be to-night, on the common at the back of the Hirschgasse--one second, and the fighting only between principals."
Very readily I agreed to that, or anything, and then, with a wave of my hat, I went off, cudgelling my brain whom I should ask to be my second. Jorian, who was now an officer, I should have liked better than any other. But, being of the people myself, it was necessary that I should have some one of weight and standing to meet the nephew of the Duke of the Wolfmark and his friend.
Moodily pacing down the glade, which led from the second terrace and the pleasaunce, I almost overran the Prince himself. He was seated under a tree, a parchment of troubadours' songs lay by him, illuminated (to judge by the woeful pictures) by no decent monkish or clerkly hand. He had a bottle of Rhenish at hand, and looked the same hearty, hard-headed, ironic soldier he ever was, and yet, what is more strange, every inch of him a Prince.
"Whither away, young Sir Amorous," he cried, pretending great indignation at my absent-mindedness, "head among the clouds or intent as ever on the damosels? Conning madrigals for lovers' lutes, mayhap? And all the while taking no more heed of God's honest princes than if they existed only for trampling under your feet."
I asked his pardon--but indeed I had not come so nigh him as that.
"I am to fight in a private quarrel," said I, "and, truth to tell, I sorely want a second, and was pondering whom to ask."
The Prince sighed.
"Ah, lad," he said, "once I had wished no better than to stand up at your side myself. I was not a Prince then though; and again, these laws--these too strict laws of mine! But what is the matter of your duel, and with whom?"
"Well," said I, "I have slapped Count von Reuss's chafts with his own glove, in the midst of his friends, on the upper terrace."
'Tis possible I may be mistaken, I suppose, but I did think then, and still do think, that I saw evident tokens of pleasure on the face of the Prince.
"And the cause--" I hesitated, blushing temple-high, I dare say, in spite of the growth of my mustaches.
"A woman, then!" cried the Prince. Then, more low, he added, "Not the--?"
He would have said the Princess, for he paused, in his turn, with a graver look on his face.
So I hastened with my explanation.
"He insulted the young Lady Helene, maid of honor to the Princess, who is to me as a sister, having been brought up with me in one house. Her honor is my honor, both by this tie, and because, as you know, we have long loved each other. Therefore will I fight Count von Reuss to the death, and a good cause enough."
The Prince whistled--an unprincely habit, but then all millers' lads whistle at their work. So Prince Karl whistled as he meditated.
"I see further into this matter than that--if indeed you love this maid. There be other things to be thought upon than vengeance upon Von Reuss! Does the Princess know of this?"
"Suspect she may," said I; "know she cannot. It was only half an hour ago that I knew myself."
"Ha," said he, musingly, with his beard in his hand, "it hath gone no further than that. Were it not, if possible, better to conceal the cause yet a while that our compact may go on? It were surely easy enough to invent an excuse for the quarrel."
"Prince," answered I, earnestly, "this bargain of ours hath gone on over long already, in that it hath brought a true maid's honor and happiness in question. And a maid also whom I am bound to love. I will ask you this, have I been a good soldier and servant to you or not?"
"Aye to that!" quoth the Prince, heartily.
"Have I ever asked fee or reward for aught I have tried to do?"
"Nay," he said; "but you have gotten some of both without asking."
"Will you grant me the first boon I have asked of you since you became Prince and Master to Hugo Gottfried?"
"I will grant it, if it be not to separate us as friend and friend," said my master at once.
It was like the noble Prince thus to speak of our relation. I took his hand in mine to kiss it, but this he would not permit.
"Shake hands like a man," he said, "or else kiss me upon the cheek. My hand is for young, blue-painted flittermice to kiss, for whose souls' good it is to put their lips to the hand that has shifted the meal-bags."
And with that Prince Karl embraced me heartily, and kissed me on both cheeks.
"Now for this request of yours!" said he, looking expectantly at me.
"It is this," I answered him directly: "Give me a district to govern, a tower to dwell in, and Helene to be my wife."
"Nay, but these are three things, and you stipulated but for one. Choose one!" he said.
"Then give me Helene to wife!" I cried, instantly.
"Spoken like a lover," said the good Prince. "You shall have her if I have the giving of her, which I beg leave to doubt. Something tells me that much water will run under the bridges ere that wedding comes to pass. But so far as it concerns me the thing is done. Yet remember, I have never been one wisely to marry, nor yet to give in marriage."
He smiled a dry, humorsome smile--the smile of a shrewd miller casting up his thirlage upon the mill door when he sees the fields of his parish ripe to the harvest.
"I wonder why, with her crystals and her ink-pools, the Princess hath not foreseen this. By the blue robe of Mary, there will be proceedings when she does know. I think I shall straightway go a-hunting in the mountains with my friend the Margrave!"
He considered a moment longer, and took a deep draught of Rhenish.
"Then the matter of a second," continued the Prince; "he is to fight, of course?"
"No," said I; "principals only."
"I wonder," said the Prince, meditatively, "if there be anything in that. It is not our Plassenburg custom between two young men, well surrounded with brisk lads. Three seconds, and three to meet them point to point, was more our ancient way."
"It was specially arranged at the request of the Count you Reuss," I told the Prince.
"If there is to be no fighting of seconds, what do you say to old Dessauer? He was a pretty blade in my time, and has all the etiquette and chivalry of the business at his finger-ends. Also he likes you."
"At any rate, he is ever railing upon me with that sharp tongue of his!" said I. "But did you ever hear him rail upon any of these young men that lean on rails and roll their eyes under ladies' windows?" said the Prince. "Old Leopold Dessauer is even now no weakling. I warrant he could draw a good sword yet upon occasion. Anything more lovely than his riposte I never saw."
The Prince got upon his feet with the difficulty of a man naturally heavy of body, who takes all his exercise upon horseback.
"Page!" he cried. "My compliments to High State's Councillor Dessauer, and ask him to come to me here. You will find him, I think, in the library."
So to the palace sped the boy; and presently, walking stiffly, but with great dignity, came the old man down to us.
"How about the ancestors, the noble men my predecessors?" cried the Prince, when he saw him; "have you found aught to link the miller of Chemnitz with the Princes of Plassenburg?"
The Councillor smiled, and shook his head gravely.
"Nothing beyond that bit of metal which hangs by your side, Prince Karl," said Dessauer, pointing to his Highness's sword.
The Prince looked down at the strong, unadorned hilt thoughtfully and sighed.
"I would I had another to transmit this sword to, as well as the power to wield it, when I take my place as usurper in the histories of the Princes of Plassenburg."
"I trust your Highness may long be spared to us," replied Dessauer, gravely; "but, Prince Karl, in default of an heir to your body (of which there is yet no reason to despair), wherefore may not your Highness devise the realm back to the ancient line?"
"The line of Dietrich is extinct," said the Prince, booking up sharply.
"So says Duke Casimir, hoping to succeed to your shoes, when he could not to your helmet and your sword. But I have my suspicions and my beliefs. There is more in the parchments of yonder library than has yet seen the light."
Suddenly the Prince recollected me, standing patiently by.
"But we waste time, Dessauer; we can speak of ancestors and successors anon. I and Hugo Gottfried want you to take up your ancient role. Do you mind how you snicked Axelstein, and clipped Duke Casimir of his little finger at the back of the barn, when we were all lads at the Kaiser's first diet at Augsburg?"
Old Dessauer smiled, well pleased enough at the excellence of the Prince's memory.
"I have seen worse cuts," he said; "Casimir has never rightly liked me since. And had the Black Riders caught me, over to his dogs I should have gone without so much as a belt upon me. He would have kept them without food for a week on purpose to make a clean job of my poor scarecrow pickings."
"And now this young spark," said the Prince, "for the sake of a lady's eyes, desires to do your Augsburg deed over again with Duke Casimir's nephew. So we must give him a man with quarterings on his shield to go along with him."
"I am too old and stiff," said Dessauer, shaking his head mournfully, yet with obvious desire in the itching fingers of his sword-hand; "let him seek out one of the brisk young kerls that are drumming at the blade-play all the time down there in the square by the guard-rooms."
"Nay, it is to be principals only; there is to be no fighting of seconds. The Count has specially desired that there shall be none," said the Prince; "therefore, go with the lad, Dessauer."
"No fighting of seconds!" cried the Councillor, in astonishment, holding up his hands. And I think the old swordsman seemed a little disappointed. "Well, I will go and see the lad well through, and warrant that he gets fair-play among these wolves of the Mark."
"Faith, when it comes to that, he is as rough-pelted a wolf of the Mark as any of them!" laughed the Prince.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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32
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THE WOLVES OF THE MARK
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The Hirschgasse is a little inn across the river, well known to the wilder blades of Plassenburg. There they go to be outside the authority of the city magistrates, to make rendezvous with maids more complaisant than maidenly, to fight their duels, and generally to do those things without remark which otherwise bring them under the eye of the Miller's Son, as they one and all call (behind his back) the reigning Prince of Plassenburg.
It was on the stroke of seven, and as fine an evening as ever failed to touch the soul of sinful man with a sense of its beauty, that I set out to fight the nephew of Duke Casimir. I had indeed ridden far and fast, and withal kept my head since I left the Red Tower a poor homeless wanderer, otherwise I had scarce found myself going out with High Councillor Leopold von Dessauer as my second to fight my late master's heir, the proximate Duke of the Wolfmark.
What was my surprise to find the old man attired in the appropriate costume for such an occasion, a close-fitting suit of dark gray, of ancient cut indeed, and without the fashionable slashes and scallops, but both correct and practicable, either for the sword-play or the proper ordering of it in others.
Von Dessauer laughed a little dry laugh when I congratulated him on the youthfulness of his appearance. Indeed, he seemed little grateful for my felicitations. And if it had not been for the rheumatism which he had inherited from his father's campaigns on the tented field, and the weakness which came from his own in other fields, he would yet have proved as fit for the play of fence as any youngster of them all. So, at least, he averred. And to-night the wind was southerly, and his old hurts irked him not. Faith he was almost minded to try a ruffle with the cocks of the Mark on his own account.
"Mind you," he said, "guard low. The attack of the Mark ever comes from the right leg, half-way to the knee. But I forgot--what use is it to tell you, that are born of the Mark, and have learned sword-cunning in their schools?"
As we left the castle I looked about and secretly kissed a hand to that high window, where was the chamber of my Little Playmate, whose cause I was going out so gladly to champion.
Dessauer and I went quickly down through the lanes which led to the river edge where the ferry was, and more than once with the comer of my eye I seemed to see a man in a cloak and sword stealing after us. But as the sight of a man so attired going secretly in the direction of the Hirschgasse was no uncommon one, I did not pay any particular attention.
We crossed over in the large flat-boat which plied constantly between the banks before our fine new bridge was built. We found our enemies on the ground before us, and they seemed more than a little surprised when they perceived who my second was. For as we came up the bank I saw them go close and whisper together like men who hastily alter their plans at the last moment.
I presented my second in form.
"The High Councillor Leopold von Dessauer, Knight of the Empire!" said I, proudly enough.
Then the Count presented his, as the custom then was among us of the North: "His Excellency Friedrich, Count of Cannstadt, Hereditary Cup-bearer of the Wolfmark."
Count Cannstadt was an impecunious old-young man, who, chiefly owing to accumulated gaming-debts and a disagreement with Duke Casimir concerning the payment of certain rents and duties, had sought the shelter of the Castle of Plassenburg--a refuge which the generous Prince Karl extended to all exiles who were not proven criminals.
The seconds bowed first to each other, and then to their opposing principals. In those days, duels were mostly fought with the combatants' own swords. And now Von Dessauer took my blade, and, going forward courteously, handed the hilt to Count Cannstadt, receiving that of Von Reuss in return. The seconds then compared the lengths, and found almost half an inch in favor of my opponent. Which being declared, and I offering no objection, the discrepancy was allowed and the swords returned us to fall to.
And this without further parley we did.
I was no ways afraid of my opponent. For though a pretty enough, tricky fighter, he had little practical experience. Also he had quite failed to strengthen himself by daily custom, and especially by practice at outrauce, with an enemy keen to run you through in front of you, and the necessity of keeping a wary eye on half a dozen other conflicts on either hand, as has constantly to be done in war.
The place where we fought was on a level green platform a little way above the roofs of the inn of the Hirschgasse, where many a similar conflict has been fought, and on which many a good fellow has lain, panting like a grassed trout, with the gasps growing slower and deadlier, while his opponent wiped his blade on the trampled herbage, and the seconds looked on with folded arms. There were many bushes and rocks about, and the place was very secluded to be so near a great city.
At first I did not trouble myself much, nor attempt to force the fighting. I was content to hold Von Reuss in play, and defend myself till the hunger edge of his attack was dulled. For I saw on his face a look of vicious confidence that surprised me, considering his inexperience, and he lunged with a venom and resolution which, to my mind, betokened a determination to kill at all hazards.
I knew, however, that presently he must overreach himself, so of set purpose I kept my blade short, and let him approach nearer. Immediately he began to press, thinking that he had me at his mercy. We had fought our way round to a spot on the upper side of the plateau, where for a moment Von Reuss had a momentary benefit from the nature of the ground. Here I felt that he gathered himself together, and, presently, as I had supposed he would, he centred his energy in a determined thrust at my left breast. This was well enough timed, for my guard had been short and a little high on purpose to lead him on, and now it took me all my time to turn his point aside. I saw the steel shoot past, grazing my left arm. Then with so long a recovery, and the loss of balance from lunging downhill, he was at my mercy.
As I did not wish to kill him I chose my spot almost at my leisure, and pinked him two inches below the spring of the neck and close to the collar-bone, which was running the thing as fine as I could allow myself.
What was my surprise to see my sword-blade arch itself as if it had stricken a stone wall, and to hear the unmistakable ring of steel meeting steel.
"Treachery!" cried Von Dessauer and I together; "you are villains both. He is wearing a shirt of mail!"
And the old man rushed forward with his sword bare in his hand and all a-tremble with indignation.
I heard the shrill "purl" of a silver call, and, turning me about, there was the gambler Cannstadt with a whistle at his lips. I dared not turn my head, for I had still to guard myself against the traitor Von Reuss's attack, but with the tail of my eye I could see two or three men rise from behind bushes and rocks, and come running as fast as they could towards us. Then I knew that Dessauer and I were doomed men unless something turned up that we wotted not of. For with an old man, and one so stiff as the High Councillor, for my only ally, it was impossible for me to hold my own against more than double our numbers.
Nevertheless, Von Dessauer attacked Cannstadt with surprising fury and determination, anger glittering in his eye, and resolution to punish treachery lending vigor to his thrust. I had not time to observe his method save unconsciously, for I had to change my position momentarily that I might take the points of the two men who came down the hill at speed, sword in hand.
But all this foul play among high-born folk gave me a kind of mortal sickness. To die in battle is one thing, but over against the very roofs of your home to find yourself brought to death's door by murderous treachery is quite another.
At this moment there came news of a diversion. From below was heard the crying of a stormy voice.
"Halt! I command you! Halt!"
And wheeling sufficiently to see, I observed through the twilight the figure of a stout man, who came leaping heavily up the hill towards us, waving a sword as he came. Well, thought I, the more there are of them the quicker it will be over, and the more credit for us in keeping up our end so long. Better die in a good fight than live with a bad conscience.
With which admirable reflection I sent my sword through Von Reuss's sword-arm, in the fleshy part, severing the muscle and causing him to drop his blade. I had him then at my mercy, and experienced a great desire to push my blade down his throat, for a treacherous cowardly hound as he had proved himself to me. But instead of this I had to turn towards the other two who came at the charge down the hill and were now close upon us.
I had just time to leap aside from the first and let him overrun himself when he shot almost upon the sword of the thick-set man, who came up the hill shouting to us to stop. The second man I engaged, and a stanch blade I found him, though fighting for as dirty a cause as ever man crossed swords in.
"Halt!" came the voice of command again--the voice I knew so well--"in the name of the State I bid you cease!"
It was the voice of Karl, Prince of Plassenburg.
"We must take the rough with the smooth now. We must kill them, every one, like stanch men of the Mark!" cried Von Reuss. "There is no safety for any of us else." And in a moment we were at it, the Prince furiously assaulting the second of the bravoes who came down the hill. More coolly than I had given him credit for, Von Reuss stuffed a silken kerchief into the hole in his shoulder, and repossessed himself of his weapon in his other hand.
It was the briskest kind of a bicker that ensued for a little while there on the bosky, broomy hill-side in the evening light. Ah, Dessauer was down at last and Cannstadt at his throat! I went about with a whirl, leaving my own man for the moment, and rushed upon the Count's false second. He turned to receive me, but not quite quick enough, for I got him two inches below where I had pinked his principal's ring-mail, and that made all the difference. Cannstadt did not immediately drop his sword. But his limbs weakened, and he fell forward without a sound.
Then as I looked about, there was the Prince manfully crossing swords with two, and the cowardly Von Reuss creeping up with his sword shortened in his left hand with intent to slay him from behind.
Whereat I gave a furious cry of anguish, that I should have been the means of bringing my noble master into such peril. The Prince Karl had at the same moment some intuition of the treacherous foe behind him, for he leaped aside with more agility than I had ever seen him display before on foot, and Von Reuss was too sorely wounded to follow.
Presently I was at my first bravo again, and the Prince being left with but one, Von Reuss took the opportunity to slip away over the hill.
The rest of the conflict was not long a-settling. There were loud voices from the stream beneath. The combat had been observed, and half a score of the Prince's guard were already swimming, wading, and leaping into small boats in their haste to be first to our assistance.
But we did not need their aid. I passed my blade through and through my assailant, almost at the same moment that the Prince spiked his man so directly in the throat, so that the red point stood out in the hollow of his neck behind.
Both went down simultaneously, and there was Von Reuss on horseback, just disappearing over the ridge. Prince Karl wiped his brow.
"What devil's traitors!" he cried. "Poor Dessauer, I wonder what he has gotten? Let us go to him."
We went across the plateau together, and knelt by the side of the old man. At first I could not find the wound, though there was blood enough upon his face and fencing-habit. But presently I discovered that his scalp had been cut from above the eye backwards to the crown of his head--a shallow, ploughing scratch, no more, though it had effectually stunned the old man.
Even as I held him in my arms, he came to and looked about him.
"Are they all dead?" he said, feeling about for his sword.
"You were nearly dead, dearest of friends," said my master. "But be content. You have done very well for so young a fighter. An you behave yourself, and keep from such brawling in the future, I declare I will give you a company!"
Dessauer smiled.
"All dead?" he asked, trying still to look about him.
"Your man is dead, or the next thing to it, two other rascals grievously wounded, and the scoundrel Von Reuss fled, as well he might. But my archers are already on his track."
Up the hill came Jorian and Boris leading the rout.
"Is the Prince safe?" cried Jorian.
"The Prince is safe," said Karl, answering for himself.
"Good!" chorussed Jorian, Boris, and all the archers together.
"Catch me that man on horseback there!" cried the Prince. "Take him or kill him, but if you can help it do not let him escape. He is the Count von Reuss, and a double traitor."
"Good!" cried the pair, and set off after him, all dripping as they were from their abrupt passage of the river.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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33
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THE FLIGHT OF THE LITTLE PLAYMATE
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We carried Dessauer back to the boat with the utmost tenderness, the Prince walking by his side, and oft-times taking his hand. I followed behind them, more than a little sad to think that my troubles should have caused so good and true a man so dangerous a wound. For though in a young man the scalp-wound would have healed in a week, in a man of the High Councillor's age and delicacy of constitution it might have the most serious effects.
But Dessauer himself made light of it.
"I needed a leech to bleed me," he said. "I was coward enough to put off the kindly surgery, and here our young friend has provided me one without cost. His last operation, too, and so no fee to pay. I am a fortunate man."
We came to the gate of the Palace of Plassenburg.
My Lady Princess met us, pale and obviously anxious, with lips compressed and a strange cold glitter in her emerald eyes.
"So strange a thing has happened!" she began.
"No stranger than hath happened to us," cried the Prince.
"Why, what hath happened to you?" she demanded, quickly.
"Your fine Von Reuss has proved himself a traitor. He fought a duel with Hugo here all tricked in chain-armor, and when found out he whistled his rascals from the covert to slay us. But we bested him, and he is over the hill, with Jorian and Boris hot after his heel."
"And he hath not gone alone!" said the Princess, and her eyes were brilliant with excitement.
"Not gone alone?" said the Prince. "What do you know about this black work?"
"Because Helene, my maid of honor, hath fled to join him," she said, looking anxiously at us, like one who perils much upon a throw of the dice.
I laughed aloud. So certain was I of the utter impossibility of the thing, that I laughed a laugh of scorn. And I saw the sound of my voice jar the Lady Ysolinde like a blow on the face.
"You do not believe!" she said, standing straight before me.
"I do not believe--I know!" answered I, curtly enough.
"Nevertheless the thing is true," she said, with a curious, pleading expression, as if she had been charged with wrong-doing and were clearing herself, though none had accused her by word or look.
"It is most true," the Princess went on. "She fled from the palace an hour before sundown. She was seen mounting a horse belonging to Von Reuss at the Wolfmark gate, with two of his men in attendance upon her. She is known to have received a note by the hand of an unknown messenger an hour before."
I did not wait for the permission of the Princess, but tore up the women's staircase to Helene's room, where I found nothing out of place--not so much as a fold of lace. After a hurried look round I was about to leave the room when a crumpled scrap of paper, half hidden by a curtain, caught my eye.
I stooped and picked it up. It was written in an unknown and probably disguised hand--a hand cumbersome and unclerkly: "Come to me. Meet me at the Red Tower. I need you."
There was no more; the signature was torn away, and if the letter were genuine it was more than enough. But no thought of its truth nor of the falseness of Helene so much as crossed my mind.
To tell the truth, it struck me from the first that the Lady Ysolinde might have placed the letter there herself. So I said nothing about it when I descended.
The Prince met me half-way up the stairs.
"Well?" he questioned, bending his thick brows upon me.
"She is gone, certainly," said I; "where or how I do not yet know. But with your permission I will pursue and find out."
"Or, I presume, without my permission?" said the Prince.
I nodded, for it was vain to pretend otherwise--foolish, too, with such a master.
"Go, then, and God be with you!" he said. "It is a fine thing to believe in love."
And in ten minutes I was riding towards the Wolfsberg.
As I went past the great four-square gibbet which had made an end of Ritterdom in Plassenburg, I noted that there was a gathering of the hooded folk--the carrion crows. And lo! there before me, already comfortably a-swing, were our late foes, the two bravoes, and in the middle the dead Cannstadt tucked up beside them, for all his five hundred years of ancestry--stamped traitor and coward by the Miller's Son, who minded none of these things, but understood a true man when he met him.
I pounded along my way, and for the first ten miles did well, but there my horse stumbled and broke a leg in a wretched mole-run widened by the winter rains. In mercy I had to kill the poor beast, and there I was left without other means of conveyance than my own feet.
It was a long night as I pushed onward through the mire. For presently it had come on to rain--a thick, dank rain, which wetted through all covering, yet fell soft as caressing on the skin.
I took shelter at last in a farm-house with honest folk, who right willingly sat up all night about the fire, snoring on chairs and hard settles that I might have their single sleeping-chamber, where, under strings of onions and odorous dried herbs, I rested well enough. For I was dead tired with the excitement and anxiety of the day--and at such times one often sleeps best.
On the morrow I got another horse, but the brute, heavy-footed from the plough, was so slow that, save for the look of the thing, I might just as well have been afoot.
Nevertheless I pushed towards the town of Thorn, hearing and seeing naught of my dear Playmate, though, as you may well imagine, I asked at every wayside place.
It was at the entering in of the strange country of the brick-dust that I met Jorian and Boris. They were riding excellent horses, unblown, and in good condition--the which, when I asked how they came by such noble steeds, they said that a man gave them to them.
"Jorian," said I, sharply, "where have you been?"
"To the city of Thorn," said he, more briskly than was his wont, so that I knew he had tidings to communicate.
"Saw you the Lady Helene?" I asked, eagerly, of them.
He shook his head, yet pleasantly.
"Nay," said he, "I saw her not. The Red Tower is not a healthy place for men of Plassenburg, nor yet the White Gate and the house of Master Gerard von Sturm. But Mistress Helene is in safety, so much Boris and I are assured of."
"Not with Von Reuss?" cried I, fear thrilling sudden in my voice that he had stolen her and now held her in captivity.
Boris held up his hand as a signal that I must not hurry his companion, who was clearly doing his best.
"She is with Gottfried Gottfried, the old man, your father, and is safe."
"Did she go to them of her own free will, or did my father send for her?" I went on, for much depended upon that question.
"Nay," answered Jorian, "that I know not. But certainly she is with him, and safe. The Count, too, is with his uncle, and they say also safe--under lock and key."
"Good!" quoth Boris.
"Let us all three go back to Plassenburg forthwith!" cried I. "Good!" chorussed both of them together, unanimously slapping their thighs. "Choose one of our horses. He was a good man who gave us them. We wish we had known. We should have asked him for another when we were about it."
Nevertheless, I rode back to Plassenburg on the farmer's beast, sadly enough, yet somewhat contented. For Helene was with my father, and far safer, as I judged, than in the palace chambers of Plassenburg, and within striking distance of the Lady Ysolinde. And in that I judged not wrong, though the future seemed for a while to belie my confidence.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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34
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THE GOLDEN NECKLACE
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The Chancellor Leopold von Dessauer, High Councillor of the Prince, with his head still bound up, was pacing the sparred gallery outside the private apartments of his master. It was in the heats of the late summer, before the ripening of the orchard fruits had had time to culminate, or the russet to come out slowly upon the apples, like a blush upon a woman's soft, dusky cheek.
The High Councillor was in a bad humor. For he had been kept waiting, and that by a man of no account. At last a forester in a uniform of dark green, with the Prince's bugle and sparrow-hawk in silver everywhere about him, made his appearance at the foot of the gallery, and stood waiting Dessauer's summons with his plumed hat of soft cloth in his hand.
"Hither, man!" cried the High Councillor, sharply. "What has kept you? Why were you not here half an hour ago? If this be the way you keep the Prince's forests, no wonder there are many deer taken by reiving rascals and the forest laws daily broken."
"High Mightiness," said the man, humbly, looking down, "it was my daughter--she would not give up the necklace. She hath had it for her own since she was a child, and she would not deliver it, though I threatened her with your well-born anger."
"And have you got it with you? Surely you and she have not dared to keep it!" began the Chancellor, with gathering fury on his eyebrow.
"Yea, truly, truly, an you will have patience, my Lord, I have it here,"-said the man, drawing a necklace of golden bars curiously arranged from his leathern wallet; and, kneeling on his knee, he presented it to the Chancellor.
"How did you prevail with the maid?" he asked, as soon as he had it in hand--"you used no constraint or force, I hope?"
"Nay, sir," said the man, "for my wife being dead and my daughter marriageable, she keeps house for me; and having a sweetheart betrothed a year ago she hath been laying aside plenishing gear and women's dainty gewgaws. So these I took one by one, beginning with a mirror of polished brass, and made as if I would dash them in pieces if she discovered not where the chain of gold was hid."
"And she revealed it?" said Dessauer.
"Aye," said the man, "but none so willingly, as you might suppose. I had Saint Peter's own trouble to get it from her. Indeed, I prayed to the Holy Apostle to aid me."
"What had Saint Peter to do with it?" said the Councillor, pausing and looking humorsomely at the man, like an ascetic sparrow with his head at one side.
"Because our Holy Saint Peter is the only saint who understands the trouble men have with the contrariness of women."
"Why so?" cried the Chancellor, rubbing his hand with a curious pleasure at the colloquy.
"Because he only among the Apostles was a married man and had experience of a mother-in-law."
"Art a wise forester. Where got you that wisdom?"
"Why," said the man, modestly, "partly by nature, partly because I also have been married, and so have graduated in the wars."
"It is the same thing," said the Chancellor, "according to your own telling."
"Aye, sir," quoth the man, "but yet the young fellows will take no warning. 'It is better to marry than to burn,' said the other Apostle. But methinks he knew nothing about it, being no better than a bachelor, or he would have amended it, 'It is better to burn than to marry _and_ burn.'"
"Ha! art also a theologe, Sir Woodman?" cried Dessauer. "But enough; this touches on the Inquisition and the Holy Office. Let us despatch."
All this time the High Councillor had been gazing by fits and starts at the links of the necklace, turning it about and viewing it from every-angle. It was composed of short bars of gold laid horizontally three and three together, and bound together with short chains of gold. And on each of the bars there was engraven a crest. Letters also were on the bars, cut in plain deep script.
"Now tell your tale and tell it briefly--that is, if brevity be in you, which I doubt," said Dessauer.
"As I said before," quoth the forester, "I was in the wars; I mean not only in the wars with womenkind, but also with mankind. And among other things I remember the night of the Duke Casimir's famous ride, when he took Plassenburg, because there was scarce a sober man within the walls."
"And his Highness the Prince Karl away on Baltic side with his men, else had Casimir never set foot within the city!" cried the High Chancellor.
"Ah, like enow," said the woodman, "I ken naught of that. But this I do know, Plassenburg was taken with much slaughter and grievous loss of goodly gear. They captivated many noble prisoners also, and, because I slept in the stables, they took me to help lead the horses. Yet I was not ill-treated, save that I had to keep pace with the horsemen upon my feet. But I saw the Prince--" "Which Prince? Speak plainly," said the High Councillor, gruffly.
"Why, the Prince Dietrich Hohenfriedberg of Plassenburg," said the man. "He, as your well-born Wisdom remembers, was then the only Prince in these parts--a good man, and born of the noblest, though not of the capacity of his present Highness the Prince Karl."
"Proceed somewhat faster. Yon move as slowly as one of your own forest oxen at the wood-hauling," cried the well-born Councillor in a testy tone.
"We were long in riding over to Thorn--two days and nights upon the way. It was a terrible time, and all the while those condemned beasts of the Wolfmark, Casimir's Black Riders, driving us with their spears like prick-goads, till our backs were all bleeding, gentle and simple alike. So at midnight of the third day we came to the city of Thorn, and up through the streets to the Wolfsberg. There was no gladness in the town, such as there would have been in our city had there been news of a victory, or even of some hundreds of the enemy's horses well driven. For then as now the town hated its Duke. And so they were all silent.
"Then in the darkness we came to the castle, and the word was: 'Dismount, and to the shambles!' Me and my like they meddled not with, but only the great ones. And it was then, as I told you, that I saw Prince Dietrich with the little maid in his arms. I had carried her part of the way for him, and faithfully delivered her up again, feeding her with the choicest meats I could obtain when she could eat. But she was tired, mostly, and would not look at food. So for this he gave me her necklace from about her pretty neck. But the rest of her noble golden gear, the belt and the clasps, were upon the maid when the headsman of Thorn delivered her to one that stood near by. So, being almost asleep with weariness and exhausted with terror, they carried her away, and I saw the maid no more.
"But the Prince Dietrich Hohenfriedberg was beheaded within the hour, and, as is their hellish custom, his body was thrown to the Duke's blood-hounds that were clamoring all the time behind their fence.
"God help us--such a disaster that night was for Plassenburg! Will the Prince never set about wiping away the disgrace?"
"Aye, that he will!" cried the High Chancellor, suddenly bursting into a fury, strangely unlike him. "He will wash it away in the blood of Duke Casimir and all his evil brood--the Wolves of the Mark truly are they named. And the Wolfsberg shall go up in flaming fire to heaven, so that the ashes of it shall be cast abroad to make the Mark yet grayer and more desolate--like the fell of the beasts that dwelt within it."
"Amen! Let it come quick, say I--that I may see it before I die!" cried the forester, bowing low before the Chancellor.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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35
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THE DECENT SERVITOR
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"This grows past all bearing," cried the Prince one morning, when he had summoned into his hall the Chancellor Dessauer and myself. For, though the Prince was still wont to command in person in any important action, and in the general policy of his realm took counsel with none, yet it had somehow come about that we, the old man and the young, had been constituted an informal council of two which was liable to be summoned at any moment, whenever the Prince was weary or troubled.
He struck one clinched hand into the palm of the other before he spoke again.
"Duke Casimir is either in his dotage, or his riders have gotten out of hand since Hugo and you drove the young wolf over to help the old. Both are likely enough, with a people praying for deliverance and yearning for their Duke's death. A bare board and an empty treasury may render a new course of plunder necessary abroad, in order to keep his Dukedom from toppling about his ears at home. After all, 'tis natural enough. But I had thought that he would have had enough of sense to let the borders of Plassenburg alone so long as its Prince lived."
"And what, my lord, has befallen?" asked the High Councillor.
"Why," cried the Prince, "the Black Riders of the Wolfmark are out again, and have left their ancient trail behind them in slain men and frantic women--and on our borders, too, among our kindly husbandmen, our honest, sunburnt peasants. Bitterly shall Casimir Ironteeth rue the day that he meddled with Karl Miller's Son."
"Your Highness," I said, "this is indeed madness. We have but to collect our forces, choose a time, and, lo! we are within the town of Thorn! Once there, we would be welcomed by man, woman, and child. We could then besiege the Wolfsberg, and in three days make an end."
"Aye, that is it," said the Prince, grimly; "you have hit it, Hugo. We _will_ make an end."
"Also, my Prince," I went on, boldly, "so ye give me leave and approve of my design, I will go alone to the town of Thorn, and bring you back word of their power and dispositions. Save the Count von Reuss, there is none who could now recognize me within the city walls."
"What think ye, Dessauer?" said the Prince, looking over at the High Chancellor.
"I think well," said he, a little doubtfully; "but would it not be better that two should go than that one should adventure alone into the wolf's den ?"
"Surely it were better to keep the matter between our three selves," the Prince made answer; "not even the Princess must know of our attempt. Keep a candle flame within the hollow of your palm, and though the wind blow the sparks will not fly far."
"I will go with the lad, Prince Karl," said the Chancellor, firmly. "In my youth I had some practice as a leech. I am acquainted with the art of healing. I could travel either as a doctor of healing, as a travelling philosopher seeking disputation with the scholars of each country, or, perhaps best of all, in mine own quality of a doctor of law. And in any case this young man might with all safety be my pupil or servant, whichever best liketh him."
"Servant, then," said I, "for the art of disputation I have hitherto chiefly undertaken with my fists and side-irons. And as to surgery, I am more practised in the giving of wounds than in the healing of them."
The Prince leaned his head upon his hand. He thought carefully over our proposal, taking up point after point, resolving difficulty after difficulty in his mind, as was his wont.
"How long would you be away?" he asked, looking up at us.
"Ten days, Prince," said I. "Give us but ten days and we will return."
"I will give you eight, and if ye are not home again on the eve of the last, as sure as I am Karl Miller's Son, the army of Plassenburg will be thundering on the walls of Thorn seeking for a wandering Chancellor and a lost Hugo Gottfried!"
And so it was arranged. We of the Prince's staff were indeed in great need of such a mission, for we had heard nothing from Thorn or the Wolfmark during many months; no tidings, at all events, that could be relied upon. For the cutting up of our frontiers by new raids, and the severance of all relations between us and the dwellers in the Wolfmark, through fear of reprisals, caused us to hear little news but such as was manifest lies.
As thus: Duke Casimir was collecting a great army, magnificent with cannon and munitions of war. He was shut up tight in the Wolfsberg, not daring to show his face to his own citizens. He would appear some fine day before the Palace of Plassenburg and slay every man of us. He was in a madman's cell, and Otho von Reuss was Duke of the Mark in his place.
These were only a few of the stories which were brought to regale us daily. And since there was no certainty anywhere, we were all in the dark concerning the military matters which it behooved us greatly to be acquainted with. Therefore I was honestly eager for my master's sake to undertake the perilous journey. But to tell the whole truth, the fact that I had not had a word from the Little Playmate, not so much as a line of script nor a verbal message since her disappearance, made me more eager to go than the high politics of a dozen provinces.
Since the duel, and the final declaring of my love for Helene, I had seen but little of the Princess. Indeed, I kept out of her way, so far at least as I could. And the Lady Ysolinde remained mostly in her own domains--to which, of late, I had been less and less invited. Nevertheless, when we met, she was more than kind to me--gentle, forbearing, pathetic almost in bearing and demeanor, like as a woman wronged, slighted, misconstrued.
Also there was sent to my quarters a new banner for my following, broidered and blazoned in yellow and blue, a saddle-cloth of silk for my horse, fine as a woman's robe, with a crowned Y faint and small in the corner, lettered in straw-colored gold. No man could help being touched by such kindly thought, which, after all, is more than mere liberality.
Yet I saw a sight upon her stairs one night which awoke me with a sudden start to the fact that we had one to reckon with in our journeying to the city of Thorn whom we had not as yet taken into consideration.
For it chanced that I was passing up to the Prince's apartments by the quicker way, through corridors and by stairs to which he had given me private access. And there, upon the steps leading to the Lady Ysolinde's rooms, I saw the decent servitor of Master Gerard stand waiting. He stared as hard at me as I did at him. But whereas his smooth, silent, secret face remained with me, and I knew him at a glance, it was, I judged, clean impossible that he could know the beardless stripling in the mustached leader of soldiers, walking well-accustomed and unafraid through palaces.
The man had a letter in his hand, and I saw him deliver it to a maid who came to the dividing curtain to take it.
So there was later news from the city of Thorn within the Palace of Plassenburg than we of the Prince's council of three possessed. Should I tell our Karl of this encounter? I thought it might be safer not. Because the Prince was the last man to attempt to obtain aught from his wife by compulsion, and any question, direct or indirect, might only put her upon her guard.
If I let him into the secret, the Prince would be most likely to stride straight into the Princess's rooms with the brusque words: "Gottfried has seen a letter come to you from your father--what were its contents?"
And that would not suit us at all.
So, rightly or wrongly, I kept the matter from my master, speaking of it only to Dessauer. And if aught befel from my reticence, it was at least I myself who bore the burden, and, in the final event, paid the penalty.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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36
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YSOLINDE'S FAREWELL
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The next morning early, as I went about making my dispositions, and putting men of trust in positions fit for them--for the Prince has given me the command of all the soldiers within the city--the Lady Ysolinde came to me upon the terrace.
"Walk with me a while," she said, "in the lower garden. It is a quiet place, and I would speak with you."
It was a command that I dared not refuse to obey, yet my greatest enemy would not accuse me that I went lightly or willingly to such a tryst.
The Lady Ysolinde passed on daintily and proudly before me, and I followed, more like a condemned criminal lamping heavily to the scaffold than a lad of mettle accompanying a fair lady to a rendezvous of her own asking under the greenwood-tree.
But I need not have feared. The Princess's mood was mild, and I saw her in a humor in which I had never seen her before.
She moved before me over the grass, with her head a little turned up to the skies, as though appealing out of her innocence to the Beings who sat behind and sorted out the hearts of men and women.
At a great weeping-elm, under which was a seat, she turned. It formed a wide canopy of shade, grateful and cool. For the breezes stirred under the leaves, and the river moved beneath with a pleasant, meditative hush of sound.
"Hugo Gottfried, once you were my friend," she began; "what have I done that you should be my friend no more? Tell me plainly. I liked you when as a lad, the son of the Red Axe, you had come to my father's house about some boyish freak. I have not done ill by you since that day. And now that you are a leader of men and of rank and honor here in my husband's country of Plassenburg, I would be your well-wisher still. I am conscious of no reason for my having forfeited your liking. But that I would know for certain--and now."
As she threw back her head and let her clear emerald eyes rest upon me, I never saw woman born of woman look more innocent. Indeed, in these days of mistrust, it is innocence under suspicion which usually looks most guilty, knowing what is expected of it.
"Lady Ysolinde," I made answer, "you try me hard and sore. You put me by force in the wrong. You do me indeed great honor, as you have ever done all these years. In reverence and high respect I shall ever hold you for all that you have done--for your kindness to me and to Helene, the orphan girl who came from our father's roof with me. I know no reason why there should be any break in our friendship--nor shall there be, if you will pardon my folly and--" "Tush!" she said, impetuously; "you speak things empty, vain, the rattling of knuckle-bones in a bladder--not live words at all. Think you I have never listened to true men? Do not I, Ysolinde of Plassenburg, know the sound of words that have the heart behind them? I have heard you speak such yourself. Do not insult me then with platitudes, nor try to divert me with the piping of children in the market-place. I will not dance to them, nor yet, like a foolish kitchen-wench, smile at the jingling of your trinketry."
"Your Highness--" I began again.
She waved her hand as if putting a light thing away.
"I was a woman to you before you knew that I was a Princess," she said; "you need not forget that I am a woman still, cursed with the plate-mail of rank added to the weariness and inaction of a woman's breaking heart."
I grew acutely conscious that I was not distinguishing myself in this interview. So I dashed again at the wall, and this time, for a moment at least, overbore interruption.
"Ysolinde, my dear lady," I said to her, "you are the Prince's and my good master's wife. And if I have stood aloof, it is that I wished that he should have the companionship which one day I desire to find for myself--and also that I might always have the right to look straight into my master's eyes."
"Now you talk like a silly prating priestling," she said. "You are both mighty careful of your honesty, your virtue, your companionship--your precious master and you. But you do not think what it is to starve a woman's heart, to bid her find her level among broiderers of bannerets and stitchers in tapestry. Ah! if the particular God who happened to be at the digging of us out of the happier pit of oblivion had only made me a man, I, at least, should neither have been a straitlaced Jackanapes nor yet a prating, callow-bearded wiseacre."
"And am I either?" said I, weakly enough.
"You are in danger of becoming both," she said, promptly. "Once I saw better things in you. I thought I had won me a friend, and that for once I might put my anchor down. My husband neglects me, so much cannot have escaped your eagle eye. He is twice my age, and he thinks more of you, more of Councillor Von Dessauer, more of his horse than of me, Ysolinde of Plassenburg. And I was made to be loved and to love. How much of either, think you, have I ever known? The true lot of a woman shut to me, the sweet love of man and woman wiled from me, even the communion of the spirit forbidden. I might as lief carry a wizened nut-kernel within my brain-pan as a thinking soul, for all that any one cares. I am a woman of another age stranded on the shores of a time made only for men. I am the woman priests talk against, or perhaps rather the witch-woman Lilith on the outside of Eden's wall. Or I may be the woman of a time yet to come, when she who is man's mate shall not be only a gay-decked bird to sit on his wrist, tethered with a leash and called back to her master with a silver lure."
These things I had never listened to before, nor, indeed, thought of. Nevertheless, though I could not answer her, I felt in my heart that she was wrong, and that a woman has always power over men, being stronger than all ideals, philosophies, kingdoms--aye, even our holy religion itself.
"After all," I said, piqued a little at her tone, as men are wont to be at that which they do not understand, "my Lady Ysolinde, wherefore should you not tell these things to the Prince, your husband, and not to me, that am neither your husband nor your lover?"
"And if you had been both?" she interjected, a little breathlessly.
"Then, my lady," I replied, stirred by her persistence, "you would have obeyed me and served me just as you say. Or else I should have broken your spirit as a man is broken on the wheel."
It was a prideful saying, and one informed with all ignorance and conceit. Yet the Lady Ysolinde gave a long sigh.
"Ah, that would have been sweet, too," she said. "You are the one man I should have delighted to call master, to have done your bidding. That had been a thing different indeed! But you love me not. You love a chit, a chitterling--a pretty thing that can but peep and mutter, whose heart's depths I have sounded with my finger-nail, and whose babyish vanity I have tickled with a straw."
This was enough and too much.
"Madam," said I, "the clear stars are not fouled by throwing filth at them, nor yet the Lady Helene--whom I do acknowledge that with all my heart I love--by the speaking of any ill words. You do but wrong yourself, most noble lady. For your heart tells you other things, both of the maid I love and of me that am her true servant, and, if I might, your true friend."
The Princess reached out her hand, looking, not with anger, but rather wistfully at me, like a mother at a son who goes to his death with blasphemy on his lips.
"Forgive me," she said, gently. "I would not at the last have you go forth thinking ill of me. Indeed, you think all too well, and make me do things that are better than mine intent, because I know that you expect them of me. I have done many ill and cruel things in my poor life, simply from idleness and the empty, unsatisfied heart. If you had loved me or taught me or driven me, I might have tried better things. Perhaps in the end, for great love's sake, I may yet do one worthy deed that shall blot out all the rest. Farewell!"
And without another spoken word she moved away, and left me in the green pleasaunces of the garden, with my heart riven this way and that, scarce knowing what I did or where I stood.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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37
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CAPTAIN KARL MILLER'S SON
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Black, blank, chill, confining night shut us in as Leopold Dessauer and I rode out of Plassenburg. Our horses had been made ready for us at the little water-gate in the lower garden. Fain would I have taken also Jorian and Boris, but on this occasion the fewer the safer. For to enter Thorn was to go with lighted matches into a powder-magazine.
The rushes in the river rustled dry and cold along the brink. The leaves of the linden-trees chuckled overhead, rubbing their palms together spitefully. There was mockery of our foolhardy enterprise in the soft whispering sough of the water, as I heard it lapper beneath the ferry-boat that lay ready to cross to the other side. Old Hans, the Prince's ferryman, snored in his boat. Above in the women's chambers a light went to and fro. I judged that it was in the bower of the Lady Ysolinde. But not a string of my heart moved. For pity is so weak and love so strong that all my nature was now on the strain forward towards Helene and the Wolfsberg, like an eager hound that pulls at the unslipped leash.
"My love! my love!" I cried in my heart, "I am coming to you, I am going out to find you! Though I give my life for it, I shall at least see and touch you ere I die."
For during these last days my love had grown greatly upon me, being of that kind which gathers within a man, banks up, fills out his crevices, and he know it not. In the Wolfmark there are oft, in the heart of the limestone, caverns where the water sleeps deep and cool, while above, on the thin, rocky crust, the sun beats and the very lizards die for lack of moisture. It was only now that I had broken up the crust of my nature and found the caverns under, where love was abiding all undreamed of, deep, and eternal as the sea. It is a great thing and a beautiful to meet love for the first time face to face, not to nod to only as to an acquaintance, and to know how great and masterful he is; to say, "Love, I am yours. Do with me that which seemeth good to you. I was strong--now in your hands am I become weak. I was proud--now am I glad to be humble and kneel, waiting your word. You have made life and death the same thing to me, for the sake of the Beloved. I am ready to take either from your hands!"
But enough! We were riding out of the dark pleasaunces of the palace, the leaves were rustling and the sedges blowing. That was what began it, carrying away my thoughts.
Dessauer rode behind me, letting his horse follow mine, nose to tail. For, being used to the visitation of the city outposts, I knew the ground thoroughly.
At every hundred yards we were halted, and I answered. For I had posted the men myself, making sure that Plassenburg should not again be taken by surprise. On the other hand, I had determined that the spoiler should now be made despoiled, and that the foul den of the Wolf should be cleansed as by fire.
Then, like the breaking up of the Baltic ice in spring, the thought ran through me--my father and the maid of the Red Tower, what of them?
Why, at the very first (so I told myself), I should set a guard of the best troops in Plassenburg about the Red Tower, and carry them all--Helene, my father, and old Hanne--to a safe place till Prince Karl and I had made an end. With our stark veterans swarming in Thorn, that would easily be done. And so the plan abode to be altered, broidered, and recast in the imagination of my heart.
We were soon out on the darksome, unguarded road, and after that I steered chiefly by the lights of the palace behind me, Dessauer saying no word, but riding like a man-at-arms close behind me.
We had reached the crown of the green hill over whose slopes the path to the Wolf markwinds--the path by which, doubtless, Helene had travelled the night of the duel.
As I came to the summit, mounting the steepest part slowly, I was aware of a figure dark against the sky, no more apparent than a blacker patch of night where all was dark. It was in shape as of a horseman sitting his steed on the crest of the hill.
Instantly I drew my pistol, in which I had become expert.
"Your name and business?" cried I to the shape on the hill-side. For, indeed, none had any right to be abroad so near the city of Plassenburg, armed cap-a-pie, at that time of the night. And for a moment the thought flashed upon me that the tales we had heard might after all be true, and the armies of the Wolfmark nearer than we dreamed of.
"Hugo--Von Dessauer!" quoth right jovially to my ear a voice well known and ever dear to me, the voice of my master, the Prince Karl.
"The Prince!" cried I. "My lord, what do you here? This is stark madness--you, who should be within the walls of the palace, with the guards watching three deep about you. What would come to the State of Plassenburg if it wanted you?"
"Oh," said he, lightly, falling in beside us in the most natural fashion, "you and Von Dessauer in dual control would be a singular improvement on the present head of the State. You, Hugo, would keep the soldiers to their work, and Von Dessauer could look nobly after the treasury."
"But who would command us and be a gracious and beloved master to us?" said I. "My Prince, we must instantly return and put you in safety!"
"Indeed, that will you not. By God's truth, if I am not to come all the way to the city of Thorn with you, I will at least convoy you to the edges of the Mark. It is so dull, dragging out month by month at ease within the castle, and not nearly so much fun as it used to be when I was a poor captain of a free company under the old Prince. Young rattling blades like Dessauer and yourself make no allowance for the distractions of an aged and gouty Prince."
Within myself I felt some amusement stir. It was almost exactly what the Princess, his wife, had alleged as a reason for her wanderings. I could not help marvelling why these two had not long ere this found out their great affinity to each other. But now I see that this very likeness of nature was the first cause of their lack of agreement. Like may, indeed, draw to like, as the saw hath it. But in the things of love like and like agree not well together. Fair desires dark, stout and stark desire slender, slow desires quick, severe desires gay (though this often secretly). And so the world goes on, and in another generation, sprung from these desirings, once more dark desireth fair and fair dark.
There I am at it again. Oh, but I, Hugo Gottfried, am the wise man when I set out on my disquisitions. I could new-make all the saws of the world, set instances to them, and never breathe myself.
"Nay," said the Prince, "all is safe set within and without, thanks to my brave commander and wise Chancellor, and these other matters can e'en bide till I go back to them. Consider that I am but a captain of horse going a-wooing and needing to talk gayly for good comradeship by the road. Call me honest Captain Miller's Son."
So Captain Miller's Son rode with Herr Doctor Schmidt and his servant Johann. And a merry time the three of us had till we arrived at the borders of the Mark.
Now I have not time nor yet space (though a great deal of inclination) to tell of the wondrous pranks we played--of the broad-haunched countrywomen we rallied (or rather whom Captain Miller's Son rallied, and who, truth to tell, mostly gave as good as they got, or better, to that soldier's huge delight), the stout yeoman families into whose midst we went, and their opinion of the Prince. Of the last I have a good tale to tell. "A good man and a kindly," so the man said; "he has given us safe horse, fat cow, and a quiet life. But yet the old was good too. The true race to reign is ever the anointed Prince."
"But then, did not Dietrich, the anointed Prince, harry you? And worse, let others plunder you? And that is not the fashion of Prince Karl, usurper though he be!" said the Prince.
"Nay," the honest man would reply, "usurper is he not--a God-sent boon to Plassenburg rather. We love him, would fight for him, all my six sons and I. Would we not, chickens?"
And the six sons rolled out a thunderous "Aye, fight--marry, that we would!" as they sat, plaiting willow-baskets and mending bows about the fire.
"But, alas! he is cursed with a mad wife, and, after all said and done, he is not of the ancient stock," said the ancient man, shaking his head.
And the Prince answered him as quickly, tapping his brow significantly with his forefinger, "Are not all wives a little touched? Or are yon passing fortunate in your part of the country? Faith, we of the city will all come courting to the Tannenwald if you prove better off."
"We are even as our neighbors!" cried the yeoman, shrugging his shoulders. "Maul, my troth, what sayest thou? Here is a brisk lad that miscalls thy clan."
The goodwife came forward, smiling, comely, and large of well-padded bone.
"Which?" said she, laconically.
The farmer pointed to the Prince. The matron took a good look at him.
"Well," she said, "he is the one that should know most about us. He has been married once or twice, and hath gotten certain things burned into him. As for this one," she went on, indicating Dessauer, "he may be doctor of all the wisdoms, as ye say, but he has never compassed the mystery of a woman. And this limber young spark with the quick eyes, he is a bachelor also, but ardently desires to be otherwise. I wot he has a pretty lass waiting for him somewhere."
"How knew you that of me, goodwife ?" I cried, greatly astonished.
"Why, by the way you looked up when my daughter came dancing in. You were in your lost brown-study, and then, seeing a pretty lass that most are glad to rest their eyes upon, you looked away disappointed or careless."
"And how knew you that I was of the ancient guild of the bachelors?" asked Dessauer.
"Why, by the way that you looked at the pot on the fire, and sniffed up the stew, and asked how long the dinner would be! The bachelor of years is ever uneasy about his meals, having little else to be uneasy about, and no wife, compact of all contrary whimsies, to teach him how to be patient."
"And how," cried the Prince, in his turn, "knew you that I had been wedded once?"
"Or twice," said the woman, smiling. "Man, ye cackle it like a hen on the rafters advertising her egg in the manger below. I knew it by the fashion ye had of hanging up your hat and eke scraping your feet---not after ye entered, like these other good, careless gentlemen, but with your knife, outside the door. I see it by your air of one that has been at once under authority and yet master of a house."
"Well done, good wife!" cried the Prince. "Were I indeed in authority I would make you either Prime-Minister or chief of my thief-catchers."
And so after that we went to bed.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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38
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THE BLACK RIDERS
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The next day we jogged along, and many were our advices and admonitions to the Prince to return. For we were now on the borders of his kingdom, and from indications which met us on the journeying we knew that the Black Riders were abroad. For in one place we came to a burned cottage and the tracks of driven cattle; in another upon a dead forest guard, with his green coat all splashed in splotches of dark crimson, a sight which made the Prince clinch his hands and swear. And this also kept him pretty silent for the rest of the day.
It was about evening of this second day, and we had come to the top of a little swell of hills, when suddenly beneath us we heard the crackling of timbers and saw the pale, almost invisible flames beginning to devour a thriving farm-house at our feet. There were swarms of men in dark armor about it, running here and there, clapping straw and brushwood to hay-ricks and byre doors.
"The Black Riders of Duke Casimir," I cried; "down among the bushes and let them not see us! We must go back. If they so much as suspected the Prince they would slay us every one."
But ere we had time to flee half a dozen of their scouts came near us, and, observing our horses and excellent accoutrement, they raised a cry. There was nothing for it but the spurs on the heels of our boots. So across the smooth, well-turfed country we had it, and in spite of our beasts' weariness we made good running. And while we fled I considered how best to serve the Prince.
"There is a monastery near by," said I, "and the head thereof is a good friend of ours. Let us, if possible, gain that shelter, and cast ourselves on the kindness of the good Abbot Tobias."
"Aye," said the Prince, urging his horse to speed, "but will we ever get there?"
Then I called myself all the stupid-heads in the world, because I had not refused to go a foot with the Prince on such a mad venture, and so put our future and that of the Princedom of Plassenburg in such peril.
But there at last were the gray walls and high towers of the Abbey of Wolgast. Our pursuers were not yet in sight, so we rode in at the gate and cast our bridles to a lay brother of the order, crying imperiously for instant audience of the Abbot.
As soon as my friend Tobias saw us he threw up his hands in a rapture of welcome. But I soon had him advertised of our great danger. Whereupon he went directly to the window of his chamber of reception and looked out on the court-yard.
"Ring the abbey bell for full service," he commanded; "throw open the outer gates and great doors, and lead these horses to the secret crypt beneath the mortuary chapel."
For the Abbot Tobias was a man of the readiest resource, and in other circumstances would have made a good soldier.
He hurried us off to the robing-rooms, and made us put on monastic and priestly garments over our several apparels. Never, Got wot, had I expected that I should be transformed into a rope-girt praying clerk. But so it was. I was given a square black cap and a brown robe, and sent to join the lay brethren. For my hair grew thick as a mat on top and there was no time to tonsure it.
Now, Dessauer being bald and quite practicable as to his topknot, they endued him with the full dress of a monk. But at that time I saw not what was done with the Prince. For my conductor, a laughing, frolicsome lad, came for me and carried me off all in good faith, telling me the while that he hoped we should lodge together. There were, he whispered, certain very fair and pleasant-spoken maids just over the wall, that which you could climb easily enough by the branches of the pear-tree that grew contiguous at the south corner.
As we hurried towards the chapel, the monks were streaming out of their cells in great consternation, grumbling like soldiers at an unexpected parade.
"What hath gotten into our old man?" said one. "Hath he overeaten at mid-day refection, and so is not able to sleep, that he cannot let honest men enjoy greater peace than himself?"
"What folly!" cried another; "as if we had not prayers enough, without cheating the Almighty by knocking him up at uncanonical hours!"
"And the choir summoned, and full choral service, no less! Not even a respectable saint's day--no true churchman indeed, but some heretic of a Greek fellow!" quoth a third.
Nevertheless, obediently enough they made their way as the bell clanged, and the throng filed into their places most reverently. It was a pleasant sight. I came into rank unobtrusively at the back, among the rustling and nudging lay brethren. In other circumstances it would have amused me to see the grave faces they turned towards the altar, and to hear all the while the confused scuffling as they trod on each other's toes, trying whose skin was the tenderest or whose sandal soles were the thickest. One or two even tried conclusions with me, but once only. For the first who adventured got a stamp from my riding-boot which caused him to squeal out like a stuck pig, and but for the waking thunder of the organ might have gotten him a month's penance in addition. So after that my toes were left severely alone among the lay brethren.
Then came the high procession, at which the monks and all stood up. In front there were the incense-bearers and acolytes, then officers whose names, not being convent-bred nor yet greatly given to church-craft, I did not know. Then after them came two men who walked together, at the sight of whom the' jaws of all the monks dropped, and they stood so infinitely astonished that no power was left in them. For, instead of one, two mitred abbots entered in full canonical attire--golden mitre and green, golden-headed staff, red embroidered robes lined with green. These two paced solemnly in abreast, and sat down upon twin thrones.
"The Abbot of St. Omer!" whispered one of the lay brothers, naming one of the most famous abbeys in Europe, and the word flew round like lightning. Whether he had been instructed or not what to say I do not know. But at all events I saw the tidings run round the circle of the choir, overleap the boundary stall, and even reach the officiating priests, who inclined an eager ear to catch it, and passed the word one to another in the intervals of the chanted sentences.
Then the news was drowned in the thunder of the anthem, and the organ dominating all. Everything was strange to me, but most strange the practice of the lay brothers, who chanted bravely indeed in tune, but who (for the words set in the chorals) substituted other sentiments of a kind not usually found in service-books.
"He looks a stout and be-e-e-fy o-o-old fel-low, this A-a-a-bot of St. Omer, don't you think? Glory, glo-o-ry. Takes his meals well, likes his qu-a-a-art of Rhenish or his Burgundy to swell his jolly paunch. A-a-a-men!"
Or, as it might be: "Are you coming--are you coming o-o-out to-night? There will be-ee, good compan-ee-ee. Dancing and deray--lots of pretty girls; no proud churls. Ten by the clock, when the doors all lock. As it was in the beginning, is now, ever shall be, world without end, A-a-a-men!"
These were, of course, only the lay brothers, and I hope the friars were better behaved. I decided, however, that for the sake of my respect for religion, I should ask Dessauer. Because I saw even the Abbot Tobias lean smilingly over to Abbot Prince Karl, and I marvelled what they spoke about. Not that I had long to wonder, for through the open door of the chapel there streamed a dismal host of invaders from the Wolfmark--black Hussars of Death, in dark armor, with white skeletons painted over them, all charnel-house ribs and bones in hideous and ridiculous array--which was one of Duke Casimir's devices to frighten children, and no doubt these scarecrows frightened many of these. Specially when these villanous companies were recruited from all the wild bandits of the Mark, and never punished for any atrocity, but, on the contrary, rather encouraged in evil-doing in order to spread the terror of their name.
Yet, when they came rushing in, even the cavaliers of death were daunted by the sight which met them. And as the solemn service proceeded, amid the thunder of the great organ pressing, throbbing against the roof and reverberating along the floor, hands stole to heads, helmets were lifted, and half-forgotten fear of Holy Church stirred in many a wicked and outcast heart. Some of the foremost, with their blades half-drawn, appeared to waver whether or no they should even yet stay the service with the bloody sword.
But as the monks calmly chanted, and the solemn responses were given, a stillness stole over the vociferous babble within the great open doors.
Higher and higher the voices of the choir mounted, breaking a way to heaven. Awe sat on every fierce face, and when the Abbot Tobias arose to pronounce the benediction, the other stood up beside him, and the Hussars of Death knelt awe-stricken before the two mitred dignitaries of the Church.
Without a murmur they arose and slunk away without so much as searching the abbey, and so departed on their errands, leaving us safe and unharmed.
Then, when the three of us were again united in the private rooms of the Abbot Tobias, that hearty ecclesiastic shook us all by the hand and said, "Good friends, we are well out of that. Nay, no thanks! My monks are not a bit the worse of a little additional exercise to keep them humble and lean. Nor is God the less well pleased that we have sought him in time of need--as Prince and Abbot, as well as soldier and peasant, require."
These being the only words of genuine piety I had heard within the walls of the monastery, I thought more of the Abbot Tobias from that moment that he was not ashamed to speak them in the presence of Prince and Councillor of State, as well as before a rough soldier like myself.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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39
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THE FLAG ON THE BED TOWER
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It took us all our powers of persuasion with the Prince to induce him to depart homeward on the morrow, under escort of a dozen sturdy and well-armed lanzknechte attached to the monastery. But the thing was done at last.
"And remember," said our Karl, as he embraced us, "that if ye return not on the eighth day at eventide, the forces of Plassenburg will e'en be battering on the gates of Thorn by the hour of dusk. I am not going to have my farms burned, my peasants disembowelled and cast to the blood-hounds, my women ravished in their kindly home-steadings. God wot! the cup of Duke Casimir hath been brimming this many a day, and we will give him a deep and bitter draught to drink when we set it to his lips."
Thereupon we bade our dear and brave master a respectful adieu. Karl Miller's Son he might be, but for all that he was every inch a king--a right royal man, whom I would rather serve than the Kaiser himself.
And after he had gone from us a little way he turned again and waved his hand, crying: "On the eighth day report you without fail, friends of mine, unless ye wish me to come asking for you at the gates of Thorn, with some din and the spilling of much blood."
The worthy Abbot Tobias gave us a paper to the Bishop Peter, now restored to his bishopric of Thorn, and in some measure dwelling at peace with the Duke Casimir since that ruler's reconciliation with Holy Church. In this paper it was set forth that the most learned Doctor of Law, Leonard Schmidt, with his servant Johann, were on their way to Ratisbon to dispute concerning the Practice of Law and Reason with another most learned Doctor of the Empire, and that, desiring to remain a day of two in Thorn, they were by the Abbot Tobias of Wolgast commended to Bishop Peter's kind hospitality.
For indeed the inns of Germany, and especially of the North, were not at that time such as wise and learned men could readily submit to--neither abide in, to be herded with dull, landward peasants and all the tankard-swilling gutter-knaves of the town.
Of the remainder of our journey I need not speak, seeing that more than once I have had to tell of that journey from Thorn to Plassenburg. It is sufficient that by evening the dark, frowning mass of the Wolfsberg lay imminent before us, each tower black against the sky. For even the new portions which Casimir had builded were of intention blackened with soot--mingled with the plaster and mortar, so that they should be of one piece of grim terror with the rest of the building.
"After all it is not strange," said I to the Councillor, for when there was no one in sight or very near us I rode with him instead of behind him, "that the man who shakes at every breeze among the aspens should take such pains to create the fiction and shadow of terror about him, when the substance and reality is dominant all the while in his own bosom."
Since we had come within the distressed and depopulated territory of the Wolfmark we had not spoken to any soul. Indeed, except a few poor, desolate peasant folk, burned black with the sun, scuttling from den to den at the sight of mounted men, we had not seen any living creatures. The cruelty which had marked the reign of the Black Duke seemed to have afflicted the very face of the country with a visible curse.
But the day of deliverance was at hand.
As we came nearer to Thorn, there before us was the Red Tower, at first dimly apparent, then prominent, then commanding, finally rising higher than all the buildings of the Wolfsberg. How many days had I not looked down from those windows! And my father was even now up there in his grim garret, his heart stirring calm and kindly within him, in spite of all the atmosphere of blood in which his life had moved, as untouched as though he had been a gardener working among the flowers of the parterre. Also the block was there, and against it the Red Axe was leaning.
Then I called to mind the prophecy of the Lady Ysolinde, that I should return to take up my father's dreadful trade. And I smiled thereat. For I thought that now I came in other circumstances--aye, even though riding in at The tail of the learned Doctor Schmidt with my shaven and chestnut-stained face, my flowing hair cropped to the roots, as in the manner of the servant tribe! Yet for all that was I not the virtual military commander of the Plassenburg and the right hand of the Prince, whose forces would soon be clamoring against the walls of Thorn and bringing down to destruction the hateful tyranny of the Black Duke Casimir?
"What is that?" said I, pointing to a standard of immense size which drooped from the Red Tower. It had been hanging limp and straight about the staff, and till now we had not observed it. But as we went toiling up to the Weiss Thor, and the last links of road lengthened themselves indefinitely out before us in their own familiar manner, suddenly a waft of hot wind from the sun-beaten plain of the Wolfmark blew out an immense black flag, which spread itself, fluttered feebly, and died down again flat against the pole.
"Nay," said the Doctor, "that I cannot tell. Surely you should know the customs of your own city better than I!"
For the heat had made the High Chancellor a little snappish, as well perhaps as the length of the way.
"Never in my time have I seen such a thing float above the Red Tower," I made answer. "Can it be a flag of pestilence?"
It seemed a likely thing enough. Cities were often made desolate in a few days by the plague--the people running to the hills, a weird devil's silence all about the gates. These might well betoken the presence of a foe to which the army of Plassenburg would seem as a friend.
As we rode under the Arch of the White Gate of Thorn we were summarily halted to be examined. We gave our names, and the Doctor showed his letters of authorization from a dozen learned universities. The Black Hussar who examined our credentials was of a taciturn disposition, and evidently no scholar, for he studied the parchments intently upsidedown, and appeared to have an idea that their genuineness was best investigated by smelling the seals.
"Where are you bound?" he asked.
"To the house of the learned and venerable Bishop of Thorn!" said the Doctor Schmidt.
So the Hussar, having finally approved of the quality of the scholastic wax, called a subordinate, and bade him guide us to the house of Bishop Peter.
In an instant we were in the familiar streets, narrow, sunken, and indescribably dirty, as they now appeared to me. For I had been accustomed to the wider, airier spaces, and to the bickering rivulets which ran down most of the steeper streets of Plassenburg, and which made it one of the cleanest towns in the world. So that the ancient and unreformed filth and wretchedness of Thorn appealed to my senses as they had never done before.
There were evidences too of the terror in which the inhabitants had long lived. The houses of the rich burghers were sadly dilapidated. No man thought it worth while to spend a pot of paint on a house which might be knocked about his ears that very night, if the Duke conceived there was money or gear to be found within the walls of it.
Here and there the same black banner appeared.
I asked the reason of it from our guide.
"Is it that the plague is in the city?"
"The plague has, indeed, been in the city--yes! But that is not the reason of the flag."
"And what then is the meaning of the black flag?" said I. "Ye are strangers indeed!" answered the man. "Did you not know that the great Duke Casimir is dead, and that the black flag flies for him, and must fly on the Wolfsberg till his successor be crowned."
"And who is his successor?" said I. "Who but young Otho, the worst of the Wolfs litter. But perhaps you are his friend?"
He turned with a keen look, like one who has been accustomed to deliver himself in company where he is sure of sympathy, and who suddenly has to consider his words in society the tone of which he is not sure of.
"Nay," said I, "we are travelling strangers and know nothing of your politics. But this Duke Otho, wherefore has he not been crowned?"
"Because," said the man, "the Duke Casimir, they say, hath been foully murdered, and that through the witchcraft of a woman. So by our laws, till the murderer is punished, the young Duke may not be crowned."
By this time we were at the entering in of the long, dull mass of building, which during most of my boyhood had stood unoccupied, owing to the quarrel between Bishop Peter and the Duke. Our guide led us unchallenged into the quadrangle, and then abruptly vanished without pausing to bid us good-day, or even deigning to accept the modest gratuity which my master, the learned Doctor, had in his front pouch ready for him.
As for me, I stood holding the horses and looking about for any of my own quality who might show me the way to the stables.
Presently a long, lean, lathy youth slouched out of one of the gloomy entries. He stood amazed at the sight of me. I went to him to ask where I might bestow the horses, now standing weary-footed, hanging their heads after the long journey and the toil of the final ascent from the plain.
"Will you fight, outlander?" were the first words of my lathy friend from the entry. He seemed to have been drawn up recently from a period of detention in some deep draw-well, and to have the mould of the stones still upon him.
"Why," said I, "of course I will fight, and that gladly, if you will find me a man to fight with !"
"I will fight you myself," he said, swelling himself. "For the end of this candle I will fight half a dozen such Baltic sausages as you be."
"Like enough," said I, "all in good time. But in the mean time show me the stables, that I may put up my master's horses."
"What know I about you or your master's horses?" cried my Lad of Lath; "and pray why should I show the way to Bishop Peter's good stables to every wastrel that comes sneaking in off the street and asks the freedom of our house. For aught I know you may have come to steal corn. Though, if that be so, Lord love you, you have come to the wrong place."
"Come, stable-master," said I, placably, "let me see a corner and a wisp of straw and I will ease the poor beasts. That will not harm the Bishop Peter, whom my master has gone to visit. He is a friend of his, a man learned in ecclesiastical affairs, who comes to hold disputations with the Bishop--" "Disputations--what be those? Anything with money at the end of them? If so, he will be a welcome guest at this house. There is very little money at the tail of anything in this town."
I thought I would try the effect of a broad silver piece upon him, at the same time giving the lad the information that disputations were kinds of fights with the tongues of men instead of with their fists.
The silver sweetened his face like a charm. He seized me by the hand.
"My name," he cried, "is Peter of the Pigs. I am not stable-master, but feed the grouting piglings. And yet in a way I am indeed stable-master. For the Bishop hath had no horses since the Duke took them away to mount his cavalry for the raids into Plassenburg. So Peter of the Pigs looks after all about the yard, and precious little there is to look after--except one's own legs getting longer and leaner every day."
"And where is the Bishop this afternoon?" I said.
"Where should he be," cried Peter of the Pigs, "but at the trial of the witch-woman in the Hall of Justice? It must be a rare sight. They say she is to be put to the torture, and that they want a new executioner to do it."
"Why," said I, struck to the heart by his words, "what is the matter with the old one?"
"Oh," said the lad, "he is mortal sick abed. He happened an accident, or some one stuck a dagger into him--no great matter if he had stuck it through him, or cloven him to the chine with his own Red Axe!"
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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40
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THE TRIAL OF THE WITCH
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At this point came my master back, looking exceedingly disconsolate. A starveling, furtive-eyed monk accompanied him.
"The Bishop," he said, "is gone forth of his house. He is in attendance at the trial of a woman for witchcraft, one whom some of the common city folk hold to be a saint. But the young Duke and others swear that she is a witch, and hath murdered the Duke Casimir. Haste thee with the horses, sirrah, and attend me to the Hall of Justice. I have sent a messenger forward with my credentials to the Bishop Peter."
So to the corner of the yard I went and rubbed down the horses with a wisp of straw which Peter of the Pigs brought me, and which smelled of his charges too. Then, with another piece of money in his hand, I sent him out to the nearest corn-chandler's to buy some corn for our beasts, the which I gave them, and stood by them till I saw them eat it too. For in such a poverty-stricken place, and with a gentleman of the capacity of Master Peter of the Pigs, one that is in any way fond of his horses cannot be too careful.
This done, I announced myself to my master as ready to accompany him.
Then, through the streets of Thorn, all strangely empty, we took our way. Women were leaning out of windows; every head turned castleward up the street.
They hardly deigned a glance at my master or at myself, but continued to gaze. And as each passenger came down the street from the direction of the Wolfsberg they cried questions at him, so that he ran the gantlet of a dropping fire of shrill queries.
"What are they doing to the sweet saint up yonder?"
"Hath she been put to the Question?"
"Who could be executioner in such a case? A man would be sent to hell-fire for daring to lay hand on her."
The popular sympathies ran clearly with the accused, which is not, as our old Hanne had reason to remember, the rule in trials for witchcraft.
Soon we were passing the gate of the Red Tower. It was barred and closed. The windows of my father's house looked barrenly down, like the eye-holes of skulls. I saw the window from which I used to gaze wistfully down upon the children, who would not play with me, but spat upon the tower when they saw me looking at their play and pipings upon the streets.
There above was the window of my father's garret, with the edge of the black flag blowing out above it.
The streetward door of the Judgment Hall was open, and a great crowd of people stood about, silent, anxious, respectful. Some of them talked in low tones, and whenever there was a word passed out of the door, within which men looked ten deep, it scattered all about like a wave which comes into a sea-cave by a narrow entrance, and then widens out till it breaks gently in the wide inner hall.
"She is not to be tortured; only the Hereditary Executioner may do that. They have threatened the old woman. She has confessed all!"
So ran the words about the crowd, and ever and anon, one would detach himself from the press, elbowing his way out, and then speed down the long street, crying the latest tidings of the trial.
It was manifestly impossible for us to obtain entrance by this door. So we looked about for another.
Then I minded me of the private passage which led from the inner court-yard which I knew so well. We skirted the crowd, with our attendant following, till we came to the side door, which led directly into the Hall of Judgment behind the judges' high seats.
It was the way by which many a time I had seen my father enter, either in his dress of black or in that of red. And I was always glad when I saw him put on the scarlet, because I knew that then the worst was over for some poor tortured soul.
But when my master proposed that the attendant of the Bishop should carry a letter into the hall to his master to inform him that we waited without, the man trembled in every limb, and the hair of his head shocked itself up in sheer terror.
"I cannot--I dare not," he cried; "it is the place of torture--of the engines--the strappado--the water-drop, the leg-crushers!"
And at this point the vision of what was contained within the fatal door became so appalling to him that he picked up his skirts and fled, looking over his shoulder all the while to make sure that the Red Axe was not after him full tilt.
So Dessauer and I were left standing. And if the matter had been less serious, it would have been comical to see us thus deserted upon mine own middenstead, as it were.
"Bishop Peter of Thorn seems a prelate somewhat difficult of approach," said the Chancellor. "I wonder if we shall ever lay any salt on his tail?"
"Let us risk it and go in," said I. "We are putting all our cards on the table, at any rate. And at least we can see all that is to be sees. If there is any risk of Von Reuss penetrating our disguises, it is as well to gulp and get it over at once, rather than suck gingerly at it till the fear of death chills our marrow."
"Go on, then," he said, somewhat crossly; "there is indeed naught to be gained by standing here as a butt for the eyes of evil-doers."
So I opened the door carefully, and with a trembling heart. The hum of a great assembly breathed turbidly upon us in a hushed chaos of sound. The warm, stifling atmosphere, heavy with a thousand respirations, the sound of a voice speaking loud and clear, the thunder of continuous heels on the paved floor, the voices of the ushers crying, "Silentium!" at intervals--these all came suddenly upon us as we shut out the air and sunshine and went into the Hall of Judgment.
We could not see the full assembly at first. We stood, as I had supposed, directly behind the judges' rostrum. Only the corners of the vast crowd which covered the floor and filled the galleries could be seen--a blur of white faces all bent towards one point. But at the corner, not far from us, a tall, spare, gray-headed ecclesiastic was speaking.
We stood still, in order that we might not interrupt by entering till he had finished.
What was our surprise when we heard his words.
"My Lord Duke," he was saying, "it is fortunate for the elucidation of this great mystery that I have this moment received word concerning a most learned and notable jurisconsult, a Doctor of the Law, wise in controversy and specially skilled in such cases, who has even now arrived in the city of Thorn, on his way to the Emperor at Ratisbon, before whom he is to dispute for the honor of truth and our holy religion.
"His name is the Learned, Venerable, and Reverend Doctor Schmidt, and I trust that we of the city and faculty of the Wolfmark shall have the honor of welcoming him as so distinguished a man deserves."
The pattern of the Bishop's speech is one that does not vary while the world lasts.
"Lord, they have made me a Doctor of Theology as well!" whispered the Chancellor to me. I gave him a little push.
"Now is your time," said I, "the hour and the Doctor!"
I lifted the skirt of his long black robe. He took hold of his marvellous beard, a triumph of the disguiser's art, and we stepped forward. I could hardly conceal a smile.
We had come in the very nick of time.
Then after this I have a vague remembrance of my master bowing this way and that. I seem to see the wise men of the law, the judges, the priests, and lictors rising and bowing in acknowledgment. I heard the hush of a thousand people all craning their necks to look round the heads of their neighbors, and the hum of whispered comment reach farther and farther back, till it lapped against the walls and ebbed out into the street from the great open door of the Hall of Judgment. It was a surprising sight, this great trial--the gloomy hall, black with age and deeds of darkness, lit by the rays of sunlight falling through windows of red glass, the faces of men flecked as with blood where the evening sunlight streamed luridly upon them.
In the midst there was a clear four-square space. A lictor, with a bundle of rods, stood at each corner. I looked, and there, alone in the centre, attired in white, the cynosure of eyes, I beheld--Helene.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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41
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THE GARRET OF THE RED TOWER
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I felt my temples, my ears, my neck tingling with cold. I seemed to have fallen into a sea of ice. I think I would have fallen and fainted but that at that moment my master sat down beside the Bishop, and I was left free to retire into a darksome corner, where I staggered against a beam, slimy with black sweat, and hung over it with my hand clasping my brow, trying to think what had happened.
I do not know how long I remained in this position, nor yet when I came to myself. All was a dream to me, a nightmare of horrid whirlings and infinite oppressions. The faces of the folk that watched, the garmentry of the Bishop and his priests, the red robes of the young Duke and his assessors, spun round me in a hideous phantasmagoria.
At last I was conscious that a trumpet had blown. Whereupon all rose up. The secretaries stacked their papers unconcernedly with the feathers of their pens in their mouths. And then in the solemn silence which ensued the Duke and his judges filed out of the door, while the power of the Church, represented by Bishop Peter and his priests, went forth by another. Before I could realize the situation, Helene had vanished, as it seemed, down a trap-door in the floor.
My master accompanied Bishop Peter. As for me, I hardly knew what I did. I did not even stand up, till our conductor, he who had gone forward to announce us at the first, ran across to me, and, plucking me by the arm from the beam on which I leaned, whispered, hurriedly: "Art dead or drunk, man, that thou riskest thine ears and thy neck? Stand up while the Judges and the new Duke go by!"
So, dazed and numb, I hent me up, and lo! coming arm in arm towards me were Otho von Reuss and his newly appointed Chief Justice and assessor--who but mine old friend Michael Texel! The Duke bent a searching look on me as I bowed low before him, but he saw only the tan of my skin and the close bristle of my hair. And so all passed on.
"Ho, blackamoor, thy master waits thee! Run, if thou wouldst avoid the whipping-post!" cried another of the rout of servitors, with a small sniggering laugh.
So, putting out a hand to stay myself, I staggered weakly after my master. I found him at the door, in talk with the confessor of the Bishop.
"And so," he was saying, "this girl was reared in the executioner's house. And she went away to a far country in order to learn the secrets of necromancy, it is not known where. I would see this Duke's Justicer. Does he dwell near by? What! In that very tower? It is of good omen. Let us go in thither."
But the confessor excused himself, being in no wise desirous to visit the Red Axe, even in his time of sickness.
"I have business of the soul with Bishop Peter. I will speak with thee again at refection," he said, twitching his head up at the Red Tower with suspicious glances, as if he feared unseen ears might be listening, and that some of its fearful magic might even descend upon a man so notably holy as a Bishop's confessor.
Presently Dessauer and I were across the court-yard at the well-known door. I knocked, and listened, whereupon ensued silence. Again and yet again I made the quaint death's-head knocker thunder, and then, when the echoes ceased, there was once more a great silence in the tower.
I heard the blood-hounds of Duke Casimir howl. The indigo shadow of the pinnacled Hall of Justice stretched across and touched the Red Tower with an ominous finger.
"Let us go in," said I. And, pushing the unresisting door, I began to climb the stone stairs. Each smoothed hollow and chipped edge was familiar to me as my name. Indeed, much more so, for I was now passing under a false one. So I climbed, in a dazed way, up and up. There on my left was the sitting-room. It had been searched high and low, escritoires rudely tossed down, aumries rifled, household stuff, grain, white linen, empty bottles, all cast about and huddled together even as the searchers had left them.
Then above was the little room where Helene used to sleep. Here the wrack was indescribable--every hidingplace rifled, her pretty worked bedquilt lying across the doorway trampled and soiled, her dainty white clothing, some she had worn at Plassenburg, and even the tiny dresses of her childhood, all torn and confused together. And in the midst, what affected me more than everything else, a tiny puppet of wood my father had hewn her with his knife, and which she had dressed as a queen with red ribbons and crown of tinsel--ah, so long ago--and in such happy days.
"Father!" I called, loudly. "Father!"
But in this I forgot myself. There might have been enemies lurking anywhere in the house of pain and disaster.
My own room came next, and the way out upon the roof; but we tried not these. There remained only the garret of my father. I climbed up, with Dessauer behind me, and pushed the door open.
Then I stood in the entering-in, looking for the first time for years on the face of my father.
He lay on his conch, his head bound about with a napkin. The dark wisp of hair which rose like a cock's comb, sticking through the stained cloth which swathed his brow, was no longer blue-black, but of an iron-gray, splashed and brindled with pure white. His eyes were open, and shone, cavernous and solemn, above his fallen-in cheeks. It was like looking into the secrets of another world. That which he had so often caused other eyes to see, the Red Axe of Thorn was now to see for himself. The hand which lay--mere skin, muscle, and bone--on the counterpane had guided many to the door of the mysteries. Now at its own entrance it was to push the arras aside, for the Death-Justicer of the Mark was to go before the Judge of all the earth.
My father lay gazing at me with deep, mournful eyes. So sad they seemed that it was as if nothing in heaven or earth, neither joy nor sorrow, life nor death, could have power to change their expression of immeasurable sadness.
I entered, and my companion followed.
"You are alone? There is none with you here?" I said to my father, going to the bedside.
He started at the voice, and looked up even eagerly. But his eyes dulled and deadened again as he fell back.
"I did but dream!" he muttered, sadly.
"You have no one with you here, Gottfried Gottfried?" said I again, for in a matter of life and death it was as well to make sure even at risk of disturbing a dying man.
He set his hand to his brow as if trying to think.
"Who should be with me--except all these?" he answered, very solemnly. And swept his hand about the room as if he saw strange shapes standing in rows round the walls. "I wish," he went on, almost querulously, "whoever you may be, you would tell these people to keep their hands down. They point at me, and thrust their dripping heads forward, holding them like lanterns in their palms."
He turned away to the back of the bed, and then, as if he saw something there worse than all the rest, faced about again quickly, saying, with some pathetic intonation of his lost childhood, "There is no need for them to point so at me, is there? I did but my duty."
"Father!" said I, gently touching his cheek with my hand as I used to do.
"Ah, what is that?" he said, quickly. "Did some one call me father? Let me go! I tell you, sirs, let me go! She needs me. They are torturing her. I must go to her!"
"Father," I said again, putting him gently back, "it is I--your own son Hugo--come back to speak with you, to help if it may be--to die for the Little Playmate if need be."
"Hugo--Hugo!" he said. "Yes, yes--of course, I know--my little lad, my pretty boy!"
He pushed me back to look at me, eagerly, wistfully--and then thrust me sharply away.
"Bah!" he said; "you lie! What need to lie to a dying man? My Hugo had yellow hair and a skin like lilies. Yours is dark--" "Father," said I, "I am here disguised. Help is coming, sure and strong, if we can only wait a little and delay the trial. But tell me all. Speak to me freely, if you love your daughter Helene--your daughter and my love."
He sat up now, and motioned me to come nearer. There was a dark, fierce, unworldly light in his eyes. I set a pillow to his back, and went and kneeled by the bed as I used to do at good-night time when I said my Paternoster.
Then for the first time he knew me.
"Say your prayers, child!" he commanded, in his old voice.
So, though with the stress of wars and other things I had mostly forgotten, yet I said not only that, but the little Prayer of Childhood he had taught me. And then I kissed him as I used to do when I bade him good-night.
"Yes," he said, softly, "it is true, after all. You are mine own only son. Hugo--I am glad you have come so far to see your father before he dies."
I told him how I had come, and brought Dessauer forward, introducing him as one great in the kingdom where I was, and to whom I was much beholden. He shook him by the hand with grave, intent courtesy, and again looked at me.
"Now, father," said I, "we have no long time to bide with you, lest the new Duke come upon us. We must hie us back to our lodging with the Bishop Peter, lest we be missed."
My father smiled.
"Ye will live but sparely there!" said he, with a flicker of his ancient smile.
"Tell us how you came to this," said I, "and, if you can, why Helene, our little Helene, stands so terribly accused."
My father paused a long time before he began to answer.
"It is not easy for me to tell you all," he said. "I know and I have the words, but, somehow, when I try to fit the words to the thing, they run asunder and will not mix, like water and oil. But see, Hugo, here is an elixir of rare value. Drop a drop or two on my tongue if ye see me wander. It will bring me back for a time."
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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42
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PRINCESS PLAYMATE
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Then began my father to tell the story slowly, with many a pause and interruption, now searching for words, now racked with pain, all of which I need not imitate, and shall leave out. But the substance of his tale was to this effect: "After you had left us, the Dukedom went from bad to worse--no peace, no rest, no money. Duke Casimir took less and less of my advice, but, on the contrary, began again his old horrors--plundering, killing, living by terror and in terror. He threatened Torgau. He attacked Plassenburg. He stirred up hornets' nests everywhere. At home he made himself the common mark for every assassin.
"Then suddenly came his nephew back, and almost immediately he grew great in favor with him. Uncle and nephew drank together. They paraded the terraces arm in arm. I was never more sent for save to do my duty. Otho von Reuss rode abroad at the head of the Black Horsemen.
"But, at the same time, to my great joy, arrived the Little Playmate back to me. She was safer with me, she said. So that, having her, I needed naught else. She came with good news of you, making the journey not alone, for two men of the Princess's retinue brought her to the city gates."
"The Princess!" I cried; "aye, I thought so. I judged that it was the Princess who sent her back."
Dessauer motioned with his hand. He saw that it was dangerous to throw my father off the track. And, indeed, this was proven at once, for my unfortunate interruption set my father's mind to wandering, till finally I had to drop certain drops of the red liquid on his tongue. These, indeed, had a marvellous effect upon him. He sat up instantly, his eyes flashing the old light, and began to speak rapidly and to clear purport, even as he used to do in the old days when Duke Casimir would come striding across the yard at all hours of the night and day to consult his Justicer.
"What was I telling?" he went on. "Yes, I remember, of the home-coming of Helene under honorable escort. And she was beautiful--but all her race were beautiful, all the women of them, at any rate. But that is another matter.
"So things went well enough with us till, as she went across the yard one day to meet me at the door of the hall as I came out, who should see her but the Count Otho von Reuss. And she turned from him like a queen and took hold of my arm, clasping it strongly. Then he gazed fixedly at us both, and his look was the evil-doer's look. Oh, I know it. Who knows that look, if not I? And so we passed within. But my Helene was quivering and much afraid, nestling to me--aye, to me, old Gottfried Gottfried, like a frightened dove.
"After this she went not out into the court-yard or city any more, save with me by her side, and Otho von Reuss lingered about, watching like a wolf about the sheepfold. For, as I say, he was in high favor with Duke Casimir, and had already equal place with him on the bed of justice.
"Then there came a night, lightning peeping and blazing, alternate blue and ghastly white--God's face and the devil's time about staring in at the lattice. I lay alone in my chamber. But I was not asleep. As you know, I do not often sleep. But I lay awake and thought and thought. The lightning showed me faces I had not seen for thirty years, and forms I remembered, black against eternity. But all at once, in a certain after-clap of silence that followed the roaring thunder, I heard a voice call to me. " 'My father--my father" it cried.
"It was like a soul in danger calling on God.
"I rose and went, clad as I was in the red of mine office (for that day I had done the final grace more than once); even so, I ran down the stairs to the room of my little Helene.
"The lightning showed me my lamb crouched in the corner, her lips open, white, squared with horror, her arms extended, as though to push some monstrous thing away. A black shape, whose, I could not tell, I saw bending over her. Then came blackness of darkness again. And again my Helene's voice. Ah, God, I can hear it now, calling pitifully, like a woman hanging over hell and losing hold: 'Father--my father!' " 'I am here!' I cried, loudly, even as on the scaffold I cry the doom for which the malefactors die.
"And the room lit up with a flame, white as the face of God as He passed by on Mount Sinai, flash on continuous flash. And there before me, with a countenance like a demon's, stood Otho von Reuss."
I uttered a hoarse cry, but Dessauer again checked me. My father went on: "Otho von Reuss it was--he saw me in my red apparel, and cried aloud with mighty fear. If God had given me mine axe in my hand--well, Duke or no Duke, he had cried no more. But even as he turned and fled from the room I seized him about the waist, and, opening the window with my other hand, I cast him forth. And as he went down backward, clutching at nothing, God looked again out of the skylights of heaven, and showed me the face of the devil, even as Michael saw it when he hurled him shrieking into the nether pit.
"Then I went back and took in my arms my one ewe lamb.
"Many days (so they brought me word) Otho lay at the point of death, and Duke Casimir came not near me nor yet sent for me. But by that very circumstance I knew Otho had not revealed how his accident had befallen. Yet he but bided his time. And as he grew well, Duke Casimir grew ill. He waxed more and more like an armored ghost, and one day he came here and sat on the bed as in old times. " 'I know my friends now,' he said, 'good Red Axe of mine, friend of many years. I have had mine eyes blinded, but this morning there has come a mighty clearness, and from this day forth you and I shall stand face to face and see eye to eye again, as in the days of old!'
"Then being athirst, he asked for something to drink. Which, when our sweet Helene had brought, he patted her cheek. 'A maid too good for a court--one among a thousand, a fair one !' he said; and passed away down the stairs, walking with his old steady tread.
"But even at the steps of the Hall of Justice he stumbled and fell. They carried him in, and there in the robing chamber he lay unconscious for a week, and then died without speech.
"When he was dead, and ere he had been embalmed, there arose a clamor, first among the followers of Otho von Reuss, and after that among those of the Wolfsberg who expected that they would be favored by the new Duke. It was first whispered, and then cried aloud, that the death of Duke Casimir had been compassed by witchcraft and potions.
"Cunningly and with subtlety was spread the report how my daughter and I had worked upon Duke Casimir. How he had gone to our house, drunken a draught, and then died ere he could come to his own chamber. But as for me, I went on my way and heeded them not. For just then the plague, which had stricken the Duke first, stalked athwart the city unchecked, and all through it this Helene of ours was as the angel of God, coming and going by night and day among the streets and lanes of the town. And the common folk almost worshipped her. And so do unto this day.
"Now perhaps I did not heed this babble as I ought to have done. But there came one night--how long ago I have forgotten--and with it a clamor in the court-yard. The Black Riders, the worst of them, fiends incarnate that Otho had of late gathered about him, thundered upon us without, and presently burst in the door.
"I met them with mine axe at the stair-head, and for the better part of an hour I kept them at a distance. And some died and some were dismembered. For at that business I am not a man to make mistakes. Then came Otho limping from his fall and shot me with a bolt from behind his men. And so over my body as I lay at the stair-head they took my love and left me here to die. And the new Duke will not kill me, for he desires that I shall see her agony ere my own life is taken. For that alone the fiend keeps me in life!
"And that," said my father, feebly, "is all."
But just as he seemed to ebb away a wild fear startled him.
"No," he cried, "there is yet something more. Hugo, Hugo, keep me here a little! Hold me that my mind may not wander away among the racking-wheels and the faces mopping and mowing. I have something yet to tell."
I held him up while Dessauer poured a drop or two of the potent liquid into his mouth. As before, it instantly revived him. The color came back to his cheeks.
"Quick, Hugo, lad!" he cried; "give me that black box which sits behind the block." I brought it, and from this he extracted a small key, which he gave me.
"Unlock the panel you see there in the wall," he said.
I looked, but could find none.
"The oaken knob!" he cried, sharply, as to a clumsy servitor.
I could only see a rough knob in the wood-work, a little worm-eaten, and in the centre one hole a little larger than the rest.
"Put in the key!" commanded my father, making as if he would come out of bed and hasten me himself.
I thrust in the key, indeed, but with no more faith than if I had been bidden to put it into a mouse-hole.
Nevertheless, it turned easy as thinking, and a little door swung open, cunningly fitted. Here were dresses, books, parchments huddled together.
"Bring all these to me," he said.
And I brought them carefully in my arms and laid them on the bed.
The eye of old Dessauer fell on something among them and was instantly fascinated. It was a woman's waist-belt of thick bars of gold laid three and three, with crests and letters all over it.
The Chancellor put his hand forward for it, and my father allowed him to take it, following him, however, with a questioning eye.
Then Dessauer put his hand into his bosom and drew out a chain of gold--the necklace of the woodman, in-deed--and laid the two side by side. He uttered a shrill cry as he did so.
"The belt of the lost Princess!" he cried; "the little Princess of Plassenburg!"
And, laying them one above the other, each group of six bars read thus: [Illustration: o o o H o o o H o o o H o o o | | | o o o E o o o E o o o E o o o The Necklace | | | o o o L o o o L o o o L o o o o o o E o o o E o o o E o o o | | | o o o N o o o N o o o N o o o The Belt | | | o o o E o o o E o o o E o o o] With delight on his face, like that of a mathematician when his calculations work out truly, Dessauer reached over his hand for the papers also, but my father stayed him.
"Who may you be that has a chain to match mine?" he asked, with his mighty hand on Dessauer's wrist.
"I am the State's Chancellor of Plassenburg, and it needed but this to show me our true Princess."
"Here, then," said my father, "is more and better."
And he handed him the papers.
"It meets! It meets!" cried Dessauer, enthusiastically, as he glanced them over. "It is complete. It would stand probation in the Dict of the Emperor."
"But yet all that will not prevent Helene Gottfried dying at the stake!" cried my father, sadly, and fell back unconscious on his bed.
* * * * * We spent this heaviest of nights at the palace of Bishop Peter--Dessauer with the prelate--I, praise to the holy pyx, in the kitchen with the serving men and maids. Peter of the Pigs was there, but no more eager to fight. The lay brother who had gone with the letter, and the conductor who had run away from the dread door of the Hall of Justice, had returned, and had spread a favorable report of our courage.
Certainly the house of Peter the Bishop might be a poor one and scantily provendered, but there was little sign of it that night. For if the master went fasting and his guests lived on pulse (as they said in Thorn), certainly not so Bishop Peter's servants.
For there were pasties of larks, with sauce of butter and herbs, most excellent and toothsome. There were rabbits from the sand-hills, and pigeons from the towers of the minster. The clear chill Rhenish vied with the more generous wine of Burgundy and the red juice of Assmanhauser. For me, as was natural, I ate little. I spoke not at all. But I looked so dangerous with my swarthy face and desperate eye, I dare say, also I was so well armed, that the roysterers left me severely alone.
But I drank--Lord, what did I not drink that night! I poured down my gullet all and sundry that was given me. And to render these Bishop's thralls their dues, there was no lack and no inhospitality. But the strange thing of it was that, though I am a man more than ordinarily temperate, that night I poured the Rhenish into me like water down a cistern-pipe and felt it not. God forgive me, I wanted to make me drunken and forgetful, and lo! the dog's swill would not bite.
So I cursed their drink, and asked if they had no Lyons Water-of-Life, stark and mordant, or social Hollands, or indeed anything that was not mere compound of whey and dirty water. Whereat they wondered, and held me thereafter in great respect as a good companion and approven worthy drinker.
Then they brought me of the strong spirit of Dantzig, with curious little flakes of gold dancing in it. It was raw and strong, and at first I had good hopes of it. But I drank the Dautzig like spring-water, all there was of it, and though it had a taste singularly displeasing to me, it took no more effect than so much warm barley-brew for the palates of babes. Upon this I had great glory. For the card-players and the dicers actually left their games and gazed open-jawed to see me drink. And I sat there and expounded the Levitical law and the wheels of the Prophet Ezekiel, the law of succession to the empire, and also the apostolic succession--all with surprising clearness and cogency of reasoning. So that before I had finished they required of me whether it was I or my master who was sent for to dispute before His Sovereign mightiness the Emperor.
Then I told them that the things I knew (that is, which the Hollands had put into my head) were but the commonest chamber-sweepings of my master's learning, which I had picked up as I rode at his elbow. And this bred a mighty wondering what manner of man he might be who was so wise. And I think, if I had gone on, Dessauer and I might both have found ourselves in the Bishop's prison, on suspicion of being the devil and one of his ministrants.
But suddenly, as with a kind of recoil or back stroke, all that I had drunken must have come upon me. The clearness of vision went from me like a candle that is blown out. I know not what happened after, save that I found myself upon my truckle-bed, with my leathern money-pouch clasped in my hand with surprising tightness, as if I had been mortally afraid that some one would mistake my poor satchel for his own pocket.
So in time the morrow came, and by all rules I ought to have had a racking headache. For I saw many of those that had been with me the night before pale of countenance and eating handfuls of baker's salt. So I judged that their anxiety and the turmoil of their hearts had not burned their liquor up, as had been the case with me.
Now it is small wonder that all my soul cried out for oblivion till I should be able to do something for the Beloved--break her prison, hasten the troops from Plassenburg, or in some way save my love.
Hardly had I looked out of the main door that morning, desiring no more than to pass away the time till the trial should begin again, before I saw the Lubber Fiend, smirking and becking across the way. He had squatted himself down on the side of the street opposite, looking over at the Bishop's palace.
He pointed at me with his finger.
"Your complexion runs down," he said. "I know you. But go to the spring there by the stable, wash your face, and I shall know you better."
This was fair perdition and nothing less. For one may stay the tongue of a scoundrel with money, or the expectation of it, until opportunity arrive to stop it with steel or prison masonry. But who shall curb or halter the tongue of a fool?
Then, swift as one that sees his face in a glass, I bethought me of a plan.
"See," I said, "do you desire gold, Sir Lubber Fiend?"
He wagged his great head and shook his cabbage-leaf ears till they made currents in the heavy air, to signify that he loved the touch of the yellow metal.
"See then, Lubber," said I, "you shall have ten of these now, and ten more afterwards, if you will carry a letter to the Prince at Plassenburg, or meet him on the way."
"Not possible," said he, shaking his head sadly; "my little Missie has come to Thorn."
"But," said I, "little Missie would desire it; take letter to the Prince, good Jan, then Missie will be happy."
"Would she let poor Jan Lubberchen kiss her hand, think you?" he asked, looking up at me.
"Aye," said I; "kiss her cheek maybe!"
He danced excitedly from side to side.
"Jan will run--Jan will run all the way!" he cried.
So I pulled out a scrap of parchment and wrote a hasty message to the Prince, asking him, for the love of God and us, to set every soldier in Plassenburg on the march for Thorn, and to come on ahead himself with such a flying column as he could gather. No more I added, because I knew that my good master would need no more.
Then I went down with my messenger to the Weiss Thor, and with great fear and pulsation of the midriff I saw the idiot pass the house of Master Gerard. Then, at the outer gate, I gave him his ten golden coins, and watched him trot away briskly on the green winding road to Plassenburg.
"Mind," he called back to me, "Jan is to kiss her cheek if Jan takes letter to the Prince!"
And I promised it him without wincing. For by this time lying had no more effect upon me than dram-drinking.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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43
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THE TRIAL FOR WITCHCRAFT
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The Bed of Justice was set by eight of the morning. For they were ever early astir in the city of Thorn, though, like most early risers, they did little enough afterwards all day.
With a sadly beating heart, I accompanied Dessauer in the same guise as on the previous day. The crowd was even greater in and about the Hall of Judgment. And when the Duke had taken his seat and his tools set themselves down on either side, they brought in the Little Playmate.
She was dressed all in white, clean and spotless, in spite of prison usage. She glanced just once about her, right and left, high and low, as if seeking for a face she could not see, and from thenceforth she looked down on the ground.
The argument as to torture had been concluded on the day before, and it had been held inadmissible--not because of any kindly thought for the prisoner, but because, according to the laws of the Wolfmark, in the absence of the Hereditary Executioner, there was no one legally capable of inflicting it.
Then came the evidence.
The first witness against the Little Playmate was old Hanne. She was brought in by a cowled monk of dark and sinister appearance--in fact, as my heart leaped to observe, I saw that she was accompanied by Friar Laurence--he who had taught me my learning in the old days, and who even then had watched the Little Playmate with no friendly eyes.
As she passed the judges I saw the deadly fear mount to agony on the face of old Hanne. The look in her eyes of physical pain suffered and overpassed was the same which I had often seen in the wars after the surgeon has done his horrid work. That same look I saw now on the face of Hanne. So I knew that somewhere in the dark recesses under the Hall of Judgment the Extreme Question had been put to her, and to all appearance answered according to the liking of the persecutors, though they dared not torture so notable a public prisoner as Helene.
I saw a look of satisfied vindictiveness pass over the brutal features of Duke Otho. He changed his position and whispered to his colleagues.
It was Master Gerard von Sturm who rose to put the questions to the witness. And as he did so, I heard the steady sough of talk among the people rise mutteringly in a low growl of anger and contempt. The Duke's lictors struck right and left among the crowd, as men bent forward with fierce hate in their voices, lowing like oxen, as if to clear their lungs of a weight of contempt.
It was not thus in the old days, when there was no people's arbiter in all the Wolfmark so famous or so popular as Master Gerard of the Weiss Thor.
"What is the reason of that turmoil?" said I to my neighbor.
"This is the man who was her first accuser. Why, he dares not go outside his house without a guard of the Duke's riders," said the man, picking at his finger-nail with his teeth, as if it were a bone and he did not think much of its savoriness.
"You have already confessed," said the advocate to old Hanne, when they had propped up the poor wreck of skin and bone, "and you do now confess that this maid and yourself have ofttimes had converse with the Enemy of Souls?"
A spasm passed across the face of the witness, and a low sound proceeded from her mouth, which might have been an affirmative answer, but which sounded to me much more like a moan of pain.
"And you confess that she consulted you concerning the best means of killing the Duke Casimir--by means of a draught to be administered to him when he should, as was his custom, visit his Hereditary Justicer?"
"There was indeed a draught spoken of between us, noble sir," stammered the old woman, "but it was not for the Duke Casimir, nor yet for--for any evil purpose."
I saw the Friar Laurence incline his head a little forward and whisper in Hanne's ear from his place behind her.
At the words she clasped her hands and fell on the floor, grovelling: "I will say aught that you bid me, kind sir. I cannot bear it again. I cannot go back to that place. I am too old to be tormented. I will bear what testimony your excellencies desire."
"We wish only that you should tell the truth as you have already done of your own free will in your pre-examination," said Master Gerard, "the notes of which are before me. Was it not to kill the Duke Casimir that this draught was compounded?"
The old woman hesitated. Friar Laurence stooped again.
"Yes!" she cried; "God forgive me--yes!"
An evil look of triumph sat on the face of Otho von Reuss. I think he felt sure of his victim now.
"That is enough," said Master Gerard. "Take the old woman back to her cell."
"Oh no, great Lord!" she cried, "not there! You promised that if I said it I was to be let go free. Kill me, but do not send me back!"
The Duke moved his hand, and the old woman was led shrieking below.
Then came Friar Laurence, who testified that he had often seen old Hanne instructing the young woman who was now a prisoner in the art of drugs, in the preparation of images carven in dough--and it might be also in clay--things well known in the art of witchery.
Further, he had been with the Duke Casimir at the last, and the Duke had declared that he had partaken of a draught in the house of Gottfried Gottfried, and immediately thereafter had been taken ill.
There was not much else of matter in the Friar's evidence, but the most deep and vindictive malice against the prisoner was evident in every word and gesture.
Then Master Gerard rose to address the judges. His venerable appearance was enhanced by the sternly severe look on his face. He looked an accusing angel from the pit, swart of skin and with eyes of flame. He was tall and bent of figure, with the serpent-browed head set deep between hunched shoulders like those of a moulting vulture. He grasped his bundle of papers and rose to make his final speech.
The judges settled themselves to closer attention. The hush of listening folk broadened to the utmost limits of the great hall. At a whisper or a cough a hundred threatening faces were turned in the direction of the sound, so strained was the attention of the people and such the fear of the eloquence of this most famous pleader in all Germany. In these days when learning has reached so great a pitch, and is so general that in a largish city there may be as many as a thousand people who can read and write, of course there are many eloquent men. But in those days it was not so, and Grerard von Sturm was counted the one Golden Mouth of the Wolfmark.
And this in brief was the matter of his speech. The manner and the persuasive grace I cannot attempt to give: "It has at all times been a received opinion of the wise that witchcraft is a thing truly practised--by which such women as the Witch of Endor in Holy Writ were able to call dead men out of their deep graves grown with grass; or, as in that famous case of Demarchaus, who, having by the advice of such a woman tasted the flesh of a sacrificed child, was immediately turned into a wolf.
"Further, the testimony-of Scripture is clear: 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'; and, again, as sayeth the Wise Man, 'Thou hast hated them, 0 God, because with enchantments they did horrible works.'
"Now, men may by conspicuous bravery guard their lives against assault by the sword of the enemy, against the spear of the invader that cometh over the wall, even against the knife of the assassin. But who shall be able to keep out witchcraft? It moveth in the motes of the mid-day sun. It comes stealing into the room on the pale beams of the moon. Witchcraft rides in the hurtling blast, and shrieks in the gust which shakes the roof and blows awry the candle in the hall.
"Enchantment can summon Azazeli, the Lord of Flesh and Blood, called in another place the Lord of the Desert, by whose spiriting of the elements even the pure water of the spring or the juice of the purple grape may become noxious as the brew of the serpent's poison-bag.
"Of such a sort was the ill-doing of this woman. For her own hellish purposes she desired and compassed the death of the most noble Duke Casimir. There may be those who try to discover a motive for such an act. But in this they do foolishly. For to those who have studied of this matter, as I have done, it is well known that enchanters and witches ever attack those who are the greatest, the noblest, and the most envied--not hoping for any good to result to themselves, but out of pure malice and envy, being prompted by the devil in order that the great and noble should be destroyed out of the land. Well was it spoken then, 'Ye shall not suffer a witch to live!'
"And if any plead hereafter of this evil-doer's youth, of her beauty, I call you to witness that the Evil One ever makes his best implement of the fairest metal. As the aged crone, her teacher and accomplice, hath confessed, this Helene was for long a plotter of dark deeds. By the trust of Duke Casimir in her maiden's innocence he was betrayed to death. That one so fair and evil should be turned loose on the world to begin anew her enchantments, and, like a pestilence, to creep into good men's houses, is a thing not to be thought of. Is she to go forth breathing death upon the faces of the young children, to sit squat, like hideous toad, sucking the blood of the new-born infant, or distilling poison-drops to put into the draughts of strong men which shall run like molten iron through their veins till they go mad?
"Hear me, judges, I bid you again remember the word: 'Ye shall not suffer a witch to live.' And in the name of the great unbroken law of the Wolfmark, which I hold in my hand, I conclude by claiming the pains of death to pass upon the witch-woman who by her deed sent forth untimely the spirit of the most noble Duke Casimir, Lord of the city of Thorn and Duke of the Wolfmark."
The pleader sat down, calmly as he had risen, and the judges conferred together as though they were on the point of delivering their verdict. There had been no sound of applause as Master Gerard had spoken--a hushed attention only, and then the muffled thunder of the great audience relaxing its attention and of men turning to whispered discussion among themselves.
"Prisoner," said Duke Otho, "have you any to speak for you? Or do you desire to make any answer to the things which have been urged against you?"
Then, thrilling me to my soul, arose the voice of Helene. Clear and sweet and girlish, without hurry or fear, yet with an innocence which might have touched the hardest heart, the maiden upon trial for her life said a simple word or two in her defence.
"I have no one to speak for me. I have nothing to say, save that which I have said so often, that before God, who knows all things, I am innocent of thought, word, or deed against any man, and most of all against Duke Casimir of the Wolfsberg."
And as she spoke the multitude was stirred, and voices broke out here and there: "No witch!" "She is innocent!" "The guilty are among the judges!" "Saint Helena!" "If she die we will avenge her!"
And though the lictors struck furiously every way, they could not settle the tumult, and ever the mass of folk swayed more wildly to and fro. Nor do I know what might have happened at that moment but for a cry that arose in front of the throng.
"The Stranger! The Great Doctor! The Wise Man! Hear him! He is going to speak for her!"
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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44
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SENTENCE OF DEATH
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And there, standing by the place of pleading, with his foot on the first step, I saw Dessauer, in his black doctorial gown, leaning reverently upon a long staff.
He made a courteous salutation to Duke Otho upon the high seat.
"I am a stranger, most noble Duke," he began, "and as such have no standing in this your High Court of Justice. But there is a certain courtesy extended to doctors of the law--the right of speech in great trials--in many of the lands to which I have adventured in the search of wisdom. I am encouraged by my friend, the most venerable prelate, Bishop Peter, to ask your forbearance while I say a word on behalf of the prisoner, in reply to that learned and most celebrated jurisconsult, Master Gerard von Sturm, who, in support of his cause, has spoken things so apt and eloquent. This is my desire ere judgment be passed. For in a multitude of councils there is wisdom."
He was silent, and looked at the Duke and his tool, Michael Texel.
They conferred together in whispers, and at first seemed on the point of refusing. But the folk began to sway so dangerously, and the voice of their muttering sank till it became a growl, as of a caged wild beast which has broken all bars save the last, and which only waits an opportunity to put forth its strength in order to shiver that also.
"You are heartily welcome, most learned doctor," said Duke Otho, sullenly. "We would desire to hear you briefly concerning this matter."
"I shall assuredly be brief, my noble lord--most brief," said Dessauer. "I am a stranger, and must therefore speak by the great principles of equity which underlie all law and all evidence, rather than according to the statutes of the province over which you are the distinguished ruler.
"The crime of witchcraft is indeed a heinous one, if so be that it can be proven--not by the compelled confession of crazed and tortured crones, but by the clear light of reason. Now there is no evidence that I have heard against this young girl which might not be urged with equal justice against every cup-bearer in the Castle of the Wolfsberg.
"The Duke Casimir died indeed after having partaken of the wine. But so may a man at any time by the visitation of God, by the stroke which, from the void air, falleth suddenly upon the heart of man. No poison has been found on or about the girl. No evil has been alleged against her, save that which has been compelled (as all must have seen) by torture, and the fear of torture, from the palsied and reluctant lips of a frantic hag."
"Hear him! Great is the Stranger!" cried the folk in the hall. And the shouting of the guards commanding silence could scarce be heard for the roar of the populace. It was some time before the speech of Dessauer was again audible.
Ho was beginning to speak again, but Duke Otho, without rising, called out rudely and angrily: "Speak to the reason of the judges and not to the passions of the mob!"
"I do indeed speak from the reason to the reason," said Dessauer, calmly; "for in this matter there is no true averment, even of witchcraft, but only of the administration of poison--which ought to be proven by the ordinary means of producing some portion of the drug, both in the possession of the criminal and from the body of the murdered man. This has not been done. There has been no evidence, save, as I have shown, such as may be easily compelled or suborned. If this maid be condemned, there is no one of you with a wife, a daughter, a sweetheart, who may not have her burned or beheaded on just as little evidence--if she have a single enemy in all the city seeking for the sake of malice or thwarted lust to compass her destruction.
"Moreover, it indeed matters little for the argument that this damsel is fair to the eye. Save in so far as she is more the object of desire, and that when the greed of the lustful eye is balked" (here he paused and looked fixedly between his knees), "disappointment oft in such a heart turns to deadly poison. And so that which was desired is the more bitterly hated, and revenge awakes to destroy.
"But if beauty matters little, character matters greatly. And what, by common consent, has been known in the city concerning this maid?
"I ask not you, Duke Otho, who have lived apart in your castle or in far lands, a stranger to the city like myself. But I ask the people among whom, during all these; past months of the plague, she has dwelt. Is she not known among them as Saint Helena?"
"Aye," cried the people, "Saint Helena, indeed--our savior when there was none to help! God save Saint Helena!"
Dessauer waved his hand for silence.
"Did she not go among you from house to house, carrying, not the poison-cup, but the healing draught? Was not her hand soft on the brow of the dying, comfortable about the neck of the bereaved? Day and night, whose fingers reverently wrapped up the poor dead bodies of your beloved? Who quieted your babes in her arms, fed thorn, nursed them, healed them, buried them--wore herself to a shadow for your sakes ?"
"Saint Helena!" they cried; "Saint Helena, the angel of the Red Tower!"
"Aye," said Dessauer, in tones like thunder, "hear their voices! There are a thousand witnesses in this house untortured, unsuborned. I tell you, the guilt of innocent blood will lie on you, great Duke--on you counsellors of evil things, if you condemn this maid. Your throne, Duke Otho, shall totter and fall, and your life's sun shall set in a sea of blood!"
He sat down calm and fearless as the Duke raged to Michael Texel, as I think, desiring that the fearless pleader could be seized on the instant, and punished for his insolence. But as the folk shouted in the hall, and the thunder of cheering came in through the open windows from the great concourse without, Michael Texel calmed his master, urging upon him that the temper of the people was for the present too dangerous. And also, doubtless, that they could easily compass their ends by other means.
I saw Texel despatch a messenger to the lictors who stood on either side of Helene. The body-guard of the Duke stood closer about her as the Duke Otho himself stood up to read the sentence.
I saw that the form of it had been written out upon a paper. Doubtless, therefore, all had been prearranged, so that neither evidence nor eloquence could possibly have had any effect upon it.
"We, the Court of the Wolfmark, find the prisoner, Helene, called Gottfried, guilty of witchcraft, and especially of compassing and causing the death of our predecessor, the most noble Duke Casimir, and we do hereby adjudge that, on the morning of Sunday presently following, Helene Gottfried shall be executed upon the common scaffold by the axe of the executioner. Of our clemency is this sentence delivered, instead of the torture and the burning alive at the stake which it was within our power to command. This is done in consideration of the youth of the criminal, and as the first exercise of our ducal prerogative of high mercy."
With an angry roar the people closed in.
"Take her!" they cried; "rescue her out of their hands!"
And there was a fierce rush, in which the outer barriers were snapped like straw. But the lictors had pulled down the trap-door on the instant, and the people surged fiercely over the spot where a moment before Helene had stood. Before them were the levelled pikes and burning matches of the Duke's guard.
"Have at them!" was still the cry. "Kill the wolves! Tear them to pieces!"
But the mob was undisciplined, and the steady advance of the soldiers soon cleared the hall. Nevertheless the streets without continued angry and throbbing with incipient rebellion. Duke Otho could scarce win scathless across the court-yard to his own apartments. Tiles from the nearest roofs were cast upon the heads of his escort. The streets were impassable with angry men shaking their fists at every courier and soldier of the Duke. Women hung sobbing out of the windows, and all the city of Thorn lamented with uncomforted tears because of the cruel condemnation of their Saint of the plague, Helena, the maiden of the Red Tower.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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45
|
THE MESSAGE FROM THE WHITE GATE
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I rushed out into the street, distract and insensate with grief and madness. I found the city seething with sullen unrest--not yet openly hostile to the powers that abode in the Castle of the Wolfsberg--too long cowed and down-trodden for that, but angry with the anger which one day would of a certainty break out and be pitiless.
The Black Horsemen of the Duke pricked a way with their lances here and there through the people, driving them into the narrow lanes, in jets and spurts of fleeing humanity, only once more to reunite as soon as the Hussars of Death had passed. Pikemen cried "Make way!" and the regular guard of the city paraded in strong companies.
A soldier wantonly thrust me in the back with his spear, and I sprang towards him fiercely, glad to strike home at something. But as quickly a man of the crowd pulled me back.
"Be wise!" he said; "not for your own sake alone, but for the sake of all these women and children. The Black Riders seek only an excuse to sweep the city from end to end with the besom of fire and blood."
Then came my master out of the Hall of Judgment, his head hanging dejectedly down. As soon as he was observed the people crowded about, shaking him by the hand, thanking him for that which he had done for their maid, their holy Saint Helena of the plague.
"We will not suffer her to be put to death, not even if they of the Wolfsberg raze our city to the ground!"
"Make way there!" cried the Black Horsemen--"way, in the name of Duke Otho!"
"Who is Duke Otho?" cried a voice. "We do not know Duke Otho."
"He is not crowned yet! Why should he take so much upon him?" shouted another.
"We are free burgesses of Thorn, and no man's bond-slaves!" said a third. Such were the shouts that hurtled through the streets and were bandied fiercely from man to man, betraying in tone more than in word the intensity of the hatred which existed between the ducal towers of the Wolfsberg and the city which lay beneath them.
In my boyish days I had laughed at the assemblies of the Swan--the White Wolves and Free Companies. But, perhaps, those who had thus played at revolt were wiser than I. For of a surety these associations were yielding their fruits now in a harvest of hate against the gloomy pile that had so long dominated the town, choked its liberties, and shut it off from the new, free, thriving world of the northern seaboard commonwealths to which of right it belonged.
So soon as Dessauer and I were alone in my master's room at Bishop Peter's I tried to stammer some sort of thanks, but I could do no more than hold out a hand to him. The old man clasped it.
"It was wholly useless from the first," he said; "they had their purpose fixed and their course laid out, so that there was no turning of them. All was a mockery, so clear that even the ignorant men of the streets were not deceived. Accusation, evidence, pleadings, condemnation, sentence--all were ready before the maid was taken; aye, and, I think, before Duke Casimir was dead.
"Also there is no court in the Wolfmark higher than the mockery we have seen to-day. The arms of the soldiers of Plassenburg are our only court of appeal."
"It is two days before they can come," I answered. "I fear me all will be over before then."
"Be not so sure," said Dessauer. "There is at present no Justicer in the Mark capable of carrying out the sentence, so long as your father lies on his bed of mortal weakness."
"Duke Otho will not let that stand in his way--or I am the more deceived," said I, with a heavy heart.
At this moment there came an interruption. I heard a loud argument outside in the court-yard.
"Tell me what you want with the servant of the most learned Doctor!" cried a voice.
"That is his business, and mine--not yours, rusty son of a stable-sweeper!" was the answer.
I went out immediately, and there, facing each other in a position of mutual defiance, I saw Peter of the Pigs and the decent legal domestic of Master Gerard von Sturm.
"Get out of my wind, old Muck-to-the-Eyes!" said the servitor, offensively; "you poison the good, wholesome air that is needed for men's breath."
"Go back to your murderer of the saints," responded Peter of the Pigs, valiantly. "Your master and you will swing in effigy to-night in every street in Thorn. Some day before long you will both swing in the body--if a hair of this angel's head be harmed."
"I must see this learned Doctor's servant!" persisted the man of law, avoiding the personal question.
"Here he is," said I; "and now what would you with him?"
"I am sent to invite you to come to the Weiss Thor immediately, on business which deeply concerns you."
"That is not enough for me," said I. "Who sends for me?"
"Let me come in out of the hearing of this moon-faced idiot," said he, pointing contumeliously to Peter of the Pigs, "and I will tell you. I am not bidden to proclaim my business in the market sties and city cattlepens!"
"You do well, Parchment Knave," cried Peter; "for it is such black business that if you proclaimed a syllable of it there you would be torn to pieces of honest folk. Thank God there are still some such in the world!"
"Aye, many," quoth the servitor, "and we all know they are to be found in the dwellings of priestlings!"
I walked with the man to the gate, for I did not care to take him to where Dessauer was sitting. I feared that it might be some ill news from the Lubber Fiend, who, though I had seen him clear of the gate, might very well have returned and told my message to Master Gerard.
"Well," said I, brusquely, for I had no love for the Sir Rusty Respectable, "out with it--who sends you?"
"It is not my master," answered the man, "but one other."
"What other?" said I. "The one," he said, cunningly, "with whom on a former occasion you rode out at the White Gate."
Then I saw that he knew me.
"The Princess--" I began.
"Hush," he said, touching my arm; "that is not a word to be whispered in the streets of Thorn--the Lady Ysolinde is at her father's house, and would see you--on a matter of life or death--so she bade me tell you."
"I will go with you," I said, instantly.
"Nay," he said, smirking secretly, "not now, but at nine of the clock, when the city ways shall be dark, you must come--you know the road. And then you two can confer together safely, and eke, an it please you, jocosely, when Master Gerard will be safe in his study, with the lamp lit."
I went back to Dessauer, who during my absence had kept his head in his hand, as if deeply absorbed in thought.
"The Princess is in Thorn!" said I, as a startling piece of news.
"Ah, the Princess!" he muttered, abstractedly; "truly she is the Princess, but yet that will not advantage her a whit."
I saw that he was thinking of our little Helene.
"Nay," I said, taking him by the arm to secure his attention, as indeed about this time I had often to do. "I mean the Lady Ysolinde, the wife of our good Prince."
"In Thorn?" said Dessauer. "Ah, I am little surprised. Twice when I was speaking to-day I saw a face I knew well look through a lattice in the wall at me. But being intent upon my words I did not think of it, nor indeed recognize it till it had disappeared. Now the picture comes back to me curiously clear. It was the face of the Princess Ysolinde."
"I am to see her at nine o'clock to-night in the house of the Weiss Thor."
"Do not go, I pray you!" he said; "it is certainly a trap."
"Go I must, and will," I replied; "for it may be to the good of our maiden. I will risk all for that!"
"I dare say," said he; "so should I, if I saw any advantage, such as indeed I hoped for to-day. But if I be not mistaken, our Princess is deep in this plot."
"And why?" said I. "Helene never harmed her."
"Helene is your betrothed wife, is she not?" he said. He asked as if he did not know.
"Surely!" said I. "Well!" he replied, sententiously, and so went out.
|
{
"id": "12191"
}
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46
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A WOMAN SCORNED
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At nine I was at the door of the dark, silent house by the Weiss Thor. I sounded the knocker loudly, and with the end of the reverberations I heard a foot come through the long passages. The panel behind slid noiselessly in its grooves, and I was conscious that a pair of eyes looked out at me.
"You are the servant of the strange Doctor?" said the voice of the servitor, Sir Respectable.
"That I am, as by this time you may have seen!" answered I, for I was in no mood of mere politeness. I was venturing my life in the house of mine enemy, and, at least, it would be no harm if I put a bold face on the matter.
He opened the door, and again the same curious perfume was wafted down the passages--something that I had never felt either in the Wolfsberg nor yet even in the women's chambers of the Palace of Plassenburg.
At the door of the little room in which she had first received me so long ago, the Lady Ysolinde was waiting for me.
She did not shut the door till Sir Respectable had betaken him down again to his own place. Then quite frankly and undisguisedly she took my hand, like one who had come to the end of make-believe.
"I knew you to-day in your disguise," she said; "it is an excellent one, and might deceive all save a woman who loves. Ah, you start. It might deceive the woman you love, but not the woman that loves you. I am not the Princess to-night; I am Ysolinde, the Woman. I have no restraints, no conventions, no laws, no religions to-night--save the law of a woman's need and the religion of a woman's passion."
I stood before her, scarce knowing what to say.
"Sit down," she said; "it is a long story, and yet I will not weary you, Hugo--so much I promise you."
I made answer to her, still standing up.
"To-night, my lady, after what you know, you will not be surprised that I can think of only one thing. You know that to-day--" "I know," she said, cutting me short, as if she did not wish to listen to that which I might say next; "I know--I was present in the Judgment Hall."
"Then, being Master Gerard's daughter, you knew also the sentence before it was pronounced!" I said, bitterly, being certain as that I lived that the paper from which the Duke Otho read had been penned at this very house of the Weiss Thor in which I now sat.
Ysolinde reached a slender hand to me, as was often her wont instead of speech.
"Be patient to-night," she said; "I am trying hard to do that which is best--for myself first, as a woman must in a woman's affairs. But, as God sees me, for others also! You are a man, but I pray you think with fairness of the fight I, a lonely, unloved woman, have to fight."
"Will they carry out the terrible sentence?" said I, eagerly. For I judged that she must be in her father's counsels.
"Be patient," she said; "we will come to that presently."
Ysolinde sat silent a while, and when I would have spoken further she moved her hand a little impatiently aside, in sign that I was not to interrupt. Yet even this was not done in her old imperious manner, but rather sadly and with a certain wistful gentleness which went to my heart.
When she spoke again it was in the same even voice with which she had formerly told my fortune in that very room.
"That which I have to say to you is a thing strange--as it may seem unwomanly. But then, I did not ask God to make me a woman, and certainly he did not make me as other women. I have never had a true mate, never won the love which God owes to every man and woman He brings into the world.
"Then I mot you, not by any seeking of mine. Next, equally against my will, I loved you. Nay, do not start to-night. It is as well to put the matter plainly."
"You did not _love_ me," said I; "you were but kind to me, the unworthy son of the Executioner of Thorn. Out of your good heart you did it."
I acknowledge that I spoke like a paltering knave, but in truth knew not what to say.
"I loved you--yes, and I love you!" she said, serenely, as though my words had been the twittering of a bird on the roof. "And I am not ashamed. There was indeed no reason for my folly--no beauty, no desirableness in you. But--I loved you. Pass! Let it be. We will begin from there. You loved, or thought you loved, a maid--your Little Playmate. Pshaw, you loved her not! Or not as I count love. I was proud, accustomed to command, and, besides, a Prince's wife. The last, doubtless, should have held me apart. Yet my Princessdom was but as straw bands cast into the fire to bind the flame. As for you, Hugo Gottfried, you were in love with your success, your future, and, most of all, with your confident, insolently dullard self."
She smiled bitterly, and, because the thing she spoke was partly true, I had still nothing to answer her.
"Hugo Gottfried," she said, "try to remember if, when we rode to Plassenburg in the pleasant weather of that old spring, you loved this girl whom now you love?"
"Aye," said I, "loved her then, even as I love her now."
"You lie," she answered, calmly, not like one in anger, but as one who makes a necessary correction, "you loved her not. You were ready to love me--glad, too, that I should love you. And since you knew not then of my rank, it was not done for the sake of any advancement in Plassenburg."
I felt again the great disadvantage I was under in speaking to the Lady Ysolinde. I never had a word to say but she could put three to it. My best speeches sounded empty, selfish, vain beside hers. And so was it ever. By deeds alone could I vanquish her, and perhaps by a certain dogged masculine persistence.
"Princess," I said to her, "you have asked me to meet you here. It is not of the past, nor yet of likings, imaginings, recriminations that I must speak. My love, my sister, my playmate, bound to me by a thousand ancient tendernesses, lies in prison in this city of Thorn, under sentence of a cruel death. Will you help me to release her? I think that with your father, and therefore with you, is the power to open her prison doors!"
"And what is there then for me?" cried the Lady Ysolinde, instantly, bending her head forward, her emerald eyes so great and clear that their shining seemed to cover all her face as a wave covers a rock at flood-tide.
"What for me?" she repeated, in the silence which followed.
"For you," said I, "the gladness to have saved an innocent life."
"Tush!" she cried, with a gesture of extravagant contempt. "You mistake; I am no good-deeds monger, to give my bread and butter to the next beggar-lass. I tell you I am the woman who came first out of the womb of Mother-earth. I will yield only that which is snatched from me. What is mine is more mine than another's, because I would suffer, dare, sin, defy a world of men and women in order to keep it, to possess it, to have it all alone to myself!"
"But," I answered, "who am I, that so great a lady should love me? What am I to you, Princess, more than another?" " _That_ I know not!" she answered, swiftly. "Only God knows that. Perhaps my curse, my punishment. My husband is a far better, truer, nobler man than you, Hugo. I know it; but what of that, when I love him not? Love goes not by the rungs in a ladder, stands not with the most noble on the highest step, is not bestowed, like the rewards in a child's school, to the most deserving. I love you, Hugo Gottfried, it is true. But I wish a thousand times that I did not. Nevertheless--I do! Therefore make your reckoning with that, and put aside puling shams and whimpering subterfuges."
This set me all on edge, and I asked a question.
"What, then, do you propose? Where, shall this comedy end?"
"End!" she said--"end! Aye, of course, men must ever look to an end. Women are content with a continuance. That you should love me and keep on loving me, that is all I want!"
"But," I began, "I love--" "Ah, do not say it!" she cried, pitifully, clasping her hands with a certain swift appeal in her voice--"do not say it! For God's sake, for the sake of innocent blood, do not say that you love me not!"
She paused a moment, and grew more pensive as she looked stilly and solemnly at me.
"I will tell you the end that I see; only be patient and answer not before I have done. I have seen a vision--thrice have I seen it. Karl of Plassenburg, my husband, shall die. I have seen the Black Cloak thrice envelop him. It is the sign. No man hath ever escaped that omen--aye, and if I choose, it shall wrap him about speedily. More, I have seen you sit on the throne of Plassenburg and of the Mark, with a Princess by your side. It is _not_ only my fancy. Even as in the old time I read your present fortune, so, for good or ill, this thing also is coming to you."
She never took her eyes from my face.
"Now listen well and be slow to speak. The Princedom and the power shall both fall to me when my husband dies. There are none other hands capable. So also is it arranged in his will. Here"--she broke off suddenly, as with a gesture of infinite surrender she thrust out her white hands towards me--"here is my kingdom and me. Take us both, for we are yours--yours--yours!"
I took her hands gently in mine and kissed them.
"Lady, Lady Ysolinde," I said, "you honor me, you overwhelm me, I know not what to say. But think! The Prince is well, full of health and the hope of years. This thought of yours is but a vision, a delusion--how can we speak of the thing that is not?"
"I wait your answer," she said, leaving her hands still in mine, but now, as it were, on sufferance. Then, indeed, I was torn between the love that I had in my heart for my dear and the need of pleasing the Lady Ysolinde--between the truth and my desire to save Helene. Almost it was in my heart to declare that I loved the Lady Ysolinde, and to promise that I should do all she asked. But though, when need hath been, I have lied back and forth in my time, and thought no shame, something stuck in my throat now; and I felt that if I denied my love, who lay prison-bound that night, I should never come within the mercy of God, but be forever alien and outcast from any commonwealth of honorable men.
"I cannot, Lady Ysolinde," I answered, at last. "The love of the maid hath so grown into my heart that I cannot root it out at a word. It is here, and it fills all my life!"
Again she interrupted me.
"See," she said, speaking quickly and eagerly, "they tell me this your Helene is an angel of mercy to the sick. If she is spared she will be content to give her life to works of good intent among the poor. This cannot be life and death to her as it is to me. Her love is not as the love of a woman like Ysolinde. It is not for any one man to possess in monopoly. Though you may deceive yourself and think that it will be fixed and centred on you. But she will never love you as I love you. See, I would knee to you, pray to you on my knees, make myself a suppliant--I, Ysolinde that am a princess! With you, Hugo, I have no pride, no shame. I would take your love by violence, as a strong man surpriseth and taketh the heart of a maid."
She was now all trembling and distract, her lips red, her eyes bright, her hands clasped and trembling as they were strained palm to palm.
"Lady Ysolinde, I would that this were not so," I began.
A new quick spasm passed over her face. I think it came across her that my heart was wavering. "God knows that I, Hugo Gottfried, am not worth all this!"
"Nay," she said, with a kind of joy in her voice and in her eyes, "that matters not. Ysolinde of Plassenburg is as a child that must have its toy or die. Worthiness has no more to do with love than creeds and dogmas. Love me--Hugo--love me even a little. Put me not away. I will be so true, so willing. I will run your errands, wait on you, stand behind you in battle, in council lead you to fame and great glory. For you, Hugo, I will watch the faces of others, detect your enemies, unite your well-wishers, mark the failing favor of your friends. What heart so strong, what eye so keen as mine--for the greater the love the sharper the eye to mark, prevent, countermine. And this maid, so cold and icy, so full of good works and the abounding fame of saintliness, let her live for the healing of the people, for the love of God and man both, and it liketh her. She shall be abbess of our greatest convent. She shall indeed be the Saint Helena of the North. Even now I will save her from death and give her refuge. I promise it. I have the power in my hands. Only do you, Hugo Gottfried, give me your love, your life, yourself!"
She was standing before me now, and had her arms about my neck. I felt them quiver upon my shoulders. Her eyes looked directly up into mine, and whether they were the eyes of an angel or of a tempting fiend I could not tell. Very lovely, at any rate, they were, and might have tempted even Saint Anthony to sin.
"Ysolinde," I said, at last, "it is small wonder that I am strongly moved; you have offered me great things to-night. I feel my heart very humble and unworthy. I deserve not your love. I am but a man, a soldier, dull and slow. Were it not for one man and one woman it should be as you say. But Karl of Plassenburg is my good master, my loyal friend. Helene is my true love. I beseech you put this thought from you, dear lady, and be once more my true Princess, I your liege subject--faithful, full of reverence and devotion till life shall end!"
As I spoke she drew herself away from me. My hand had unconsciously rested on her hair, for at first she had leaned her head towards me. When I had finished she took my hand by the wrist and gripped it as if she would choke a snake ere she dropped it at arm's-length. I knew that our interview was at an end.
"Go!" she commanded, pointing to the door. "One day you shall know how precious is the love you have so lightly cast aside. In a dark, dread hour, you, Hugo Gottfried, shall sue as a suppliant. And I shall deny you. There shall come a day when you shall abase yourself--even as you have seen Ysolinde the Princess abase herself to Hugo, the son of the Red Axe of the Wolf mark. Go, I tell you! Go--ere I slay you with my knife!"
And she flashed a keen double-edged blade from some recess of her silken serpentine dress.
"My lady, hear me," I pleaded. "Out of the depths of my heart I protest to you--" "Bah!" she cried, with a sudden uprising of tigerish fierceness in her eyes, quick and chill as the glitter of her steel. "Go, I tell you, ere I be tempted to strike! _Your heart! _ Why, man, there is nothing in your heart but empty words out of monks' copy-books and proverbs dry and rotten as last year's leaves. Ye have seen me abased. By the lords of hell, I will abase you, Executioner's son! Aye, and you yourself, Hugo Gottfried, shall work out in flowing blood and bitter tears the doom of the pale trembling girl for whom you have rejected and despised Ysolinde, Princess of Plassenburg!"
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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47
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THE RED AXE DIES STANDING UP
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How I stumbled down the stairs and found myself outside the house in the Weiss Thor I do not know. Whether the servitor, Sir Respectable, showed me out or not has quite passed from me. I only remember that I came upon myself waiting outside the gate of Bishop Peter's palace ringing at a bell which sounded ghostly enough, tinkling like a cracked kettle behind the door.
The lattice clicked and a face peeped out.
"Get hence, night-raker!" cried a voice. "Wherefore do you come here so untimeously, profaning the holy quiet of our minster-close?"
"There was no very holy calm in the kitchen t'other night, Peter Swinehead!" said I, my wits coming mechanically back to me at the familiar sound.
"Ha, Sir Blackamoor, 'tis you; surely your chafts have grown strangely white, or else are my eyes serving me foully in the torchlight."
Instinctively I covered as much of my face as I could with my cloak's cape, for indeed I had washed it ere I went forth to see the Lady Ysolinde. " 'Tis that you have slipped too much of the Rhenish down thy gullet, old comrade," said I, slapping Peter on the back and getting before him so that he might remark nothing more.
At that, being well pleased with my calling him comrade, he lighted me cordially to my chamber, and there left me to the sleepless meditation of the night.
The next day was one of great quietness in the city of Thorn. An uneasy, sultry pause of silence brooded over the lower town. Men's heads showed a moment at door and window, looked furtively up and down the street, and then vanished again within. Plots were being hatched and plans laid in Thorn; yet, while there was the lowering silence in the city, up aloft the Wolfsberg hummed gayly like a hive. Once I went up that way to see if I could win any news of my father. But this day the door into the Red Tower stood closed, nor would any within open for all my knocking. So perforce I had to return unsatisfied. Several times I went to the Weiss Thor to spy the horizon round for the troops of Plassenburg. But only the gray plain of the Mark stretched itself out so far as the eye could penetrate--hardly a reeking chimney to be seen, or any token of the pleasant rustic life of man, such as in my youth I remembered to have looked down upon from the Red Tower. Beneath me the city of Thorn lay grimly quiescent, like a beast of prey which has eaten all its neighbors, and must now die of starvation because there are no more to devour.
The day passed on feet that crept like those of a tortoise, as the sullen minutes dragged by, leaden-clogged and tardy. But the evening came at last. And with it, knocking at the door of the Bishop's quadrangle and interrupting my long talk with Dessauer, lo! a messenger, hot-foot from the castle.
"To the learned Doctor and his servant, Gottfried Gottfried, being in death's utmost extremities, sends greeting, and desires greatly to have speech with them."
Thus ran my father's message in that testing hour where he had seen so many! Yet I was but little surprised. There was no wonder in the fact save the wonder that it should all seem so natural. Dessauer rose quickly.
"I will go with you," he said; "it will be safer. For at least I can keep the door while you speak with your father."
So, without further word, we followed the messenger up the long, narrow, wooden-gabled street, and heard the folk muttering gloomily in the darkness within, or talking softly in the dull russet glow of their hearth-fires. For there were but few lighted candles in Thorn that night. And I wondered how near or how far from us tho men of Plassenburg might be encamping, and thrilled to think that at any moment a spy might ride in to warn Duke Otho of the spy within his city, or the near approach of his foe.
But so far all was quiet at the Red Tower. The wicket-gate in the angle of the wall was open, and we passed in without difficulty. As I mounted the stairs I heard the key turn behind us. Obviously, therefore, we were expected. The gate of the Red Tower had been left open for our entrance; and so soon as the birds were in the snare, it was shut, and the silly goslings trapped.
Nevertheless we climbed up and up the dark stairs till we came to the door of my father's garret. I pushed it open without knocking, and entered.
"The most learned the Doctor Schmidt," I announced, lest there should be some stranger in the room. And indeed my precaution was necessary enough. For, from my father's bed-head, disengaging himself reluctantly, like a disturbed vulture napping up from the side of a dying steer, Friar Laurence rose out of the darkness, and, folding his robe about him, stalked to the door without a word or nod to either of us. I stood holding the edge of it till I had watched him well down the stairs. Then Dessauer relieved me at the stair-head as I went to approach my father.
I saw a change in him, very startling, indeed, to see. "In the uttermost extremity" he was, indeed, as he had written. A ghastly pallor overspread his face; his eyes were wild, his breathing came both quick and hard. The fire cast nickering lights over his face and on the outlines of his lank figure under the scarlet mantle which had been cast over him. One corner of it was cast aside, as if for air or coolness, and I could see a thing which gave me a cold chill in the marrow of my spine.
My father still wore the dress which he only donned when some poor soul was about to die and pay the forfeit.
At first Gottfried took no notice of me whatever, but lay looking at the ceiling, his lips muttering something steadily, though what the words were I could not hear.
"Father," I said at last, bending over him gently, "I have come to see you."
He turned to me, as if suddenly and regretfully summoned back from very far away. It was a movement I had seen in many dying men. He looked at me, a strange, luminous comprehension growing up gradually in his eyes.
"Hugo," he said, "you have come home at last! The Little Playmate has come home, too. We three will make a merry party in the old Red Tower. We have not been all together for so long. Lord Christ, but I have been a man much alone! Hugo, why did you leave me so long? Ah, well, I do not blame you, my son. You have been pushing your fortunes, doubtless, and you have--so they tell me--become a great man in Plassenburg. And the little maid is a lady of honor, and very fair to see. But now you two have come to the old garret, like birds homing to the nest."
"Yes, father," I said to him, "we have both come home to you, the Little Playmate and I. And now you will give us your blessing!"
"The Little Playmate--say rather the Little Princess," he cried, cheerfully, as, with the air of one who brings good tidings, he sat up in bed. Then he pointed to a chair on which a pillow had carelessly been flung. "Little Maid," he said, looking at the cushion as if it had been Helene, "I am glad you have come back to be wedded to my boy. That was like you. I ever wished it, indeed. But I never expected to see my children thus happy. Yet I always knew you and Hugo were made for each other. You are at your sewing, little maid. Well, 'tis natural. I mind me when my own love sat making dainties of just such delicate and wreathed whiteness."
He paused, and then, his countenance suddenly changing, he looked fearfully and fixedly at the chair.
"But, little maid, my own Helene," he cried, in a loud, gasping, alarmed tone, "what is this, best beloved? Why, you are sewing at a shroud? Surely such funeral-trappings become not bridals. A shroud--and there is blood upon it! Put it down--_put it down,_ I pray you!"
The red flames on the fire crackled suddenly up about the back log and cast dancing shadows on his face.
"Lie down and rest, dear father," I said softly to him, "the Little Playmate is not here--I, Hugo, your son, am alone beside you."
"Hugo," he said, instantly appeased, and passing a lean arm about me, "my good son, my brave boy! You will be kind to the little Princess. She loves you. There is no man so beloved as you in all the city of Thorn. Many would have loved her besides Otho. Ah, but I threw him out of the window there. I threw a Grand Duke out of a window! Ha! ha! it was the bravest jest!"
He laughed a little at intervals, as at a tale that will bear infinite repetition. "I, Gottfried Gottfried, threw a proximate reigning Prince out of the window! How Casimir laughed! The thing pleased him well. And the little maid, do you remember her, Hugo? How she would teach me--me, the Red Axe of Thorn--how to dance that first night, and how totteringly she carried the Red Axe? The little one took heart that night. She will have a happy future, I know; so blessed, far away from this dark and damned place of the Wolfsberg. I am glad she is not here to see me die. That is a sight for men, not for fair young loving women."
"Hush, my father," I said, touching his dank brow; "you are not going to die. You will yet live to be strong and well, a man among men."
For one tells these things to dying men. And they smile and pass us by, amused at our childish ignorance, as you and I shall one day smile upon those others. And even thus did my father.
"Nay, Hugo, I am sped," he answered. "This night ends all. The door I have oped for so many is opening from within for me. God's mercy be on a sinful man! Ere the light of to-morrow's dawn the Duke's Justicer must face the Tribunal that has no assessor and no court of appeal."
He threw back the cloak which served him as a mantle, and crying, "Give me your hand, Hugo!" Gottfried Gottfried staggered to his feet.
"I will die standing up," he said, bending his brows and gazing about him uncertainly. He pointed to the walls of the garret. The fire was flickering low, but still making the place light enough to see easily. There beside the bed was the Red Axe, with its shining edge undimmed, leaning against the block. There across it was the crimson mask which was never more to bind his eyes as he did the office of final dread.
"Do you see them, son Hugo?" he cried, leaning heavily on my shoulder and pointing with his finger; "they are gibbering at me, mowing, processioning by, and pointing mockingly at me. Do you hear them laughing? That horrid one there with his head under his arm? Laughing as if there were no God! But I am not afraid. Mercy of Jesu! Hath God Himself no Justicer, that He should punish me because I have fulfilled my charge? I have all my life been merciful, ever giving the blow of mercy first, and the drop of stupefaction before the Extreme Question. Hence, fiends! Shapes inhuman, torment me not! For in my day I was merciful to you and never struck twice. I _will_ die standing up. The devil shall not fright me--no, nor all his angels!
"God Himself shall not fright me! I appeal to His judgment throne! Get hence, false accusing spirits! I stand at Caesar's judgment-seat. Give me the axe, boy--I will cut down the evil, I will spare the good. Here is the Red Axe, my son. Take it! Strike with it strong and well. Strike, strike, and spare not!"
Totteringly he handed me the axe, and, clasping his hands, he stood looking up.
"God! God!" he cried in a great voice. "I see my Judge face to face; I am not afraid! But I will die standing up!"
And in this manner, even as I tell it, died Gottfried Gottfried, a strong man, standing up and not afraid. And these arms received him, as, being dead, he fell headlong.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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48
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HUGO GOTTFRIED, RED AXE OF THE WOLFMARK
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Then cried Dessauer from the door to me as I stood thus holding my father in my arms: "Haste you, lad; there are men coming across the yard with torches. They are gathering in groups about the door. Now they are on the stairs--many soldiers--and with weapons in their hands!"
And scarcely had he spoken when the sound of the tramping of men in haste came to us up the turret, and the door of the garret was thrust violently open. A turmoil of men-at-arms burst in on us. I stood still, holding Gottfried Gottfried, his head on my shoulder, though I knew that he was dead. But as one came forward with a paper in his hand I stooped and laid my father gently on his bed.
An officer of the Black Hussars, fantastically dressed in their church-yard array, with skull and cross-bones slashed in silver across his breast, accosted me.
"Hugo Gottfried, son of Gottfried Gottfried, in the name of the Duke Otho and the State of the Wolfmark, I arrest you! Also you, Leopold von Dessauer, Chancellor of the Princedom of Plassenburg. You are accused as spies and enemies of the commonweal. Yield yourselves therefore to me, without condition."
"I am indeed Hugo Gottfried," said I, "but you may see for yourselves the mission on which I have come hither. And for this hour, at least, you might have spared your brutal entry. Behold!"
I caught a torch from the nearest soldier, and let its light shine on the dead face of the fourteenth Hereditary Justicer of the Wolfmark.
The men started back. The terrible countenance of the dead affected them even more than the grim figure of the Red Axe as they had seen him stalking from the Hall of Justice to the block.
"Ah," said the officer, not wholly irreverently, "Gottfried Gottfried has gone now to the dark place to which he hath sent so many. But, after all, he is dead--and I heard a monkish clerk prate the other day, 'Let the dead bury their dead.' I have my orders, and the Duke Otho waits. Therefore I bid you follow me, Hugo Gottfried and Leopold von Dessauer."
So, leaving the body of my father lying on the bed in his garret, we were constrained to follow our captors down the stairs. Across the court-yard we were hurried, and through the Hall of Justice into the private apartments of the Duke.
Otho von Reuss, now Duke of the Wolfmark, was standing erect by the great chair in which, as my father had so often described him to me, Casimir had sat so many days with his head sunk on his breast. The new Duke stood up proudly, gazing at us with frowning brows and lowering, narrowed eyes. This was mighty fine, but I could not help thinking of the poor appearance he had made on the hill above the Hirschgasse as he slunk off when he saw an evil cause going desperately against him.
"So," he said, "gentlemen both, I have caught you spying in my land. You know what those have to expect who are caught in hostile territory in disguise."
I thought it was as well to take the high hand at once, especially since I saw that humility would avail us nothing at any rate.
"Before now I have seen Otho von Reuss in hostile territory, and a right cowed traitor he looked!" said I, boldly.
The Duke smiled upon me, like a man that has a complete retort on his tongue but who is content for the present to reserve it.
"My friend," he said, suavely, "I will reply to you presently. I have a word to speak to your betters."
He turned him about to Dessauer.
"And what, Lord High Chancellor of Plassenburg, think you of this masquerading? Dignified, is it not? And your wondrous speech in court that was to have done such great things. Will you be pleased to abide with us here in the Wolfsberg? Or must you forsake us to pleasure the Emperor, who, poor man, cannot sleep of nights in his bed at Ratisbon till the eloquent Doctor is come to cheer him with the full-flowing river of speech?"
"Duke Otho," said Dessauer, "my life is indeed in your hands. I hold it forfeit. A few years less or more are but little to Leopold von Dessauer now. But there is one who will most bloodily avenge us if a hair of our heads falls to the ground."
"Who?" said Otho, sneeringly. "Karl Miller's Son, I suppose. Ah, fool that you are, I hold your poor Karl in the palm of my hand!"
"It is like enough," said Dessauer, with a quick look, the look of a keen fencer when he sees an advantage. "I have often enough seen the palm of your hand approach Karl Miller's Son's treasury when I kept the moneys."
I saw the face of Otho twitch angrily. But he had evidently made up his mind to command his temper, sure of having that up his sleeve which would sufficiently answer all taunts.
"You mistake me," he said, with more subtlety than I had expected from the brute. "I had not meant to prove ungrateful. I am but newly come to my own here in the Wolfmark. I have learned from your host, Bishop Peter, how precious a thing forgiveness is. And now I am resolved to practise it. There is a time to love and a time to hate; a time to war and a time to be at peace. This is the last news I had from the holy clerk whose revenues I pay. So lay it to heart, as I have done."
"Glad am I," said Dessauer, courteously, as if he had been turning a phrase on the terrace at Plassenburg--"glad am I that in your hour you are to be mindful of old friends, for they are like old wine, which grows better and mellower with the years."
"It is indeed well," said Otho von Reuss, ironically. "I have known the Chancellor Dessauer many years, and he grows more honorable and more wise with each decade.
"But now 'tis with this young man that I would speak," he said, changing his tone. "He at least is mine own servant, and so I have other words for him. Hugo Gottfried, you remember that you insulted me, striking me on the face with a glove, because I offered certain civilities to a maid of honor to the Princess of Plassenburg. You wounded me in the arm. Your father, of whose death I have heard but now, cast me forth like a cur-dog from a chamber window. Between you ye have shamed me, and would shame me worse--for the sake of the murderess of mine uncle, Duke Casimir."
"Well do you know that the Lady Helene is innocent of that crime, or any other," said I; "she is purer than your eyes can look upon or your heart conceive. Yet, solely because she knows you for the foul thing you are, Helene lies condemned in your dungeons to-night. I ask you to grant me but one boon--that I may die with her!"
"Nay, my friend, gentlest squire of dames, defender of the oppressed, I have better things in store for you and your maid than that!"
He paused and looked a long while at me, as it seemed, chewing the cud of revenge upon that which he had to say to me.
At last he came a step nearer, that he might look into my eyes.
"Hugo Gottfried," he said, slowly, "son of Gottfried Gottfried, you are my servant now. I said that I would forgive you all for the sake of old times in exile together. And now you and I are both again in our own land. They that kept us out of our offices are dead, and we standing in their places. There is a maid down there in the Wolfsberg dungeons who to-morrow must meet her fate."
He paused a moment and laid his hand on my shoulder impressively.
"And you, Hugo Gottfried, Hereditary Justicer of the Dukedom, Red Axe of the Wolfmark, art the man who must carry out that doom!"
Again he paused--and the world seemed instantly to dissolve into whirling vapor at his words. I had never once thought of such a conclusion. Yet I was indubitably, by my father's death, Hereditary Executioner of the Wolfmark. Red Axe of Thorn I was, and by a terrible chance I had returned in time to be installed in mine office, even as the Lady Ysolinde had foretold.
But a strong thought swelled triumphant in my heart.
"Well," said I, looking the sneering tormentor in the face, "if so be that I am your Hereditary Justicer, it will be long ere a sentence so monstrous shall be carried out by me. I will not slay the innocent, nor pour out the blood of a virgin saint, for a million deaths. You can torture me with all your hellish engines, and you will find that a Gottfried has learned how to suffer, as well as, how to make others suffer, in fourteen generations. As God strengthens me, I will never carry out your sentence--do with me what you will."
"Nobly said, Justicer of the Mark!" said Otho. "I had thought of that! But in case you should refuse to do your lawful office, it may be well for you to remember that I have other instruments that mayhap will please you less."
He threw open a door suddenly, and we looked into an underground hall, where a dozen men were carousing--Duke Casimir's Hussars of Death, black-browed, evil-faced, slack-jowled villains every man of them, cruel and sensual. A blast of ribald oaths came sulphurously up, as if the mouth of hell had been opened.
"Listen!" said Otho, with his hand on my shoulder.
And a jest struck to our ears concerning the prisoner, the Little Playmate--a jest which sticks in my memory to this day. And even yet I hope to cleave the jester through the brain, meet him when I may.
The Duke shut the door, and turned to me again. His eyes narrowed to a thin line which glittered with hate and triumph.
"If you, Hugo Gottfried, Hereditary Executioner of the Mark, refuse to do your duty at the time appointed upon the prisoner condemned, I, Duke Otho, solemnly declare that I will cast your fair and tender lamb into that den of wolves down there to work their wills upon. Hark to them! They will have no misgivings--no qualms, no noble renunciations."
Then he turned to me airily and confidently.
"Well, my good Justicer, will you carry out the just and merciful sentence of the law, and baptize your Red Axe with the blood of her for whose sake you chose to insult and wound a Duke of the Mark?"
I turned away, sick at heart.
"Give me time. God's mercy--give me time!" I cried. "At least let me see Helene. I will give you my answer to-night. But, first of all, let me see my beloved."
"I am forgiving and most merciful," he said, smiling till his teeth showed. "Observe, I do not even cast you into prison to make sure of you. Go your ways" (he sat down and wrote rapidly); "here is a pass which will enable you to visit the prisoner. At midnight I shall expect you to tell me that to-morrow you will fulfil your office."
He handed me the paper and motioned us away.
"We are free to go?" said I, wonderingly.
"Surely," he replied, smiling. "Are you not both my friends, and can Otho von Reuss be forgetful of old times? Come and go at your pleasure. Be sure to be here to give me your answer at midnight to-night--or--" He pointed with his hand to the door he had again opened, and with the fingers of his other hand beat time to the blasphemous chorus which came belching up from below.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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49
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THE SERPENT'S STRIFE
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Dazed and death-stricken by the horror of the choice which lay before me, I hastened down the street, hardly waiting for Dessauer, who toiled vainly after me. I knew not what to do nor where to turn. I could neither think nor speak. But it chanced that my steps brought me to the house of the Weiss Thor. Almost without any will of mine own I found myself raising the knocker of the house of Master Gerard von Sturm. Sir Respectable instantly appeared. I asked of him if the Lady Ysolinde would see me--giving my name plainly. For since Duke Otho knew me, there was no need of concealment any more.
The Lady Ysolinde would receive me.
I followed my conductor, but not this time to the room in which I had seen her on the occasion of my last visit.
It was in her father's chamber that I met the Princess. The room was as I had first seen it. Only there was no ascetic old man with keen, deep-set eyes and receding forehead to rear his head back from the table as though he would presently strike across it like a serpent from its coil.
For the moment the room was empty, but, ere I had time to look around, the curtains moved and the Lady Ysolinde appeared. Without entering, she set a hand on the door-post, and stood poised against the heavy curtain, waiting for me to speak.
Her face was pale, her thin nostrils dilated. Anger and scorn sat white and deadly on every feature.
"So," she said, intensely, as I did not speak, "you have come back already, most noble Hereditary Justicer of the Mark! Even as I told you--so it is. You come to ask mercy from the woman you despised, from the woman whose love you refused. You would beg her to spare her enemy. Ere you go I shall see you on your knees; ah, that will be sweet. I have been on my knees--can I believe it? Nay, I shall not forget it. I, Ysolinde of Plassenburg, have pled in vain to you--to you!"
And the accent of chill hatred and malice turned me to stone.
"My lady," said I, "well do you know that I would never ask aught for my own life, though the Red Axe itself were at my neck. But it is for the maid I love, for the little child I carried home out of the arms of the man condemned. I ask for her life, who never wronged you or any in all this world. You have heard that task which the Duke hath laid on me, because it is my misfortune to be my father's son--I must take away my love's sweet life, or, if I do not--" I could proceed no further for the horror which rose in my heart.
"I know it," she said, calmly; "my father hath told me all."
"Then," cried I, "if the power lie with you, as you hope for mercy to your own soul, be merciful! Save the maiden Helene from the death of shame, and me from becoming her murderer!"
"Ah," she answered, with delicatest meditative inflection, "this is indeed sweet. The mighty is fallen indeed. The proud one is suppliant now. The knee is bent that would not bend. Hearken, you and your puling babe, to the Princess Ysolinde! Were your lives in that glass, to save or to destroy--her life and your suffering--to make or to break, I would fling them to destruction, even as I cast this cup into the darkness!"
And as she spoke the wreathed beaker of Venice glass sped out of the window and crashed on the pavement without.
"Thus would I end your lives," she said, "for the shame that you two put upon me in the day of my weakness."
"Lady," I cried, eagerly, "you do yourself a wrong! Your heart is better than your word. Do this deed of mercy, I beseech you, if so be you can. And my life is yours forever!"
"Your life is mine, you say," cried she; "aye, and that means what? The wind that cries about the house. Your life is _mine_--it is a lie. Your life and love both are that chit's for whom you have despised--rejected--ME!"
And I grant that at that moment she looked noble enough in her anger as she stood discharging her words at me with hissing directness, like bolts shot twanging from the steel cross-bow.
"And, lest you should think that I have not the power to save you, I will tell you this--when you shall see the neck bared for the blade of the Red Axe, the fine tresses you love, that your eyes look upon with desire, all ruthlessly cut away by the shears of your assistants--ah, I know you will remember then that I, Ysolinde, whom you refused and slighted, had the power in her hand to deliver you both with a word, according to the immaculate laws of the Wolfmark. Aye, and more--power to raise you both to a pinnacle of bliss such as you can hardly conceive. In that hour, when you see me look down upon your anguish, you will know that I can speak the word. You will watch my lips till the axe falls, and under your hand the young life ebbs red. But the lips of Ysolinde will be silent!"
"Such knowledge is an easy boast, Lady Ysolinde!" I answered, thinking to taunt her, that she might reveal whether indeed she had the power she claimed.
"There," she said, pointing to the great collection of black-bound books and papers about the walls; "see, the secret is there--the secret for the lack of which you shall strike your beloved to the death to save her from the unnamable shame. I know it; my father has revealed it to me. I have seen the parchment in these hands. But--you shall never hear it, she never profit by it, and my vengeance shall be sweet--so sweet!"
And she laughed, with a strange crackling laugh that it was a pain to hear.
"God forgive you, Lady Ysolinde," said I, "if this be so. For if there be a God, you must burn in Great Hell for this deed you are about to do. Having had no mercy on the innocent, how shall you ask God to have mercy on you?"
"I will not ask Him!" she cried. "Instead of puling for mercy I will have had my revenge. And after that, come earth, heaven, or hell--I shall not care. All will then be the same to Ysolinde!"
I thought I would try her yet once more.
"The Little Playmate," I said, "the maid whom I have ever loved, though I am not worthy to touch her, is no chance child, no daughter of the Red Axe of Thorn. Leopold von Dessauer hath found and sent to Karl the Prince the full proofs that Helene is the daughter of the last and rightful Prince, and therefore in her own right Princess of Plassenburg."
"You lie, fool!" she cried--"you lie! You think to frighten me. And even if it were true--thrice, four times fool to tell me! For shall not I, the Princess of Plassenburg, the wife of the reigning Prince, stand for my own name and dignity. I would not help you now though a thousand fair heads, well-beloved, the desire of men, the envy of women, were to be rolled in the dust."
"Then farewell, Princess," I cried; "you are wronging to the death of deaths two that never did you wrong, who loved each other with the love of man and woman before ever you crossed their paths, and who since then have only sought your good. You wrong God also, and you lose your soul, divorcing it from the mercy of the Saviour of men. For be very sure that with that measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again."
She did not answer, but stood with her hand still against the door-post, her head raised, and her lips curling scornfully, looking after me as I retired with a smiling and malicious pleasure.
So, without further speech, I went out from the presence of the Lady Ysolinde. And thus she had the first part of her revenge.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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50
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THE DUNGEON OF THE WOLFSBERG
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And now I must see the Little Playmate. Judge ye whether or no my heart was torn in twain as I went up the long High Street of Thorn, back to the Wolfsberg, alone. For I had compelled Dessauer to return to Bishop Peter's, in order to avert popular suspicion, since our real names and errands were not yet known there.
And when I parted from him the old man was so worn out that I looked momently for him to drop on the rough causeway stones of the street.
Many pictures of my youth passed before me as I mounted towards the castle that night. I remembered the ride of the wild horsemen returning from the raid such long years agone, the old man who carried the babe, and the Red Axe himself, who now lay dead in the Tower--my father, Casimir's Justicer, clad now as then in crimson from head to heel.
Ere long I arrived at the Wolfsberg, and as I came near the Red Tower I saw that the gate was open. A little crowd of men with swords and partisans was issuing tumultuously from it. Then came six carrying a coffin. I stood aside to let them pass. And not till the last one brushed me did I ask what was their business abroad with a dead man at such a time of the night. " 'Tis one that had wrought much fear in his time," answered the soldier, for I had lighted on a sententious fellow--"one that made many swift ends, and now has come to one himself."
"You mean Gottfried Gottfried, the Duke's Justicer?" said I, speaking like one in a dream.
"Aye," he replied. "The Duke Otho is mightily afraid of the plague, and will not have a dead body over-night in his castle. Since they condemned the Saint Helena, God wot, the Duke is a fear-stricken man. He sleeps with half a dozen black riders at the back of his door, as though that made him any safer if a handful of minted gold were dealt out among the rascals. But when was a Prince ever wise?"
"My father's funeral," thought I. "Well, to-night it is, indeed, 'let the dead bury their dead'; Helene is yet alive!"
Surely I am not wanting in feeling, yet my heart was strangely chill and cold. Nevertheless, I turned and followed the procession a little way towards the walls. But even as I went, lo! the bell of the Wolfsberg slowly and brazenly clanged ten. I stopped. I had but two hours in which to visit the Little Playmate and tell her all.
"Good-bye, father," said I, standing with my hat off; "so you would wish me to do--you who met your God standing up--you who did an ill business greatly, because it was yours and you were born to it. Teach me, my father, to be worthy of you in this strait, to the like of which surely never was man brought before!"
The men-at-arms clattered roughly down the street, shifting their burden as if it had been so much kindling-wood, and quarrelling as to their turns. I heard their jests coming clear up the narrow street from far away.
I stood still as they approached a corner which they must turn.
I waved my hand to the coffin.
"Fare you well, true father; to-night and to-morrow may God help me also, like you, to meet my fate standing up!"
And the curve of the long street hid the ribald procession. My father was gone. I had made choice. The dead was burying his dead.
I went on towards the prison of the Wolfsberg; so it was nominated by a sort of grim superiority in that place which was all a prison--the castle which had lorded it so long over the red clustered roofs and stepped gables of Thorn, solely because it meant prisonment and death to the rebel or the refuser of the Duke's exactions.
Often had I seen the straggling procession of prisoners rise, head following head, up from that weary staircase, my father standing by, as they came up from the cells, counting his victims silently, like a shepherd who tells his flock as they pass through a gap in the sheepfold.
For me, alas! there was but one in that dread fold to-night. And she my one ewe lamb who ought to have lain in my bosom.
I clamored long at the gate ere I could make the drowsy jailer hear. As the minutes slipped away I grew more and more wild with fear and anger. At midnight I must face the Duke, and it was after ten--how long I knew not, but I feared every moment that I might hear the brazen clang as the hammer struck eleven.
For time seemed to make no impression on me at all that night.
At last the man came, shuffling, grumbling, and cursing, from his truckle-bed.
"What twice-condemned drunken roysterer may you be, that hath mistaken the prison of Duke Otho for a trull-house?
"An order from the Duke--to see a prisoner! Come to-morrow then, and, meanwhile, depart to Gehenna. Must a man be forever at the beck and call of every sleepless sot? 'Urgent'--is the Duke's mandate. Shove it through the lattice then, that a lantern may flash upon it."
I pushed under the door a broad piece of gold, which proved more to the purpose than much speech.
The door was opened and I showed my pass. That and the gold together worked wonders.
The jailer rattled his keys, donned a hood and woollen wrapper which he took down from a nail, and went coughing before me down the chill, draughty passages. I could hear the prisoners leaping from their couches within as the light of his cresset filtered beneath their doors. What hopes and fears stirred them! A summons, it might be, for some one in that dread warren to come up for a last look at the stars, a walk to the heading-place through the soft, velvet-dark night--then the block, the lightning flash of bright steel, a drench of something sweet and strong like wine upon the lips, and--silence, rest, oblivion.
But we passed the prison doors one by one, and the jailer of the Wolfsberg went coughing and rasping by to another part of the prison. " 'Tis an ill place for chills," he grumbled. "I have never been free of them since first I came to this place, no--nor my wife neither. She has been dead these ten years, praises to the pyx! Ah, would you?" (The torch threatened to go out, so he held it downward in his hand till the pitch melted and caught again, and meanwhile we stood blinded in the smoke and glare which the strong draught forced in our faces.)
At last came the door, a low, iron-spiked grating, like any other of the hundred we had passed.
"Key-metal is not often weared on this cell," the man chuckled. "Those stay not long above ground that bide here."
The door swung back on its creaking hinges. I slipped the fellow another gold piece.
"I must come in with you," he said; "you might do the wench an ill turn which would cheat the Duke of his show and me of my head to-morrow."
I slipped him another piece of gold, and then three together.
"Risk it, man," I said. "Have I not the Duke's own pass? I will do her no harm."
"Well," he said, "pray remember I am a man with five poor motherless children. My wife died of falling down a flight of steps ten years agone--praise the Lord for His mercies. For He is ever mindful of us, the sinful children of men."
The sound of his voice died away as the door closed. I turned, and was alone with the Beloved. The jailer had stuck the cresset in its niche behind the door, and its glow filled the little cell.
At first I could not see the Little Playmate--only a rough pallet bed and something white at the head of it. But as the cresset burned up more clearly, and my eyes became accustomed to the bleared and streaky light, I saw Helene, my love, kneeling at her bed's head.
I stood still and waited. Was she asleep? Was she--was she dead? I almost hoped that she might be. Then the Duke's vengeance would be balked indeed.
"Helene!" I said, softly, as one speaks to the dying--"Helene, dear, dear Helene!"
Slowly she looked up. Her face dawned on me as one day the face of the blessed angel will shine when he calls me out of purgatory.
"My love--my love!" she said, sweetly, like the first note of a hymn when the choir breathes the sweet music rather than sings it.
Ah, Lord of Innocence, that pure loving face, the purple deepness in the eyes, the flush on the cheek as on that of a little child asleep, the soft curled hair which crisped in the hollow of the neck--the throat itself--Eternal God, that I should be alive to think of the horror!
But time was passing swiftly. The minutes were slipping by like men running for their lives.
I raised Helene from her knees, and she nestled her head on my shoulder.
"You have come to me! I knew you would come. I saw you on the day--the day when they condemned me to die."
I broke into an angry, desperate, protesting cry, so that I heard my own voice ring strangely through that dumb, horrible place. And it was I who sobbed in her arms with my head on her shoulder.
"Hush, dear love," she said, clasping her arms caressingly about my head; "do not fear for me. God will keep your little one. God has told me that He will bring me bravely through. Hush thee, then; do not so, Hugo, great playmate! This I cannot bear. Help me to be good. It will not be long nor painful. Do not weep for your little girl! I think, somehow, it is for our love that I suffer, and that will make it sweet!"
But still I sobbed like a child. For how--how could I tell her?
Presently the power returned slowly to me, seeing her smiling so bravely up at me, and rising on tiptoe to kiss my wet face.
Then I told her all--in what words I hardly remember now.
"Love of mine," I said, "I have but an hour or less to speak with you--and ah! such terrible things, such inconceivable things, to say; a horror to reveal such as never lover had to tell his love before."
She drew one of my hands down and softly patted her breast with it.
"Fear not," she said; "tell it Helene. If it be true that love conquers all, your little lass can bear it!"
"I came," said I, "with purpose to see you, and by treachery (it skills not to ask whose) I was taken at my dead father's bedside."
"Our father dead?" she cried, going a step away to look at me, but coming back again immediately; "then there are but you and me in the world, Hugo!"
"Aye," said I, "but how can I tell you the rest? My father died like a man, and then they took me, still holding the dead in my arms. I was confronted with a fiend of hell in the likeness of Duke Otho."
As I mentioned the Duke's name I could feel her shudder on my neck.
"And--But I cannot tell you what he has bidden me do, under penalties too fearful to conceive or speak of."
She put her hands up, and gently, timidly, lovingly stroked my cheek.
"Dear love, tell me! Tell the Little Playmate!" she said, as simply and sweetly as if she had been coaxing me to whisper to her some lightest childish secret of our plays together in the old Red Tower.
I was silent for a space, and then, spurred by the thought of the swiftly passing time, the words were wrenched out of me.
"He says that I, even I, Hugo Gottfried, my father's son, being now hereditary Red Axe of the Wolfmark, must strike off the head of the one I love. And if I will not, then to the vilest of devils for vilest ends he will deliver her. Ah, God, and he would do it too! I saw the very flame of hell's fire in his eyes."
Then I that write saw a strange appearance on the face that looked up in mine. As on a dark April day, with a lowering sky, you have seen the wind suddenly stir high in the heavens, and the sun look through on the dripping green of the young trees and the gay bourgeoning of the flowers, so, looking on my love's face as she took in my words, there awakened a kind of springtime joy. Nay, wherefore need I say a kind of joy only. It was more. It was great, overleaping, sudden-springing gladness. Her eyes swam in lustrous beauty. She smiled up at me as I had never seen her smile before.
"Oh, I am glad, Hugo--so glad! I love you, Hugo! It will be hard for you, my love. And yet you will be brave and help me. I had far rather die at your hand than live to be the bride of the greatest man in all the world. Do that which will save me from, shame; do it gladly, Hugo. I fear it. I saw it in the eyes of that man Otho von Reuss. But _only_ to die will be easy, with you near by. For I love you, Hugo. And I could just say a prayer, and then--well, and then--Do not cry, Hugo--why, then you would put me to sleep, even as of old you did in the Red Tower!
"Nay, nay, dear love! You must not do so. This is not like my Hugo. See, _I_ do not cry. Do you remember when you took me up and laid me on your bed, and our father came and looked? You said I was your little wife. So I was, even though I denied it, and now I can trust you, my husband. I have never been aught else but your little wife, you see--not in my heart, not in my heart of hearts!
"I have been proud with you, Hugo--spoken unkind things. For love, you know, is like that. It hurts that which it would die for. But now you will know, once for all, that I love you. For death tests all. And you _will_ help me. You will not cry then, Hugo--not then, when we walk, you and I, by the shores of the great sea. You will only send me a little voyage by myself, as you used to make me go to the well in the court-yard, to teach me not to be frightened!
"And then you will be with me when I go. You will watch me; soon, soon you will come after me. Yes, I am glad, Hugo--so glad. For--bend down your ear, Hugo--I will confess. Your little girl is such a coward. She is afraid of the dark. But it will not be dark--and it will not be long, and it will be sure. If my love stand by, I shall not fear. And, after all, it is but a little thing to do for my love, when I love him so."
What I said, or what I did, I know not. But when I came a little to myself, I found my head on my knees, and Helene soothing and petting me, as if I had been a child that had fallen down and hurt itself.
"I would have been a good wife to you, Hugo; I had thought it all out. At first I would have been such an ignorant little house-keeper, and you would have needed--oh, such great patience with me! But so willing, so ready, Hugo! And how I should have listened for your foot! Do you know, I used to know it as it came across the court-yard at Plassenburg. But I could not run and meet you then. I could only slip behind the window-lattice and throw you a kiss. But when I was indeed your wife, how I should have flown to meet you!"
I think I cried out here for very agony.
"Hush, Hugo!" she said. "Hush, lad, and listen. There are stairs up aloft--I saw them in a dream. I saw the angels and the redeemed ascending and descending as I prayed, even when you came in to call me back. I shall ask God to let me wait at the stair-head a little while for you--till it should be time for you to come, my dear, my dear. You would not be very long, and I could wait. I would listen for your feet upon the stair, dear love. And when at last you came, I should know your footfall; yes, I should know it ever so far away. You would not be thinking of me just then. And when you came to the top of the golden stairs, there--there, all so suddenly, would be your little lass, with her arms ready to welcome you!"
The door of the cell creaked open.
The jailer appeared. "It is time!" he said, curtly, and stood waiting. We stood up, and I looked in her eyes. She was smiling, dry-eyed, but I--the water was running down my face.
"You will be brave, Hugo, for my sake. Next to life with you--to die by your dear hand, knowing that you love me, is the best gift they could have given me. They thought to hurt, but instead they have made me so happy. Till we meet again, dear love--till we meet soon again!"
And she accompanied me to the door, and kissed me as I went out, standing smilingly on tiptoe to do it, even as of old she was wont to do in the Red Tower.
And the last thing I saw of her, as the door closed upon the darkness of the cell, was my love standing smiling up at me, her eyes filled with the splendors of the love that casteth out fear.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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51
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THE NIGHT BEFORE THE MORN
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Even as the dwarf on the ledge of the castle clocktower creaked his wires and clicked back his hammer to strike the midnight over the city, even as the first solemn toll of the hour reverberated over the Wolfsberg, I was at the door of the Duke's room waiting for admission.
The Chamberlain in attendance looked within, and seeing his master writing at a table, he was going out again without speech.
"Has Hugo Gottfried returned?" said the Duke, without looking up.
"Hugo Gottfried is here!" I replied, stepping unannounced into the room.
He looked up without smiling, a keen inquiring glance glittering from between eyelids so close together that only the faintest line of the pupil showed black under the lashes.
"Well?" he questioned.
"I will do the thing you have asked," answered I. And said no more.
The Duke instantly became restless, and getting up, he began to pace about the floor like a caged beast.
"You have seen her?" he inquired, stopping in front of me, wide-nostrilled, like a dog that points the game.
"I _have_ seen her," I replied, as simply.
"Well?" he queried again, with a keen, eager note of anxiety in his voice.
"I am ready to do that which you have asked."
He seemed to be on the point of saying something else. But, changing his mind, he touched a little silver bell.
The usher appeared.
"Show the Hereditary Justicer of the Mark to the Red Tower. Give him all that is necessary to eat and drink. Bid a man-at-arms attend him, and set a sufficient guard at the door!"
So I went out from the presence, and the Duke and the Duke's new Justicer bowed to each other gravely as I stood a moment on the threshold.
"Till we meet again, Red Axe of the Wolfmark!" said Duke Otho.
"Till we meet again!" said I, countering him like blade meeting blade.
In little more than ten minutes after I had entered them, I stood outside the Duke's apartments, and with my escort I strode across to the empty Red Tower, the home of so many memories. My head was reeling, and with the overpress of excitement I could not sleep. So, bribing the soldier, my companion--who had been charged by the Duke not to lose sight of me--to accompany me, I went up to my father's garret.
There I found all things as they had been when my father died.
I set the windows wide, cast the tumbled bedclothes out upon the dust-heap beneath, and bared the whole to the clean, large, wholesome breezes of the night. I saw the fateful Red Axe lean as usual against the block, and, taking it up, I found it keen as a razor. It was spotless, and the edge gave back the long low room and our one glimmering candle like a mirror. It must have been my father's last work in this world to polish it.
Then I went down to my own room and cast myself down upon the bed in which, on that night of the first home-coming of the Playmate, I had laid my little wife.
The soldier couched across the door, rolled in his cloak and some chance wrapping he found about the house.
God keep me from ever spending such a night again! I thought it would never come to an end. Out in the square in front of the Wolfsberg I could hear a knocking--dull, continuous, reverberant. At first I thought it must be within my own head. So I asked the soldier, after a little, if he heard it also. I had some faint idea that it might be Prince Karl of Plassenburg with his army thundering at the gates of Thorn. " 'Tis but the scaffold going up in the Grand Place without!" said the soldier, carelessly; "I heard that the Duke had bidden them work all night by torch-light."
I tried to sleep, but the knocking continued, aching across my brows till I thought I must go mad. After a while I rose and went to the window from which I had so often looked down wistfully upon the play of the city children.
Opposite me, in the middle of the open space, loomed a dark mass--a platform, it seemed, raised a dozen feet above the road--the black silhouette of a ladder set anglewise against it, and that was all. Lower, plainer, somehow deadlier than a gibbet with its flamboyant beam, which one never sees empty without imagining the malefactor aswing upon it; the heading-block did not frown, it grinned--yes, grinned like the eye-holes of a skeleton with a candle behind them, while the torches glinted through the interstices of the framework as it was being nailed together.
All night the dull _dunt-dunting_ went on without. And I sat awake by the window and awaited the dawning.
The city seethed unslaked beneath. When first I looked from my chamber window the square was free to all who chose to enter it. But as the knocking went on the news spread through the town of Thorn.
"They are making the scaffold for our Saint Helena!" So the word ran.
And within an hour the courts and alleys of Thorn belched forth thousands of angry men. Pikes were carried like staves, the steel head hidden up the long white burgess sleeve. Working-men of the trades, 'prentices, and market porters drew their swords and came forth with the bare blades in their hands, leaving the scabbards at home to take care of themselves, as was their custom.
Wives cried from escalier windows to their men to come in by and lie decently down, to be ready for their work in the morning. And the men so addressed paid not the least heed, as the manner of men is. These things and many others I saw, scarce knowing what I saw.
And so, with the hum of gathering crowds, the hours passed slowly over. But the temper of the people in the square grew more and more difficult, and soon the guard had to be brought down from the castle. The great gates beneath me were open, and the Wolfsberg vomited the black men-at-arms to keep the Duke's peace.
But this brought only the quicker strife. Yells received them as soon as their steel partisans showed up in the square.
"Oppressors of the people, ye come to your reward!" cried many voices.
"We will give you your last breakfast--of cold, tempered steel!" cried another, from the bowels of the crowd.
"To the Wolfsberg--ho! Break in the doors! We will have our Saint Helena forth of their cursed prisons!"
It was no sooner said than done. Like a wave the people rushed in a black irregular mass at the front rank of the guard. The soldiers of the Duke were swept away like chaff; I could see one here and another there struggling in the vortices of the angry multitude.
"On to the Wolfsberg!" cried the crowd.
But when the first of them reached the castle gates, lo! they stood open, and there behind them stood file on file of matchlock men with their matches burning in their hands and their pieces trained upon their rests.
"Give them the fire!" cried a voice, that of Duke Otho, as the crowd halted a moment irresolute.
The bright red flame started out here and there from muzzle and touchhole, and then ran along the line in an irregular volley.
A terrible cry of fear went up from the folk. For though they had heard of the new ordnance, and even seen one or two, they had never realized the effect of a fusillade. And when a man on either side sank down with a hollow sound like a beast in shamble-thills, and the man in front fell over on his face without a sound, the multitude turned, broke into groups, fled, and disappeared in a moment like a whirl of snow which the wind canters down the street in a veering flurry.
Then the gates shut to, and the deep lines of matchlock men were hidden from view. After this the city thrilled and murmured worse than ever, humming like an angry hive. But the Wolfsberg kept its counsel. Not yet had deliverance arrived for the captives within its cells.
And the dread morning was coming fast.
At last, wearied out with crowding emotions, I went and cast me down on my bed, and, instantly falling asleep, I slept like a log till one touched me on the shoulder. Looking up, I saw the Duke Otho. He had come to make sure of his vengeance--the vengeance which I knew well was not his, but that of Ysolinde, Princess of Plassenburg.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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52
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THE HEADSMAN'S RIGHT
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"Rise, Justicer of the Wolfmark!" said Otho, smiling mockingly upon me like a fiend.
I started up and gazed about bewildered as the coming terrors of the morning broke upon me. " 'Tis scarcely an hour to sunrise," he continued, "and I warrant the noble Red Axe will desire to feel the edge of his tool and see that his assistants are in their places."
The Duke paused as he went out of the door, and looked at me.
"I can promise you a distinguished company at the first public performance of your honorable office," he said, with a polite gesture.
So soon as he was gone I rose to my feet. Across the broad, black oaken stool, whereon from boyhood it had been my habit to place my clothes neatly folded up, I found a suit of new red cloth, plain and rich, with an inscription upon a strip of vellum laid across the breast, bearing that these were a gift from the most Illustrious Duke Otho of the Wolfmark.
Since, after all, my fate was my fate, there was little use in straining at the gnat. So I set to and did upon me the garmentry of shame. They were made after the fashion of my father's, cap and hosen and shoon all of red, with a cloak of red to cover all.
Then I went to the Playmate's room, and before the niche where her little Prie-Dieu had stood, I kneeled me down and said such a prayer as at the moment I could compass. But little was needed. For I think God in heaven Himself was praying for us both that day.
When I went forth into the square, few there were who knew or remembered me, but all knew my attire. Then indeed it did my heart good to hear the great unanimous roar of execration which went up from the multitude as I came out. The soldiers had their work cut out to push a way for me to the scaffold.
"Butcher him--tear him to pieces--wolf's cub that he is--he that was her foster-brother to slay our Saint Helena!"
It made me proud to hear them. And as they rushed furiously against the escort, intent to kill me, we swayed from side to side.
"Down with the Red Axe!" they shouted. "Down with the bloody house of Gottfried and all that belong to it!"
And I felt inclined to cry "Amen!"
Then, when I had mounted the few steps which led to the platform on which stood the black headsman's block, I gazed about me in wonder, holding the Red Axe in my hand. And to my disordered vision I saw the crowd swell and whirl about me on earth and in the air, bubbling and tossing like a pot boiling furiously. Then I bethought me of the work I had to do, and prayed that I might be given strength to do it swiftly and featly, that the suffering of my love might not be long. Also I thought of the lecherous evil demons of the Black Riders, and thereat was somewhat comforted. At the worst I could give my love a better end than that.
Then appeared my Lord Duke Otho. An enclosure had been formed for him by the palace wall, covered with a red hanging, as though my sweetheart's death were a gala sight. And when he had come to the front and arranged his folk, lo! there by his side stood Ysolinde, Princess of Plassenburg, with her father, Master Gerard. They had a place close by the Duke, and Otho ofttimes bent over to confer graciously with his councillor. But Ysolinde looked neither to right nor left, nor yet spoke to any, keeping her eyes fixed, as it seemed, on the shining blade of the Red Axe in my hand.
Then, as these fine folk stood waiting and gloating among the festoons of their balcony, the devil or God (I know which, but I will not say, lest I be thought a blasphemer) put an intent into my heart. I walked to the edge of the scaffold, and I looked at the barrier of the enclosure. They were of the same height, and the distance between them little more than six feet.
I examined them again, and yet more intently. I saw the steely smile on Duke Otho's face. Already he was tasting the double sweetness of his revenge.
"Wait," I said, within my heart, as I also smiled a little, "only wait a little, Otho, Duke of the Wolfmark. Wait till this bright edge be sullied with my sweet love's blood. And then--then will I leap upon you, and the Red Axe shall crash deep into the brain that hatched and fostered this hellish intent. And by the gentle heart of her who is about to die, so also will I serve Gerard the lawyer, and Ysolinde, his daughter, for their treachery against the innocent. Then, amid the flash of steel and the heady whirl of battle, shall Hugo Gottfried be very content to die!" It would take more than one stroke to dull that which my father had sharpened. And I lifted up the Red Axe and felt the edge with my thumb. It was razor keen.
But the action was observed, and taken as a proof of callousness. And then what a yell of hate surged up around me! I could have taken those burghers of Thorn to my heart. And I thought if only our Karl would come. Alas! it was a full day too soon; for I felt sure that these burghers would proclaim him at the gates, and that the house of Otho and Casimir, the brood of the Wolf, would, like the shadow of the raven as it flits by in the sunshine, pass away. For by that time there would be no Otho. They would find him low enough, with an axe cleft in his head.
So soon as the sun's light tipped the eastern clouds with rose, the Black Hussars came riding forth. The guards and matchlock men lined the way from the castle gates. They blew up their matches to be ready. Suddenly in the midst of the armed throng there appeared a radiant figure coming down the steps of the castle from the Hall of Judgment.
At the sight the people threw themselves wildly in that direction. The dark lines of the guard reeled and wavered. There was the sharp click as the pikes engaged. The shouts of the captains of the matchlock men were heard. But the trained bands stood fast, and the rush was stayed. Then came our Helene down towards me, walking delicately, yet proudly erect as a young tree. She was clad all in white and wore her hair plaited high upon her head, so that the shape of her neck was clearly seen.
And I who stood there with the axe in my hand seemed to have a thousand years to think all these things, and even to mark the lace upon her dress. I saw her come nearer and nearer to me. Yet feeling was dead within me. I seemed to sleep and wake and sleep again. And when at last I awoke, there came a strange feeling to me. It was my wedding-day, and my bride was coming to me, lily pure, clad in whiteness.
Then at the foot of the scaffold there came one forth from the ranks, a captain of the Duke's guard, and with honor and respect offered Helene his arm.
She declined it with a proud smile, and all that were near could hear her clear voice say, "I thank you, sir, but I need no help. I am strong enough to walk thus far."
And she mounted the steps of the scaffold as though they had been those of the grand staircase at Plassenburg.
But when she saw me, standing in my habit of red from head to heel, she seemed a little taken aback. Quickly, however, she came forward and took me by the hand, looking up at me with the love-light making her eyes glorious.
"Hugo," she said, "I am glad you are here--glad that I am to die by no less loving hand. That will be sweeter than to live with any other. And, indeed, I deserve so much, for I have not known much joy in my life, save in the old days when I was your Little Playmate."
Then there came a stern voice from the enclosure: _"Executioner of the Mark, do your duty!" _ It was the voice of Master Gerard.
And then I looked over and saw Gerard von Sturm standing a little in front, with his daughter's wrist held tightly in his hand as though he would drag her back. With that a loathing came over me, for I said within me, "Is the woman so anxious for the blood of the innocent whom she has hounded to death that she would intrude on the scaffold itself?"
Then I remembered the duty of the Justicers, ere the sentence was carried out, to recite the crimes of the condemned.
So I cried aloud, even as I had heard my father do.
"The crimes of Helene, Princess of Plassenburg, sole daughter of Dietrich, lately Prince thereof--guilty of no evil, save that she has been the savior of this people of Thorn and their deliverer in time of pestilence!"
The people hushed themselves with astonishment at my words. And then a cry went up.
"The Red Axe speaks true--she is innocent--innocent!"
But the voice of Gerard von Sturm came again, stern as that of the recording angel: "_Executioner of the Wolfmark, do your duty_!"
Scarce knowing what I did, I went on with my formal accusation.
"Helene, Princess of Plassenburg, who is about to die, is also guilty of loving me, Hugo Gottfried, son of Gottfried Gottfried, and of none other crime. For this the Duke has decreed that she should die. It is her own will that she should die by my hand."
Helene came forward and put her hand in mine in token that I spoke truly, and there fell a great silence across the people. I saw the Lady Ysolinde straining at her father's hand, like a dog in a leash when the quarry rises.
Then my love kissed me once, just as though she had been saying good-night in the Red Tower, simply and sweetly, like a child, and laid her head down on the block as on the white pillow of her own bed. " _God do so and more also to them on whose heads is the innocent blood of my love and my wife_!"
The words burst from me rather than were uttered.
I raised the blade.
But ere the Red Axe could fall there arose a wild scream from the Duke's enclosure. Some one cried, "Let me go! He has said it! He has said it! I will not be silent any longer!" It was the Lady Ysolinde, who had broken away from her father's hand.
"The girl is his wife," she went on. "He has claimed her--according to the laws of the Wolfmark, that cannot be broken, he has called her his wife. It is the Executioner's right. One woman he can claim as his during his term of office--one only, and for his wife. Duke Otho, I call upon you to allow it! Chancellor Texel, I call upon you to read the law! I have it here in my hand. Head! Read! _I will save my soul! I will save my soul_!"
And ere any one could stop her, the Lady Ysolinde, sobbing and laughing both at once, had overleaped the light barrier, and was thrusting a parchment with a seal into the hands of the Chancellor Michael Texel.
"She is mad. Let the justice of the realm be done!" cried again the voice of Master Gerard.
And I think the Duke would have ordered it to be so. But there arose not only a roar from the people, but, what Otho minded far more, an ominous murmur among the nobles and gentlemen and from the ranks of men-at-arms.
"The law! The law! Read us the law!"
And even Otho dare not trifle with the will of the free companions of the Mark. For in all the realm they were now his only supporters. Helene had risen to her feet, and stood, pale of face but erect, resting, as was her wont, one hand on my shoulder.
Then Michael Texel read the scroll aloud.
"It is the immemorial privilege of the Hereditary Executioner of the Mark, being of the family of Gottfried, a privilege not to be abrogated or alienated, that during the term of office of each, he may claim--not as a boon, but as a right--the life of one man for a bond-servant, or the life of one woman for a wife. Thus, by order of the States' Council, to be the privilege of the Gottfrieds forever, it has been proclaimed!"
As Michael Texel went on, I saw the countenance of the Duke and the lawyer change. I knew that salvation had come to us like lightning from a clear sky, and I hastened to demand the right which was mine own.
So soon as he had finished I shouted with all my power: "I CLAIM HELENE TO BE MY WIFE!"
Then went up such an acclaim from the people as never had been heard in the ancient city. Even the gentlemen within the enclosure threw their hats in the air. The soldiers put their helmets on the points of their spears, and the captains waved their colors as at a victory. The thunder of the cheering roused the very rooks and jackdaws from the towers of Thorn and the bastions of the Wolfsberg till they went drifting in a black cloud clamorously over the city.
Then Helene put her arms about my neck, and, upon the scaffold of death, before all the people, we plighted our troth.
"The Bishop--the Bishop Peter!" cried the people.
And, leaping upon an officer's horse, a messenger rode post-haste to the palace, the crowd making way for him. Duke Otho disappeared through a private door, for the thing was over-strong even for him. He knew his weakness too well to war with the immemorial privileges of the Wolfmark.
Rulers stronger than he had been broken in doing battle against ancient rights and amenities. Besides, the nobility were afraid of their own perquisites if one of so ancient a charter as that of the Hereditary Justicer were refused.
Then from the palace came the Bishop, with due and decorous attendance of crosier and solemn procession. And there, amid a turmoil of joy and the ringing of every bell in the city, we, that had gone out to be together in death, were joined in the bonds of youth and life.
But the Lady Ysolinde saw not--heard not. For they had carried her out white and still from the place where she had fallen fainting at the foot of the scaffold.
|
{
"id": "12191"
}
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53
|
THE LUBBER FIEND'S RETURN
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Al these things had overpast so quickly that when Helene and I found ourselves alone in the Red Tower it seemed to both of us that we dreamed.
We sat in a kind of buzzing hush, on the low window-seat of the old room, hand in hand. The shouts of the people came up to us from the square beneath. We heard the tramp of the soldiers, who cheered us as they passed to and fro. Being at last alone, we looked into each other's eyes, and we could not believe in our own happiness.
"My wife!" I said, but in another fashion than I had said it on the scaffold.
"My husband!" answered Helene, looking up at me.
But I think, for all that we realized of the truth, we might as well have called each other King and Queen of Sheba.
We had been conducted with honor to the Red Tower. For since it was in virtue of my hereditary office that I had obtained the great deliverance, I dared for the present seek no other dwelling-place. For Helene's sake, indeed, I should have felt safer elsewhere. Besides, desperate and full of baffled hatred as I knew Duke Otho to be, I did not believe that he would dare to molest us--for some time at least. The rage of the people, their unbounded jubilation at the deliverance of their Saint Helena from the jaws of death on the very scaffold, were too recent to be trifled with by a prince sitting so insecure in his ducal seat as Otho of the Wolfmark.
So here in the ancient Red Tower, I thought, we might at least be safe enough till my good fellows of Plassenburg, with the Prince at their head, should swarm hammering at the gates of Thorn.
To us, sitting thus hand in hand, there entered the Bishop Peter.
"Hail!" he said, blandly, and in his grandest manner, as we knelt for his benediction; "hail, bride and bridegroom! God has been good to you this day. Bishop Peter, the least of His servants, greets you very well. May you have long life and prosperity unfailing."
I thanked him for his gracious words.
"The folk of the city are full of joy," he said. "I think they would almost proclaim you Duke to-day."
"I desire no such perilous honor," I replied, smiling; "it were indeed an ill-omen to have a Duke habited all in red."
"It is your marriage-dress, Hugo," said Helene; "I will not have you speak against it."
Ever since the strain of the scaffold she had not once broke down--no, nor wept--but only desired to sit very close beside me, touching me sometimes, as if to make sure that I was real. Deliverance had been too great and sudden, and those things which had come so near to us both--Death and the Beyond--had left a salt and bitter spray on our lips.
"And what of the Lady Ysolinde?" I asked of the Bishop.
Now the Bishop Peter was a good man, but, like many of his brethren, a lover of great, swelling words.
"The Lady Ysolinde," he said, oratorically, "by the immediate assistance of the city guard, was placed in a litter and deported, all unconscious as she was, to her father's house in the Weiss Thor, where she still remains. But her most seasonable extract from the laws of the Wolfmark, which so opportunely saved the life of your fair wife, and led to this present happy consummation, I have here by me, even in my hand."
And with that the Bishop drew the rolled parchment from his pocket and handed it to me, with all the original seals depending from it. Now I have small gift for the deciphering of such ancient documents, being only skilled in the common script of the day, and not over-well in that. So that I had to depend upon the offices of Bishop Peter for the interpretation.
"I think," said the Bishop, after he had finished reading it over, "that this document had best remain in my own possession. It may be safer under the seal and protection of the Church--even as, to speak truth, you and your wife would also be. I am a plain man," the Bishop continued, after a pause, "but remember that there is ever a place of refuge at the palace--and one which even Duke Otho is not likely to violate, remembering the experiences of his predecessor, Duke Casimir, when he crossed his sword against the crosier of this unworthy servant of Holy Church."
"I thank you," said I. "I would that it were possible to avail myself of your all too generous offer. But it will be necessary to abide at least this one night in the Red Tower."
"Ah," he said, "why this night?"
"Great things may happen this night, my Lord Bishop!" said I, and glanced significantly in the direction of Plassenburg.
"Ah," said the Bishop again, "so then the power of Holy Church may not be the only restraint upon Duke Otho by to-morrow at this time!"
And, calling his attendants, the suave and far-seeing prelate made his way with gravity and reverend ceremony down the streets of Thorn towards his palace.
So, bit by bit, the long day passed away, and I thought it would never end. For Helene and I sat and waited for that which might happen, with beating and anxious hearts. Ofttimes I ran to the top of the Red Tower, and sometimes it seemed that I could see a moving cloud of dust, and sometimes a flurry of startled cattle afar on the horizon. But till dusk there came to our aching eyes no better evidence that the lads of Plassenburg were coming to our rescue and to the deliverance of the down-trodden city of Thorn.
The soldiers of the garrison were still encamped in the great square. There was also a constant swarming and mustering of men upon the ramparts of the Wolfsberg. Duke Otho had certainly enough men to make a creditable resistance. True, they were Free Companions, and without other loyalty than that which they owed to their paymaster.
And beneath this warlike show lay the city, rebellious and turbulent to the core, the merchants longing for unhampered rights of trade and security in the enjoyment of the fruits of their labors, the craftsmen claiming freedom to work in their guilds without a payment of labor-bond tithes to the Duke, and especially without the fear of being snatched away at any moment from their benches and looms to join in his forays and incursions.
Towards the gloaming I had come down from the roof of the tower, and was standing, gloomy, and little like a bridegroom, at the little window whence I had so often looked down upon the playing children of Thorn. Suddenly a great hand was reached up from the pavement, a folded paper was thrust in at the lattice, and I saw the face of the Lubber Fiend looking up at me from the street below.
"Come up hither, good Jan," I cried to him. "I will run and open the gate!"
But the Lubber Fiend only shook his head till his ears flapped like burdocks in the wind by the wood edges.
"Jan will come none within that gate to tell where he has been," he said. "Jan may be a fool, but he knows better than that."
"And where have you been?" I asked, eagerly.
Jan the Lubber Fiend stood on his tiptoes and whispered up to me with his elbows on the sill.
"You are sure the Duke is not behind you?"
"There is none here--except my wife," I said, smiling. And I liked speaking the word.
"I have seen the great Prince," said Jan, nodding backward, and smiling mysteriously, "and he is coming, but not by himself. There are such a peck of mad fellows out there. There will not be much to eat in Thorn when they all come in. Better make a good dinner to-day, that is my advice to you. And I was bid to tell you that when all was ready for their coming a fire is to be lighted on a high place, and then the Prince will come to the gates."
I longed much to hear more of his adventures, but neither love nor money would induce the thrice cautious Jan to set a foot within the precincts of the Red Tower.
"I will light a bonfire when it is dark at the White Gate," he said, as he retracted himself into the dusk. "I know what will make a rare blaze. And the Prince cannot come too soon."
So indeed I thought also, as I looked out and saw the swarms of Duke Otho's men in the court-yard and about the square, and reflected on our helplessness here in the Red Tower within the defenced precincts of the Wolfsberg.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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54
|
THE CROWNING OF DUKE OTHO
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But at long and last the most tardy-footed day comes to an end. And so, just as fast as on any common day, the sun at last dropped to the edge of the horizon and slowly sank, leaving a shallowing lake of orange color behind.
The red roofs of Thorn grew gray, with purple veins of shadow in the interstices where the streets ran, or rather burrowed. The nightly hum of the city began. For, under the cruel rule of the wolves of the castle, Thorn was ever busiest in the right. Indeed, the cheating of the guard had become a business well understood of all the citizens, who had a regular code of signals to warn each other of its approach.
Lights winked and kindled in the Wolfsberg over against me. I could see the long array of lighted windows where the Duke would presently be dining with Michael Texel, High Councillor Gerard von Sturm, and most of his other intimates. There, beneath, were the stables of the Black Riders, and before them men were constantly passing and repassing with buckets and soldier gear.
I wondered if the Duke had news of the approach of the enemy.
So soon as I judged it safe I went to the top of the Red Tower and unfolded the paper which Jan the Lubber Fiend had brought me. It was without name and address or signature, and read as follows: "To-night we shall be all in readiness. When the time is ripe let a fire be lighted upon some conspicuous tower or high place of the city. Then we will come."
Thereafter Helene, being lonely, climbed up and sat down beside me. I handed her the paper.
"To-night will be a stormy one in Thorn and the Wolfsberg, little one," said I. "I fear you and I are not yet out of the wood."
The Little Playmate read the letter and gave it back to me. I tore it up, and let the wind carry away the pieces one by one, small, like dust, so that scarce one letter clave to another.
Her hand stole into mine.
"Ah," she sighed, "I am beginning to believe in it now! To-night may be as dangerous as yesternight. But at least we are together, never to be separated. And to us two that means all."
It was a strange marriage night, this of ours--thus to sit on the roof of the Tower, under the iron beacon which had been placed there in my grandfather's time, and listen to the hum and murmur of the city, straining our eyes meanwhile through the darkness to catch the first spear-glint from the army of the Prince.
"If they do not come by midnight, or if Jan Lubber Fiend does not light his fire by the White Gate, we must e'en risk it and kindle this one here on the Red Tower."
So the night passed on till it was about eleven, or it might be a quarter of an hour later. Then all suddenly I saw a little crowd of men disengage themselves from that private entrance of the Hall of Judgment by which, on the day of the trial, Dessauer and I had entered. They made straight towards the Red Tower at a quick run.
"Dear love," said I to Helene, "see yonder! Be ready to light the beacon. I fear me much that our time has come to fight for life."
"Kiss me, then," she said, "and I will be ready for all that may be. At worst, we can die together, true husband and true wife."
Presently there came a thundering knock at the door of the Red Tower. I crouched on the stairs behind and listened intently. I could hear the breathing of several men.
"He is surely within," said a voice. "The tower has been watched every moment of the day."
Again came the loud knocking.
"Open--in the name of the Duke!" cried the voice. And the door was rattled fiercely against its fastenings.
But I knew well enough that it could hold against any force of unassisted men. For my father had ever taken a special pride in the bars and defences of the single low door which led into his much-threatened residence.
So I crouched in the dark of the stairs and listened with yet more quivering intentness. Presently I could hear shoulders set to the iron-studded surface, and a voice counted, softly, "One--two--three--and a heave!" But though I discerned the laboring of the men straining themselves with all their might, they might as well have pushed at the rough-harled wall of the Wolfsberg.
"It will not do," I heard one say at last. "We cannot hope to succeed thus. Bring the powder-bag and prepare the fuse."
So then I knew indeed that our time was at hand. I mounted the stairs three at a time till I came to the room where Helene was waiting for me in the dark.
"Fire the beacon on the Tower!" I bade her--"our enemies are upon us!"
"And after that may I come to you, Hugo?" she said.
"Nay, little one, it is better that you bide on the roof and see that the beacon burns. You will find plenty of tow and oil in the niche by the stair-head."
I could hear Helene give vent to a little sigh. But she obeyed instantly, and her light feet went pattering up the stairs.
Then I waited for the explosion, which seemed as if it would never come. I had my dagger in my belt, but of pure instinct my right hand seized the Red Axe. For I had more skill of that than any other weapon, and as I had cast it down when they brought us in from the scaffold that morning, it lay ready to my hand.
So I waited at the stair-head, and watched keenly the narrow passage up which the men must come one by one. I measured my distance with the axe-handle, and made a trial sweep or two, so that I might be sure of clearing the stones on either side. I could not see that there would be much difficulty in holding the place for a while, if only Prince Karl would haste him and come. For to me the game of breaking heads and slicing necks would be easy as cracking nuts on an anvil--at least, so long as they would come up singly.
Presently I heard the roar of burning fuel above me, and immediately after a cry from below. Through the narrow stairway lattice I could see the uncertain flicker of flames lighting up the street. Men ran backward across the open square, looking up as they ran. So by that I knew that Helene had done her work, and was now watching the burning beacon, as the flames flicked upward and clapped their fiery applausive palms.
But at the same moment, from the foot of the stairs, there came the loud report of the explosion beneath the door of the Red Tower, the rumble of stones, and then an eager rush of men to see what had been effected.
"Now for it!" I thought, as I gripped the Red Axe.
But it was not to be so soon. The iron bars, which my father had engineered so that they sank deep into the wall on either side, still held nobly, and I heard the loud voice crying again for a battering-ram. The soldiers of the attacking party went scurrying across the yard, and presently returned, carrying between them a young tree cleared of its branches, but with the rough bark still upon it.
Without, in the square, the turmoil increased, and the streets echoed with shouting. A wild hope came into my heart that Prince Karl had not awaited the summons of the beacon, and that his troops were already in the streets of Thorn. But even as the thought passed through my brain I knew that it was vain.
On the other hand, it was evident that in the town the general alarm had been given, for the trumpets blew from the ramparts of the Wolfsberg, and the call to arms resounded incessantly in the court-yard. I doubted not also that many a stout burgher was getting him under arms--and but few of them to fight for the Duke.
Suddenly the bars of the door jangled on the stones under the swinging blows of the battering-ram. I heard feet clatter on the stair. They came with a rush, but long ere they had arrived at the top the pace slackened. Only one man at a time could come up the stairway, and it is always a drag upon the enthusiasm of an assault when at least two cannot advance together. The light flickered and filtered in from the torches in the streets, and the reflected glow of the bonfire on the roof made the stair-head clear as a lucid twilight.
I waited, with the axe swinging loosely in one hand. A head bobbed up, clad in a steel cap. Bat as the unseen feet propelled it upward the Red Axe took little reck of the head. Betwixt the steel cap and the rim of steel of the body armor appeared a gray line of leather jerkin and a thinner white line of neck. The Red Axe swung. I bethought me that it was a bad light to cut off calves' heads in. But the Red Axe made no mistake. I had learned my trade. There was not even a groan--only a dull thud some way underneath, such as you may hear when the children of the quarter play football on the streets.
Then the foremost of the assailants were blocked by the fallen body, and the feet of the men behind were stayed as the strange round plaything rebounded among them.
"Back!" they cried, who were in front.
"Forward!" replied those who were hindmost and knew nothing.
"Come, men--on and finish it!" cried the voice which had commanded the powder-flask and the tree--the voice I now knew to be that of Duke Otho himself.
But the kick-ball argument of the Red Axe was mightily discouraging to those immediately concerned, and as I felt the muscles of my right arm and waited, I could hear Otho reasoning, threatening, coaxing, all in vain. Then his tones mounted steadily into hot anger. He reviled his followers for dogs, cowards, curs who had eaten his bread and now would not rid him of his enemies.
"A thousand rix-dollars to the man who kills Hugo Gottfried!" he shouted. "But, hear ye, save the girl alive!"
Yet not a man would attempt the first hazard of the stair.
"Knaves, traitors, curs!" he cried; "would that there were so much as a single true man among you--but there is not one worth spitting upon!"
"Cur yourself!" growled a man, somewhere in the dark--"you have most at stake in this. Try the stair yourself if you are so keen. We will follow fast enough!"
"God strike me dead if I do not!" shouted Otho; "if it were only to shame you cowards."
He paused to prepare his weapons.
"Follow me, men!" he shouted again; "all together!"
Again there was the clatter of iron-shod feet on the stone steps beneath me.
My grip on the Red Axe became like iron, but my joints were loose and swung easily as a flail swings on well-seasoned leathers.
"Welcome, Otho von Reuss!" I cried; "ye could not be crowned without the death of Helene my wife! Come up hither and I will crown thee once for all with the iron crown."
There, at last, was mine enemy at the turn of the stair, rushing furiously upon me, sword in hand.
"Traitor!" he cried, and his sword was almost at my breast, so fast he came.
"Murderer!" I shouted.
And almost ere I was aware the Red Axe flashed as it swept full circle with scarce a pause, but it took the head of a man with it on its way.
Otho von Reuss was crowned. Helene, the Little Playmate, was avenged.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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55
|
THE LADY YSOLINDE SAVES HER SOUL
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The Duke's body sank down upon that of the soldier, still further blocking the passage. And as for his head, I know not where that went to. But the rush of his followers was utterly checked by the barrier of dead. With a wild cry, "The Duke is dead! Duke Otho is slain!" they rushed down and out of the Red Tower, eager at once to escape unharmed, and to carry to their companions in the Wolfsberg the startling news.
Nevertheless, I cleared my arm, wiped my axe, and again stood ready.
"Come!" I cried--"come all of you. You desire to kill me? Well, I am still waiting!"
But not a man answered. The stairway was clear, save of the headless dead. And then, sudden as summer thunder, through the dumb and empty silence, I heard clear and loud the clanging of the hammers of Prince Karl upon the gates of Thorn.
At that I felt that I must roar aloud in my fierce joy. I shouted angrily for more and more assailants to come up the stair, that I might kill them all. I yearned to be first at the gate, to see the men whom I had led break their way in to deliver the city. I, more than any other, had brought them there. I had trained them for that work. Best of all, across the stairway beneath me lay dead Otho, Duke of the Wolfmark, beheaded by the Red Axe of his own Justicer.
"Husband! Hugo! Are you wounded?" said a voice behind me, a voice which in a moment recalled me from my bloody imaginings and baresark fury of fighting.
"Helene!" I cried.
She approached, and would have thrown her arms about me. But I held out my hand to keep her off.
"Not now, child," I said; "touch me not. I am unwounded, but wet!"
And so I was, wet with that which had spouted from the neck of Otho von Reuss, as his trunk stood a moment headless in the stairway ere it fell prone--a hideous thing to see.
"Come, Helene," I said, "we must away. There is other work for your husband to-night. You I will place with the Bishop Peter. But my place is with the men of Plassenburg and with Karl, my noble Prince."
And I took her by the hand to lead her out.
"Not that way!" she cried, shrinking back.
For the bodies of the two slain men lay there. And the stairs ran red from step to step in red drips and lappering pools.
So I bethought me of what we should do, and ran forthwith for my father's cord, with which he was used to bind the malefactors upon the wheel.
"Come, Helene," said I, and straightway fastened the rope to the iron bar from which I had made so many descents to the pavement in the old days of the White Wolves.
I let myself down, and there in the angle of the tower wall, I waited to catch my wife. She delayed somewhat, and I could not think wherefore.
But at last she came, bringing the Red Axe in her hand.
"Go not weaponless!" she said, and I reached up and took from her hand that which had already served me so well. The Red Axe had done its work now, and she was grateful.
Then full lightly she descended to my side, and we went down the streets of Thorn, which were filled with hurrying burgesses, all with weapons in their hands, rushing to discover the cause of the clamor. I took Helene hastily to the palace of the Bishop. And when I arrived there I saw Peter himself with his head out of a window.
"I come to claim your protection for my wife!" I cried.
He came down immediately with an attendant.
"Fear not," I said, "you will never be called in question for this kindly deed. The Duke Otho is slain, and the army of Prince Karl of Plassenburg is already at the gates."
"The Duke is dead!" he gasped. "Who slew him?"
"Who but the Hereditary Justicer of the Wolfmark should slay a traitor?" said I, smiling at his astonishment. And I held up the Red Axe, on which there was now no crystal-clear rim of shining steel. All was crimson from haft to edge--red as blood.
"Here, for an hour, Helene, little wife, I must leave you!" I said. But now she sobbed and clung to me as she had not done before, even in the dungeon.
"Stay with me," she said. "I need you, Hugo!"
I took her by the hand.
"Little one," I whispered, as tenderly as I could, "I would not be worthily your husband if I went not to meet those who are fighting to save us all this night. They have come from far to deliver us. I were false and recreant if I went not to their assistance."
"I know--I know," she said. "Go!"
And with that she gave a hand to the good Bishop and went quietly within, with no more than a smile over her shoulder, like a watery April sun-glint.
Then I betook me with all speed to the Weiss Thor, where I judged the chief struggle would take place. And as I came I heard the rattle of shot and the jarring thunder of the forehammers. The soldiers without shouted, and the men within more feebly replied.
I came in sight of the gate. There on my left hand was the house of Master Gerard von Sturm.
A fire was still flickering upon the tower of it.
Without I could hear the cheering and clamoring of the besiegers. But the gates remained obstinately shut. They were stronger than the Prince had anticipated.
As _I_ stood, uncertain what to do, I saw a slim white figure, the figure of a woman, flash across the open space towards the gate. The men who defended the gate towers were all upon the top of the wall. Before any could stop her she had thrown herself upon the wheel by which the bars were unfastened, and with a few turns had drawn them as deftly as evil Duke Casimir had been wont to remove the teeth of the rich Hebrew folk when he wanted supplies.
The White Gate slowly opened upon creaking hinges. The faces of the soldiers of Plassenburg were seen without, the weapons gleamed in their hands as they came on shouting fiercely. The guards of the Duke rushed forward to close the gate. But the woman had clamped the wheel and stood holding the bar.
It was the Lady Ysolinde. She saw me as the soldiers of Duke Otho closed threateningly upon her. She waved her hand to me almost happily. " _I have saved my soul, Hugo Gottfried_!" she cried. " _I have saved my soul_!"
At that moment a soldier of the Black Riders struck her fiercely with his lance. I saw the white bosom of her dress redden as he plucked his weapon to him again. I was in time to catch her in my arms as the soldiers of Plassenburg, with Prince Karl at their head, came through the White Gate like a spring-tide, carrying all before them.
The Prince stayed at his wife's side.
"Ysolinde!" cried the Prince, aghast, bending over her--not heeding, nor indeed, as I think, even seeing me.
"Karl!" she said, looking gently at him, "try and forgive me all the rest. But be glad that I opened the White Gate for yon. I, Ysolinde, your wife, did it for your sake."
I put her into her husband's arms. I saw at a glance that there was no hope. She could not live many moments with that lance-thrust through her breast.
She looked at him again.
"Karl--say 'Ysolinde, I love you!'" she whispered, almost shyly.
He looked down, and a rush of unwonted tears came to the eyes of the Prince of Plassenburg.
"Ysolinde, I love you!" he made answer, in a broken voice.
She smiled, and then looked over his shoulder up at me.
_"Hugo Gottfried, have I not saved my soul?" _ she cried.
And so passed.
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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56
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HELENA, PRINCESS OF PLASSENBURG
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There was, however, deadly work yet before the men of Plassenburg. We found, indeed, that the townsfolk were with us almost to a man. Their guild train-bands gathered and mustered at their halls. The guards at the city gates fraternally turned their arms to the ground.
"The Prince will restore your ancient liberties!" I cried. And the people shouted. "Prince Karl of Plassenburg and our ancient liberties!"
Then we made our way up the street by different routes to the Wolfsberg. There was little fighting till we arrived under those vast and gloomy walls. The Black Riders had disappeared within. Those worst tools of grim tyranny had early withdrawn themselves, knowing that small mercy would be shown them by the people if once the Wolfsberg were taken. But the common soldiers of the fighting rank, sons and brothers of the women of Thorn, tore off the badge of the bloody Dukes and with loud shouts marched with us as comrades.
But when we came before the walls, and with sound of trumpet and loud shouts summoned the Wolfsberg to surrender, a discharge of musketry from the walls, and the determined faces of a multitude of defenders showed us conclusively that all was not yet over.
It was no use wasting men in attacking the great pile of buildings with the force at our disposal. We had men in plenty, but for breeching we needed the cannon left behind by these swift forces, which, marching day and night, had arrived in the very nick of time before the walls of Thorn.
Nevertheless, it was not the fate of the Wolfsberg to be taken by Lazy Peg and her compeers.
These ponderous pieces of ordnance were presently being dragged through the swamps and over the brick-dust barrens of the borderlands, and it might be three or four days before they could arrive to aid us. There was nothing, therefore, to do but to sit down and wait, drawing a cincture that not a mouse could creep through about the cliffs of the Wolfsberg.
But deep within the heart of the old Red Tower there was one stronger than Lazy Peg fighting for us.
"Fire! Fire!" cried the people in the streets. "The Wolfsberg is on fire!" And so, surely, it was. The flames burst out from the windows of the Red Tower and were rapidly carried by a dry fanning northerly wind along the wooden workshops and kennels to the main building, where the Hall of Judgment was soon blazing like a torch. The defenders seemed paralyzed by this misadventure. Some ran to the castle well. Some threw themselves desperately from the walls, others crowded to the gates, and through the bars besought our Prince's pledge that mercy would be shown them.
Then the crowd without were ill to deal with, for they cried aloud, "No mercy to the murderers! Show us our Saint Helena!"
Then it was that I leaped once more upon the scaffold, which had seen such a sight the day before, and cried, "Duke Otho is dead! I, Hugo Gottfried, slew him with this Red Axe. Prince Karl is come to save you, and to give you back your ancient liberties. Your Saint Helena is my wife, and is safe under the protection of Bishop Peter."
But though they cheered at my words they would not cease from crying, "Show us Saint Helena, and if she bid us we will have mercy on the wolves of the Wolfsberg!"
So it was necessary for Helene to be brought and to show herself to them, for the sake of the poor souls sore driven and in jeopardy 'twixt the fire and the knives.
"Have mercy on the poor folk!" she cried, when they had done shouting because of her safety. "At worst, they are but misguided, ignorant men!"
By this time the doors of the Wolfsberg were thrown open from within, and the men crowded out, casting down their arms in heaps on either side the gate. They were then marched, under charge of the soldiers of Plassenburg, to various strongholds which were pointed out by the Burgomeister and the chiefs of the guilds. The fortified halls of the trades were filled with them. By daybreak the whole of Thorn was in our hands, while the gray barrens of the Wolfmark were lit for leagues by the flaming Wolfsberg, which, on its craggy height, vomited fire and sparks into the blackness of night.
And the reek of this great burning hung for days after in the heavens. Thus was an end made to the iniquities of the house of the Black Duke Casimir and the Red Duke Otho. And the last Duke mixed his ashes with that of the fatal Tower. For on the morrow there remained only the blackened walls and glowing skeleton beams of all that mighty palace--which, indeed, has never been rebuilt. For the people of Thorn, under the mild and equitable rule which followed, erected a great memorial church upon the spot--as may be seen to this day, a landmark from far to witness if I have lied in the tale which has been told.
So the Prince Karl gave back to Thorn its liberties, as he had promised. But the regality of the Dukedom he kept for himself, and he took the Wolfmark and made it part of his dominions, till, as he had formerly undertaken, the broom-bush kept the cow throughout the length and breadth of Plassenburg and the Mark.
It was a noble home-coming when we returned to Plassenburg--victorious and famous; but also there was mourning deep and solemn for the Princess Ysolinde, who by her sacrifice had wrought such great things for the arms of Plassenburg, and had died in the moment of victory.
Then, when after the stately funeral of the dead Princess we returned back to the palace, it was the Prince's pleasure that Helene and myself should ride on either hand of him through the city.
And when we were announced in the court, and the councillors of state stood about, my wife was named by her true name, "Helena, Princess of Plassenburg!"
Whereat the courtiers opened their mouths and widened their eyes--thinking, perhaps, that that ancient wizard, Chancellor Leopold von Dessauer had suddenly gone mad.
But when the representatives of the cities of the Princedom, and the delegates from Thorn and the Mark, had been received with due honor, the Prince bade his Chancellor recount all he had learned from my father, and all that he had discovered in the archives of Plassenburg.
Then, when Dessauer had finished, Karl the Prince arose.
"I am," he said, "a plain, brusque man. And speech was never my stronghold. But this I say. When Karl the Miller's Son goes the way of King's son and beggar's son, it is his will that Helene, legitimate Princess of Plassenburg, shall reign over you. And also that her husband, Hugo, who, as you know, won her from dreadful death, shall stand by her right hand."
Then the nobles and great lords, fearing the Prince, and perhaps also envying a little the man who was the Prince's general of his armies, shouted amain: "We swear to obey the Princess Helena!"
Whereat uprose the Little Playmate, very princess-like and full of sweet regal dignity.
"I thank you, noble Prince," she said. "I am glad that I can claim so honorable a name and lineage; but I had rather be no Princess, nor anything else than that which my husband hath made me--the wife of the captain-general of the armies of Karl, the only true and noble Prince of Plassenburg!"
Then the Prince rose and clasped her in his arms, kissing her fondly on both cheeks.
"Fear not," he said, "dear and loyal lady. If you live to be the Princess, your goodman shall be the Prince. Never shall the gray mare flaunt it first, in Plassenburg!"
And he gave us each a hand, and conducted us to a pair of seats which had been set level with his on the platform of the Council-chamber of the Princedom.
The Prince Karl lived many days after the winning of the Wolfmark and the ending of the ducal Wolves. But he gave less and less care to the regalities, leaving them even more completely to me, sitting mostly in the pleasaunce by the river-side, or in the far-regarding room which had been the Lady Ysolinde's.
Also he never looked again on the face of a woman--except as it might be to bid them good-day--save on that of my wife, Helene, who, as you who know her may guess, waxed but the sweeter and the fairer as the years went by.
And the blessing of children came to us, and in this thing the Prince Karl was even happier than we.
One day, however, it chanced that he was seated in full Council, and right noble he looked. I had just handed him a paper to sign. But he looked neither at me nor yet at the paper. His eyes were fixed on the locked doors of the privy bedchamber, through which only those of princely blood might come.
He stared so long at it that to recall him I put my hand on his sleeve and said, "Prince, the Council waits your pleasure!"
Bat he heard me not, his eyes being fixed on the door.
"Your pardon, my lords and knights," he said, at last, fighting a little stiffly with his utterance, "but it seemed that I saw the Princess, my wife, come through the door, clad in white, and beckon me with her hand. I must go to her, my lords; I think she waits for me. The Prince Hugo will take my place at the Council."
And the old man took a step from the high seat. But at the foot of the throne he stumbled and fell into my arms.
He said but one word after that, with his eyes still fixed on the bolted door. " _Ysolinde_!"
And so the Prince Karl and his wife were united at last.
Since then we have lived long, the Little Playmate and I; but never have we been other than comrades and friends--lovers also, which is the best of all. And so (an the good God please) we shall abide till the end comes. And in the gloaming we two also shall see the beckoning finger from beyond the bolted door and turn our feet homeward, passing the bourne of the new life hand in hand--and undismayed.
THE END
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{
"id": "12191"
}
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1
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A FAILURE.
|
He could see from the top of the hill, down which the road wound to the river, that the bridge was gone, and he paused for a moment with an involuntary feeling that it was useless to go forward; but remembering that his way led across, at all events, he walked down to the bank. There it ran, broad, rapid, and in places apparently deep. He looked up and down in vain: no lodged drift-wood; no fallen trees; no raft or wreck; a recent freshet had swept all clear to high-water mark, and the stream rolled, and foamed, and boiled, and gurgled, and murmured in the afternoon August sun as gleefully and mockingly as if its very purpose was to baffle the wearied youth who looked into and over its changing tide.
In coming from Cleveland that morning he had taken a wrong road, and now, at mid-afternoon, he found his progress stayed with half his day's journey still before him. It would have been but a moment's task to remove his clothes and swim over, but the region was open and clear on that side for a considerable distance, and notwithstanding his solitude, he hesitated to make the transit in that manner. It was apparent, from the little-travelled road, that the stream had been forded by an indirect course, and one not easily determined from the shore. It occurred to him that possibly some team from Cleveland might pass along and take him over; and, wearied, he sat down by his light valise to wait, and at least rest; and as he gazed into the rapid current a half-remembered line of a forgotten poet ran and ran through his mind thus: "Which running runs, and will run forever on."
His reflections were not cheerful. Three months before he had gone over to Hudson with a very young man's scheme of maintaining himself at school, and finally in college; and finding it impracticable, had strayed off to the lower part of the State with a vague idea of going down the Mississippi, and, perhaps, to Texas. He spent some time with relatives near Cincinnati, and under a sudden impulse--all his plans, as he was pleased to call them, were impulses--he had returned, adding, as he was conscious, another to a long-growing list of failures, which, in the estimation of many acquaintances, also included himself.
His meditations were interrupted by the sound of an approaching carriage coming over the hill. He knew the horses. They were Judge Markham's, and driven by the Judge himself, alone, in a light vehicle. The young man sprang up at the sight. Here was the man whom of all men he most respected, and feared as much as he could fear any man, whose good opinion he most cared to have, and yet who he was conscious had a dislike for him.
The Judge would certainly take him over the river, and so home, but in his frank and ingenuous nature how could he face him on his almost ignominious return? He stood still, a little away from the carriage-track, half wishing he might not be seen. He was seen, however, and a close observer might have discovered the half sneer on the otherwise handsome and manly face of the Judge, who had taken in the situation. The horses were held in a walk as they came down near where the young man stood, with a half ashamed, yet eager, expression of countenance, and turned partly away, as if he expected--in fact, wished for nothing.
"What are you doing here?" called out the Judge.
It was not a wholly courteous inquiry, and scarcely necessary, though not purposely offensive; but the tone and manner struck like an insult on the young man's sensitive spirit, and his answer went back a little sharply: "I am waiting for the river to run by," "Ah! I see. Well, I am glad you have found something that suits you."
There was no mistaking the sarcasm of this remark, and perhaps its sting was deeper than was meant. The Judge was not an unkind man, though he did not relish the reply to his question; he held up his horses on the margin of the water, and perhaps he wanted to be asked by this pert youth for the favor of a passage over. Of course the petition was not, and never would have been made. He lingered a moment, and without another word entered the river, and, turning his horses' heads up stream for a short distance, drove out on the other side; as he turned into the regular track again, he caught a view of the young man standing impassive on the same spot where he first saw him.
It is possible that Judge Markham, the most wealthy and popular man of his region, did not feel wholly at ease as, with his fine team and empty carriage, he drove away, leaving the weary, travel-stained youth standing on the other side of the river; and it is possible that the form of the deserted one may be brought to his memory in the hereafter. " 'Something that suits me'--'something that suits me!' All right, Judge Markham!" and as the carriage was hidden in the woods, the waters that rolled on between them were as nothing to the bitter, swelling tide that, for a moment, swept through the young man's bosom. He was undecided no longer.
Removing his boots and stockings, he entered the river at the point, and, following the course taken by the Judge, he passed out, and resumed his journey homeward.
As he walked rapidly onward, the momentary bitterness subsided. He was not one to hate, or cherish animosities, but he was capable of deep impressions, and of forming strong resolutions. There was a chord of melancholy running through his nature, which, under excitement, often vibrated the longest; and almost any strong emotion left behind a tone of sadness that lingered for hours, and sometimes for days, although his mind was normally buoyant and hopeful.
As he went on over the hills, in the rude pioneer country of Northern Ohio, thirty-six or seven years ago, he thought sad-colored thoughts of the past, or, rather, he recalled sombre memories of the, to him, far-off time, when, with his mother and brothers, he formed one of a sobbing group around a bed whereon a gasping, dying man was vainly trying to say some last words; of afterwards awakening in the deep nights, and listening to the unutterably sweet and mournful singing of his mother, unable to sleep in her loneliness; of the putting away of his baby brother, and the jubilee when he was brought back; of the final breaking up of the family, and of his own first goings away; of the unceasing homesickness and pining with which he always languished for home in his young boy years; of the joy with which he always hurried home, the means by which he would prolong his stay, and the anguish with which he went away again. His mother was to him the chief good. For him, like Providence, she always was, and he could imagine no possible good, or even existence, without her--it would be the end of the world when she ceased to be. And he remembered all the places where he had lived, and the many times he had run away. And then came the memory of Julia Markham, as she was years ago, when he lived in her neighborhood, and her sweet and beautiful mother used to intrust her to his care, in the walks to and from school, down on the State road--Julia, with her great wonderful eyes, and world of wavy hair, and red lips; and then, as she grew into beautiful and ever more beautiful girlhood, he used to be more and more at Judge Markham's house, and used to read to Julia's mother and herself. It was there that he discovered Shakespeare, and learned to like him, and Milton, whom he didn't like and wouldn't read, and the Sketch Book, and Knickerbocker's History, and Cooper's novels, and Scott, and, more than all, Byron, whom Mrs. Markham did not want him to read, recommending, instead, Young's Night Thoughts, and Pollock's Course of Time, and Southey--the dear good woman!
And then came a time when he was in the store of Markham & Co., and finally was taken from the counter, because of his sharp words to customers, and set at the books, and sent away from that post because he illustrated them with caricatures on the margins, and smart personal rhymes. Julia was sixteen, and as sweet a romping, hoydenish, laughing, brave, strong girl as ever bewitched the heart of dreaming youth; and he had taught her to ride on horseback; and then she was sent off, away "down country," to the centre of the world, to Boston, where were uncles and aunts, and was gone, oh, ever and ever so long! --half a lifetime--nearly two years--and came back; and then his thoughts became confused. Then he thought of Judge Markham, and now he was sure that the Judge did not like him; and he remembered that Julia's mother, as he came towards manhood, was kind and patronizing, and that when he went to say good-by to Julia, three months ago, although she knew he was coming, she was not at home, and he only saw her mother and Nell Roberts. Then he thought of all the things he had tried to do within the last two years, and how he had done none of them. People had not liked him, and he had not suspected why, and had not cared. People liked his elder brothers, and he was glad and proud of it; and a jumble of odds and ends and fragments became tangled and snarled in his mind. What would people say of his return? Did he care? He asked nobody's leave to go, and came back on his own account. But his mother--she would look sad; but she would be glad. It certainly was a mistake, his going; could it be a blunder, his returning?
He was thinking shallowly; but deeper thoughts came to him. He began to believe that easy places did not exist; and he scorned to seek them for himself, if they did. The world was as much to be struggled with in one place as another; and, after all, was not the struggle mainly with one's own self, and could that be avoided? Then what in himself was wrong? what should be fought against? Who would tell him? Men spoke roughly to him, and he answered back sharply. He couldn't help doing that. How could he be blamed? He suspected he might be.
He knew there were better things than to chop and clear land, and make black salts, or tend a saw-mill, or drive oxen, or sell tape and calico; but, in these woods, poor and unfriended, how could he find them? Was not his brother Henry studying law at Jefferson, and were they not all proud of him, and did not everybody expect great things of him? But Henry was different from him. Dr. Lyman believed in him; Judge Markham spoke with respect of him. Julia Markham--how inexpressibly lovely and radiant and distant and inaccessible she appeared! And then he felt sore, as if her father had dealt him a blow, and he thought of his sending him away the year before, and wished he had explained. No matter. How he writhed again and again under the sting of his contemptuous sarcasm! "He wouldn't even pick me up; would leave me to lie by the wayside."
Towards sundown, weary and saddened, he reached the centre, "Jugville," as he had named it, years before, in derision. He was a mile and a half from home, and paused a moment to sit on the platform in front of "Marlow's Hotel," and rest. The loungers were present in more than usual force,--Jo and Biather Alexander, old Neaze Savage, old Cal Chase, Tinker,--any number of old and not highly-esteemed acquaintances.
"Hullo, Bart Ridgeley! is that you?"
Bart did not seem to think it necessary to affirm or deny.
"Ben away, hain't ye? Must a-gone purty much all over all creation, these last three months. How's all the folks where you ben?"
No reply. A nod to one or two of the dozen attracted towards him was the only notice he took of them, seeming not to hear the question and comments of Tinker. His silence tempted old Cal, the small joker of the place, to open: "You's gone an everlastin' while. S'pose you hardly know the place, it's changed so."
"It has changed some," he answered to this; "its bar-room loafers are a good deal more unendurable, and its fools, always large, have increased in size."
A good-natured laugh welcomed this reply.
"There, uncle Cal, it 'pears to me you've got it," said one. " 'Pears to me we've all got it," was the response of that worthy.
"Come in, Bart," said the landlord, "and take something on the strength o' that."
"Thank you, I will be excused; I have a horror of a sudden death;" and, taking up his valise, he started across the fields to the near woods.
"Bully!" "Good!" "You've got that!" cried several to the discomfited seller of drinks. "It is your treat; we'll risk the stuff!" and the party turned in to the bar to realize their expectations.
"There is one thing 'bout it," said Bi, "Bart hain't changed much, anyway."
"And there's another thing 'bout it," said uncle Bill, "a chap that carries such a sassy tongue should be sassy able. He'll answer some chap, some day, that wun't stan' it."
"The man that picks him up'll find an ugly customer; he'd be licked afore he begun. I tell you what, them Ridgeley boys is no fighters, but the stuff's in 'em, and Bart's filled jest full. I'd as liv tackle a young painter." This was Neaze's view.
"That's so," said Jo. "Do you remember the time he had here last fall, with that braggin' hunter chap, Mc-Something, who came along with his rifle, darin' all hands about here to shute with him? He had one of them new peck-lock rifles, and nobody dared shute with him; and Bart came along, and asked to look at the feller's gun, and said something 'bout it, and Mc-Somebody dared him to shute, and Bart sent over to Haw's and got 'old Potleg,' that Steve Patterson shot himself with, and loaded 'er up, and then the hunter feller wouldn't shute except on a bet, and Bart hadn't but fifty cents, and they shot twenty rods off-hand, and Bart beat him; and they doubled the bet, and Bart beat agin, and they went on till Bart won more'n sixty dollars. Sometimes the feller shot wild, and Bart told him he'd have to get a dog to hunt where he hit, and he got mad, and Bart picked up his first half-dollar and pitched it to Jotham, who put up the mark, and left the rest on the ground."
"There come mighty near bein' trouble then, an' there would ha' ben ef the Major hadn't took Bart off," said Bi.
And while these rough, good-natured men talked him over, Barton walked off southerly, across the newly-shorn meadow, to the woods. Twilight was in their depths, and shadows were stealing mysteriously out, and already the faint and subtle aroma which the gathering dew releases from foliage, came out like an incense to bathe the quick and healthy senses of the wearied youth. He removed his hat, opened his bosom, expanded his nostrils and lungs, and drank it as the bee takes nectar from the flowers. What an exquisite sense of relief and quiet came to him, as he found himself lost in the shadows of the young night! Not a tree in these woods that he did not know, and they all seemed to reach out their mossy arms with their myriad of little, cool, green hands, to welcome him back. They knew nothing of his failures and disappointments, and were more sympathizing than the coarse and ribald men whose rude taunts he had just heard, and to whose admiration he was as indifferent as to their sarcasm. These were grand and beautiful maple woods, free from tangling underbrush, and standing thick and stately on wide, gentle slopes; and to-night the lisping breath of the summer evening came to this young but sad and burdened heart, with whispers soothing and restful.
He had never been so long from home before; the nearer he approached it, the more intense his longings grew, and he passed rapidly through the open glades, disappearing momentarily in the obscurity of the thickets, past the deserted sugar camp, until finally the woods grew lighter, the trees more scattered, and he reached the open pasture lands in sight of the low farm-house, which held his mother and home. How strange, and yet familiar, even an absence of only three months made everything! The distance of his journey seemed to have expanded the months into years.
He entered by a back way, and found his mother in the little front sitting-room. She arose with--"Oh, Barton, have you come?" and received from his lips and eyes the testimonials of his heart. She was slight, lithe, and well made, with good Puritan blood, brain, and resolution; and as she stood holding her child by both his hands, and looking eagerly into his face, a stranger would have noticed their striking resemblance. Her face, though womanly, was too marked and strong for beauty. Both had the square decisive brow, and wide, deep eyes--hers a lustrous black, and his dark gray or blue, as the light was. Her hair was abundant, and very dark; his a light brown, thick, wavy, and long. Both had the same aquiline nose, short upper-lip, bland, firm, but soft mouth, and well-formed chin. Her complexion was dark, and his fair--too fair for a man.
"Yes, mother, I have come; are you glad to see me?"
"Glad--very glad, but sorry." She had a good deal of the Spartan in her nature, and received her son with a sense of another failure, and failures were not popular with her. "I did not hear from you--was anxious about you; but now, when you come back to the nothing for you here, I know you found less elsewhere."
"Well, mother, I know I am a dreadful drag even on your patience, and I fear a burden besides, instead of a help. I need not say much to you; you, at least, understand me. It was a mistake to go away as I did, and I bring back all I carried away, with the result of some reflection. I can do as much here as anywhere. I hoped I could do something for you, and I, poor unweaned baby and booby, can do better for myself near you than elsewhere."
Not much was said. She was thoughtful, deep natured, tender, and highly strung, though not demonstrative, and these qualities in him were modified by the soft, sensuous, imaginative elements that came to him--all that he inherited, except his complexion, from his father.
His mother gave him supper, and he sat and inquired about home events, and gave her a pleasant account of their relatives in the lower part of the State. He said nothing of the discovery he had made among them--her own family relatives--that she had married beneath her, and had never been forgiven; and he fancied that he discovered some opening of old, old sorrows, dating back to her girlhood days, as he talked of her relatives. The two younger brothers came rattling in--George, a handsome, eager young threshing-machine, a bright, broad-browed boy, and Edward, older, with drooping head and thoughtful face, and with something of Bart's readiness at reply. George ran to him-- "Oh, Bart, I am so glad! and there is so much--a flock of turkeys--and a wolverine, and oh! so many pigeons and everything--more than you can shoot in all the fall!"
"Well, captain, we will let them all live, I guess, unless that wolverine comes around!"
"There is a real, true wolverine; several have seen him, and he screeches, and yells, and climbs trees, and everything!"
"There _is_ something around," said Edward. "Theodore and Bill Johnson heard him, over in the woods, not a week ago."
"Likely enough," replied Bart; "but wolverines don't climb. There may be a panther. Now, Ed, what has been going on on the farm? Is the haying done?"
"Yes; and the wheat is all in, and most all the oats. The corn is splendid in the old elm lot, and then the Major has been chopping down your old sugar camp, where we worked when you came home from old Hewitt's."
"Oh, dear, that was the loveliest bit of woodland, in the bend of the creek, in all the magnificent woods; well?"
"He has nearly finished the Jenks house," resumed Edward, "and is now at Snow's, in Auburn. He said you would be home before now."
"What about his colts?"
"Oh, Arab runs about wild as ever, and he has Dolf with him."
"How many hands has he with him?"
"Four or five."
"Dr. Lyman asked about you," said George, "and wondered where you were. He said you would be back in three weeks, and that something must have happened."
"It would be lucky for the Doctor's patients," replied Bart, "if something should keep him away three days."
"I guess he wants you to go a-fishing with him. They had a great time down there the other day--he, and Mr. Young, and Sol Johnson. They undertook to put up a sail as Henry and you do, and it didn't work, and they came near upsetting; and' Sol and old man Young were scart, and old Young thought he would get drownded. Oh, it must have been fun!"
And so the boys chippered, chirped, and laughed on to a late bed-time, and then went to bed perfectly happy.
Then came inquiries about Henry, who had written not long before, and had wondered why he had not heard from Barton; and, at last, wearied and worn with his three hundred miles' walk, Bart bade his mother good-night, and went to his old room, to rest and sleep as the young, and healthful, and hopeful, without deep sorrows or the stings of conscience, may do. In the strange freaks of a half-sleeping fancy, in his dreams, he remembered to have heard the screech of a wild animal, and to have seen the face of Julia Markham, pale with the mingled expression of courage and fear.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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2
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THE BLUE CHAMBER.
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In the morning he found the front yard had a wild and tangled, and the garden a neglected look, and busied himself, with the boys, in improving their appearance.
In the afternoon he overhauled a small desk, the contents of which soon lay about on the floor. There were papers of all colors and sizes--scraps, single sheets, and collections of several pages--all covered with verses in many hands, from that of the young boy to elegant clerkly manuscript. They seemed to represent every style of poetic composition. It would have been amusing to watch the manner and expression with which the youth dealt with these children of his fancy, and to listen to his exclamations of condensed criticism. He evidently found little to commend. As he opened or unrolled one after another, and caught the heading, or a line of the text, he dashed it to the floor, with a single word of contempt, disgust, or derision. "Faugh!" "Oh!" "Pshaw!" "Blank verse? Blank enough!" Some he lingered over for a moment, but his brow never cleared or relented, and each and all were condemned with equal justice and impartiality. When the last was thrown down, and he was certain that none remained, he rose and contemplated their crumpled and creased forms with calm disdain.
"Oh, dear! you thought, some of you, that you might possibly be poetry, you miserable weaklings and beguilers! You are not even verses--are hardly rhymes. You are, one and all, without sense or sound." His brow grew severe in its condemnation. "There! take that! and that! and that!" --stamping them with his foot; "poor broken-backed, halting, limping, club-footed, no-going, unbodied, unsouled, nameless things. How do you like it? What business had you to be? You had no right to be born--never were born; had no capacity for birth; you don't even amount to failures! Words are wasted on you: let me see if you'll burn." Lighting one, he threw it upon the hearth. "It does! I am surprised at that. I rather like it. How blue and faint the flame is--it hardly produces smoke, and"--watching until it was consumed--"no ashes. Too ethereal for smoke and ashes. Let me try the rest;" and he did.
He then opened a small drawer and took out a portfolio, in which were various bits of bristol-board and paper, covered with crayon and pen sketches, and some things in water-colors--all giving evidence of a ready hand which showed some untaught practice. Whether his sense of justice was somewhat appeased, or because he regarded them with more favor, or reserved them for another occasion, was, perhaps, uncertain. Singularly enough, on each of them, no matter what was the subject, appeared one or more young girl's heads--some full-faced, some three-fourths, and more in profile--all spirited, all looking alike, and each having a strong resemblance to Julia Markham. Two or three were studied and deliberate attempts. He contemplated these long and earnestly, and laid them away with a sigh. They undoubtedly saved the collection.
That night he wrote to Henry: "DEAR BROTHER,--I am back, of course. It is an unpleasant way of mine--this coming back. It was visionary for me to try a fall with the sciences at Hudson. You would have been too many for them; I ran away. I found Colton sick at Cincinnati. The Texan Rangers had left. I looked into the waters of the Ohio, running and hurrying away returnlessly to the south-west. Lord, how they called to me in their liquid offers to carry me away! They seemed to draw me to linger, and gurgle, and murmur in little staying, coaxing eddies at my feet, to persuade me to go.
"How near one seems to that far-off region of fever and swamp, of sun and sea, of adventure and blood, and old buccaneering, standing by those swift waters, already on their way thither! Should I go? Was I not too good to go, and be lost? Think of the high moral considerations involved? No matter, I didn't go--I came! Well!
"On reflection--and I thus assume that I do reflect--I think men don't find opportunities, or, if they do, they don't know them. One must make an opportunity for himself, and then he will know what to do with it. The other day I stood on the other side of the Chagrin waiting for an opportunity, and it didn't come, and I made one. I waded through, and liked it, and that was not the only lesson I learned at the same time. But that other was for my personal improvement. A man can as well find the material for his opportunity in one place as another. See how I excuse myself!
"Just now, I am a reformed young Blue Beard. Fatima and her sister may go--have gone. I have just overhauled my 'Blue Chamber,' taken down all my suspended wives, and burned them. They ended in smoke. Lord! there wasn't flesh and blood enough in them all to decompose, and they gave out no odor even while burning. I burned them all, cleaned off all the blood-spots, ventilated the room, opened the windows, and will turn it to a workshop. No more sighing for the unattainable, no more grasping at the intangible, no more clutching at the impalpable. I am no poet, and we don't want poetry. Our civilization isn't old enough. Poets, like other maggots, will be produced when fermentation comes. I am going about the humdrum and the useful. I am about as low in the public estimation as I can well go; at any rate I am down on hard land, which will be a good starting-point. Now don't go off and become sanguine over me, nor trouble yourself much about me. " 'The world will find me after many a day,' as Southey says of one of his books. I doubt if it ever did. The Doctor contends that Southey was a poet; but then he thinks I am, also!
"What a deuce of a clamor is made about this new comet or planet! What a useful thing to us poor, mud-stranded mortals to find out that there is another little fragment of a world, away some hundreds of millions of miles, outside of no particular where--for I believe this astronomical detective is only on its track! The Doctor is in ecstacies over it, takes it as a special personal favor, and declaims luminously and constellationally about writing one's name among the stars, like that frisky cow who, in jumping over the moon, upon a time, made the milky way. I've always had some doubts about that exploit; but then there is the mark she left. Your friend Roberts is uneasy about this new star business; he is afraid that it will unsettle the cheese market, and he don't know about it, nor do I. "There! I got home only last night, and haven't heard any news to write you. Some time I will tell of two or three things I saw and heard, and about some of our cousins, who regard us as belonging to the outer and lower skirts of the race. If I am to be one end of a family, let it be the beginning.
"Mother sends love. Edward and George speak of you constantly. I've not seen our Major since my return.
"Write me a good, sharp, cutting, criticising, deuced brotherly letter soon. As ever, "BART.
"P.S. Have you read Pickwick?
"B." It was full of badinage, with only a dip or two into an absorbing purpose that he had fully formed, and which he evidenced to himself by the summary expulsion of the muses.
In the world of nature and humanity, is there such an embodiment of contradictions and absurdities as a youth in his transit from the dreamland of boyhood to the battle-field of manhood, through a region partaking of both, and abounding with strange products of its own? I am not speaking of the average boy, such boys as make up the male mass of the world--the undreaming, unthinking, plodding, drudging, sweating herd, whose few old commonplace, well-worn ideas don't possess the power of reproduction, and whose thoughts are thirteenth or thirteen hundredth-handed, and transmitted unimpregnated to other dullards, and whose life and spirit is that of the young animal merely--but a real young man, one of possibilities, intended for a man, and not merely for a male, one in whom the primitive forces of nature are planted, and who may develop into a new driving or forming power. What a mad, impulsive, freaky thing it is! You may see him bruising his still soft head a score of times against the impossible, and he will still contend that he can do it. He will spring frantically up the face of an unclimbable precipice, as the young salmon leaps up a cataract, and die in the faith that he can go up it.
Oh, sublime faith! Oh, sublime folly! What strides he is constantly taking to the ridiculous, and not always from the sublime! How strong! how weak! How wise! how foolish! Consistent only in folly, and steady in the purpose of being foolish. How beautiful, and how ugly! What a lovable, detestable, desirable, proud, wilful, arrogant, supercilious, laughing, passionate, tender, cruel, loving, hating, good sort of a good-for-nothing he is! He believes everything--he believes nothing; and, like Mary's Son, questions and mocks the doctors to their beards in the very temple. Patience! he must have his time, and room to grow in, develop, and shape out. Let him have coral for his teeth, and climbing, and running, and jumping for his muscle. No man may love him, and no woman but his mother, and she is to be tried to the extent of endurance. Wait for him; he will, with or without your help, turn out good or bad, and in either event people will say: "I always told you so," "I always knew it was in him"; and cite a score of unhappened things in proof of their sagacity.
Barton was one of these; neither better nor worse, full of possibilities and capabilities, impulsive, rash, and unreasoning. He has just made a resolve, and will act upon it; proud and sensitive to a degree, he had heard a word of fault once at the store, which another word would have explained. He would not say it, and went. It was discovered that the fault was not his, in time for him to remain; but he left without that word. He is willing to take his chances, and must speak and act for himself.
He sealed and directed his letter, walked about with the plaintive airs of old melodies running and running through his head, and sang snatches and verses of sad old ballads, going over and over with some touching line, or complaining strain, till he was saturated with its tender melancholy, and so he came back to ordinary life.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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3
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NEWBURY.
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Newbury was one of the twenty-odd townships, five miles square, that then made up the county of Geauga, and a part of the Western Reserve, the Yankee-doodledom of Ohio, settled exclusively by emigrants from New England. It was so much of Massachusetts, Connecticut, Vermont, etc., translated into the broader and freer West. It has been said that the Yankee, like a certain vegetable, heads best when transplanted. It was the old thing over, under new and trying circumstances. The same old ideas and notions, habits of thought and life; poor, economical and thrifty folk, with the same reverence for religion and law, love of education, and restless desire for improvement, and to better the present condition. In the West the Yankee developed his best qualities in the second generation. He became a little straighter and less angular, and wider between the eyes. In the first generation he lived out his life scarcely refracted by the new atmosphere. This crop still stood firm and hardy on the Reserve, and they often turned homesick eyes, talked lovingly and lingeringly of "down country," as they all called loved and cherished New England. Most of the first settlers were poor, but hardy and enterprising. The two last qualities were absolutely necessary to take them through the long, wearisome journey to Ohio, the then far West. They took up lands, built cabins, and forced a subsistence from the newly-cleared, stumpy virgin soil. This homogeneous people constituted a practical and thorough democracy. Their social relations were based on personal equality, varied only by the accident of superior talents, address or enterprise, and as yet but little modified by wealth or its adventitious circumstances.
Among the emigrants scattered here and there was occasionally found a branch of a "down country" family of some pretensions, dating back to services in the Revolution, to old wealth, or official position. Among these were one or two families at Painesville, near the lake, at Parkman, several at Warren, and more at Cleveland, who had made each other's acquaintance, and who, as the country improved and the means of communication were perfected, formed and kept up a sort of association over the heads, and hardly within the observation, of the people generally. Of these, as we may say, by right of his wife, was Judge Markham. He was a hardy, intelligent, and, for his day, a cultivated man, who came early into the woods as an agent for many large stockholders of the old Connecticut Land Company, and a liberal percentage of the sales placed in his hands the nucleus of a large fortune. Sagacity in investments and improvements, with thorough business capacity, had already made him one of the wealthiest men on the Reserve; while a handsome person, and frank, pleasant address, rendered him very popular. He had been for several years an associate judge of the court of common pleas for Geauga county, and had an extensive acquaintance and influence. Mrs. Markham, a genuine daughter of the old Puritan ancestry, dating back to the first landing, a true specimen of the best Yankee woman under favorable circumstances, was a most thoroughly accomplished lady, who had gone into the woods with her young husband, and who shed and exercised a wide and beneficent influence through her sphere. So simple, sweet, natural and judicious was she ever, that her neighbors felt her to be quite one of themselves, as she was. Everybody was drawn to her; and so approachable was she, that the lower and more common declared that she was no lady at all.
Their only child, Julia, just maturing into womanhood, was one of the best and highest specimens of the American girl, to whom refinement, grace, and a strong, rich, sweet nature, came by right of birth, while she inherited beauty from both parents; she seemed, however, unconscious of this last possession, as she was of the admiration which filled the atmosphere that surrounded her. She, too, must speak and act for herself.
At the time of the incidents to be narrated, the northern and eastern part of Newbury had a considerable population. It was traversed by a highway leading west through its centre to Cleveland, and by a stage-road leading from Painesville to the Ohio river, through its eastern part. This was called the "State road," and on it stood Parker's Hotel, a stage-house much frequented, and constituting the centre of a little village, while further south was the extensive trading establishment of Markham & Co., using the name and some of the capital of the Judge, and managed mainly by Roberts and another junior. Judge Markham's spacious and elegant dwelling stood about half a mile south of the store.
The south-western part of the township, with much of two adjoining townships, remained an unbroken forest, belonging to an eccentric landholder who refused to sell it. This was spoken of as "the woods," and furnished cover and haunts for wild game and animals, hunting-ground for the pioneers, and also gave shelter to a few shiftless squatters, in various parts of its wide expanse. In the eastern border of the township was Punderson's pond, a beautiful, irregular-shaped body of limpid water, embosomed by deep wooded hills, and of considerable extent, well stocked with fish, and much frequented on that account.
In the afternoon of the second day after his return, Bart went down a highway leading east to the State road, to the post-office, kept at Markham's store, and this road took him down by the southern end of the pond, and thence southerly on the State road. He passed along by Dr. Lyman's, Jonah Johnson's, and so on, past houses, and clearings, and woodlands, looking almost wistfully, as if he expected pleasant greetings; but the few he saw merely nodded to him, or called out: "Are you back again?" He paused on the hill by the saw-mill, which overlooked the pond, and gazed long over its beautiful surface, sleeping in utter solitude amid the green hills, under the slanting summer sun, and seemed to recognize in it what he had observed, on the evening of his return, about the old homestead--the change that had taken place in himself--a change which often accounts for the strange appearance of the most familiar and cherished places. We find it reflected in the face of inanimate nature, and wonder at her altered guise, unconscious of the cause. He sauntered musingly on to the State road, and over by the old grist-mill, past several houses, up to Parker's. Here, by a beautiful spring under the shade of old apple and cherry-trees, near the carriage-way, was an indolent group of afternoon idlers. Conspicuous among them was the dark and striking face of Dr. Lyman, the rich mahogany of Uncle Josh, and the homely, shrewd, and fresh-colored countenance of Jonah Johnson. Bart could not avoid them if he would; and regretted that he had not gone across the woods to the post-office, and so escaped them.
"Well, young Scholasticus," said the Doctor, after the slight greetings had been given to the new-comer, "you seem to have graduated with great rapidity. You went through college like--" "One of your emetics, Doctor. I came out at the same door I went in at. Now, doctus, doctior, doctissimus, I am fair game on this point, so blaze away with everything but your saddle-bags, and I will laugh with the rest of you."
A good-natured laugh welcomed this coming down.
"Well," replied the doctor, "there can't be much more said."
"I should like to know, young man," remarked Uncle Josh, "whether you raly got into the college, I should."
"Well, Mr. Burnett, I _raly_ did not, I didn't," mimicking Uncle Josh.
"What did you do, badinage apart?"
"I took a good outside look at the buildings, which was improving; called on your friends Dr. Nutting and Rev. Beriah Green, who asked me what church I belonged to, and who was my instructor in Latin."
"What reply did you make?"
"What could I say? I didn't hear the first; and as to the second, I couldn't bring reproach upon you, and so I said I had never had one. You must own, Doctor, that I showed great tenderness for your reputation."
"You certainly did me a kindness."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"I should raly like to know," said Uncle Josh, "what you are thanking the Doctor for, I should."
"Well, go on."
"I went off," continued Bart. "The fact is, I thought that that retreat of the sciences might hold that little learning, which is a dangerous thing--as you used to not quote exactly--and I thought it prudent to avoid that 'Pierian spring.'"
"What is the young man talking about now?" inquired Uncle Josh. "I would raly like to know, I would."
"I must ask the Doctor to explain," answered Bart. "I was referring to one of his old drinking-places, where, according to him, the more one drank the soberer he grew. You would not fancy that tipple, would you?"
"You see, Uncle Josh," said the Doctor, laughing, "what comes of a young man's going a week to college."
"The young man didn't know anything at all, before," declared Uncle Josh, "and he seems to know less now, amazingly."
This was Uncle Josh's sincere opinion, and was received with a shout of laughter, in which Bart heartily joined. Indeed, it was his first sincere laugh for many a day.
Johnson asked him "whether he went to the Ohio river," and being answered in the affirmative, asked him "by what route he went, and what he saw."
Uncle Jonah, as Bart usually called him, was one of his very few recognized friends, and asked in a way that induced him to make a serious answer.
"I walked the most of the way there, and all the way back. I went by way of Canton, Columbus, Dayton, and so to Cincinnati, and returned the same way."
"What do you think of that part of the State which you saw?"
"Unquestionably we have the poorest part of it. As our ancestors landed on the most desolate part of the continent, so we took the worst part of Ohio. If you were to see the wheat-fields of Stark, or the corn on the Scioto, and the whole of the region about Xenia and Dayton, and on the Miami, you would want to emigrate."
"What about the people?"
"Oh, dear! I didn't see much of them, and that little did not make me wish to see more. The moment you step across the south line of the Reserve you step into a foreign country, and among a foreign people, who speak a foreign language, and who know one of us as quick as they see us; and they seem to have a very prudent distrust of us. After passing this black, Dutch region, you enter a population of emigrants from Virginia, Kentucky, Maryland, and some from North Carolina, and all unite in detesting and distrusting the Reserve Yankee.
"It is singular, the difference between the lake and river side of the State. At Cincinnati you seem to be within a step of New Orleans, and hear of no other place--not a word of New York, and less of Boston. There everything looks and goes south-west, while we all tend eastward." In reply to questions, Bart told them of Columbus and Cincinnati, giving fresh and graphic descriptions, for he observed closely, and described with a racy, piquant exaggeration what he saw. Breaking off rather abruptly, he seemed vexed at the length of his monologue, and went on towards the post-office.
"That young man will not come to a single darn," said Uncle Josh; "not one darn. He is not good for anything, and never will be. His father was a very likely man, and so is his mother, and his older brothers are very likely men, but he is not worth a cuss."
"Uncle Josh is thinking about Bart's sketch of him, clawing old Nore Morton's face," said Uncle Jonah.
"I did not like that; I did not like it at all. It made me look like hell amazingly," said the old man, much moved.
"You had good reason for not liking it," rejoined Uncle Jonah, "for it was exactly like you."
"Dr. Lyman, what do you think of this young man? He was with you, wa'n't he, studyin' something or other?" asked Uncle Josh; "don't you agree with me?"
"I don't know," answered the Doctor, "I am out of all patience with him. He is quick and ready, and wants to try his hand at every new thing; and the moment he finds he can do it, he quits it. There is no stability to him. He studied botany a week, and Latin a month, and Euclid ten days."
"He hunts well, and fishes well--don't he?" asked another.
"They say he shoots well," said Uncle Josh, "but he will wander in the woods all day, and let game run off from under his eyes, amazingly! They said at the big hunt, in the woods, he opened the lines and let all the deer out. He isn't good for a thing--not a cussed thing."
"Isn't he as smart as his brother Henry?" asked Uncle Jonah.
"It is not a question of smartness," replied the Doctor. "He is too smart; but Henry has steadiness, and bottom, and purpose, and power, and will, and industry. But Bart, if you start him on a thing, runs away out of sight of you in an hour. The next you see of him he is off loafing about, quizzing somebody; and if you call his attention back to what you set him at, he laughs at you. I have given him up, utterly; though I mean to ask him to go a-fishing one of these nights."
"Exactly," said Uncle Jonah, "make him useful. But, Dr. Lyman and Joshua Burnett, the boy has got the stuff in him--the stuff in him. Why, he told you here, in fifteen minutes, more about the State of Ohio than you both ever knew. You will see--" "You will see, too, that he will not come to a darn," said Uncle Josh, regarding that as a sad doom indeed.
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{
"id": "12249"
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4
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AT THE POST-OFFICE.
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Barton found a more attractive group at the store. The post-office occupied a window and corner near the front of the large, old-fashioned, square store-room; and, as he entered the front door, he saw, in the back part of the room, a gay, laughing, warbling, giggling, chirping group of girls gathered about Julia Markham, as their natural centre. Barton was a little abashed; he might have moved up more cautiously, and reconnoitred, had he not been taken by surprise. There was no help for it. He deposited his letters and called for his mail, which gave him time to gather his forces in hand.
Now Barton was born to love and serve women in all places, and under all forms and circumstances. His was not a light, silly, vapid, complimentary devotion, but deep in his nature, through and through, he reverenced woman as something sacred and high, and above the vulgar nature of men; this reformed his mind, and inspired his manners; and, while he was generally disliked by men, he was favorably regarded by women. It was not in woman's nature to think ill of a youth who was always so modestly respectful, and anxious to please and oblige; and no man thus constituted was ever awkward or long embarrassed in woman's presence. She always gets from him, if not his best, what is proper. If he can lose self-consciousness, and receive the full inspiration of her presence, he will soon be at his ease, if not graceful.
The last thing absolutely that ever could occur to Barton, and it never had as yet, was the possibility of his being an object of interest personally to a woman, or to women. He was modest--almost to bashfulness; but as he never presumed, he was never snubbed; and now, on this summer afternoon, he had came upon a group of seven or eight of the most attractive girls of the neighborhood, accompanied by one or two strangers. There was Julia, never so lovely before, with a warm color on her cheek, and a liquid light in her dark eyes, in whose presence all other girls were commonplace; and her friends Nell Roberts and Kate Fisher, Lizzie Mun and Pearlie Burnett, and several others. The young man was seen and recognized, and had to advance. Think of walking thirty feet alone in the faces of seven or eight beautiful girls, and at the same time be easy and graceful! It is funny, what a hush the presence of one young man will bring over a laughing, romping cluster of young women. At his entrance, their girlish clamor sunk to a liquid murmur; and, when he approached, they were nearly silent, all but Julia and a stylish blonde, whom Barton had never seen before. They were gathered around a cloud and tangle of women's mysterious fabrics, whose names are as unknown to men as their uses. Most of the young girls suspended their examinations and rippling comments, and, with a little heightened color, awaited the approach of the enemy. He came on, and gracefully bowed to each, was permitted to take the hands of two or three, and greeted with a little chorus of--"You have come back!" "Where have you been?" "How do you do?" Julia greeted him with her eyes, as he entered, with a sweet woman's way, that thrilled him, and which enabled him to approach her so well. She had remained examining a bit of goods, as if unaware of his immediate presence for a moment, and he had been introduced to the strange lady by Kate Fisher as her cousin, Miss Walters, from Pittsburgh.
Then Julia turned to him, and, with a charming manner, asked: "Mr. Ridgeley"--she had not called him Bart, or Barton, since her return from Boston--"Mr. Ridgeley, what do the girls mean? Have you really been away?"
"Have I really been away? And if I really have, am I to be permitted to take your hand, and asked how I really do? as if you really cared?"
"Really," was her answer, "you see we have just received our fall fashions, and it is not the fall style this year to give and take hands after an absence."
"A-h! how popular that will be with poor masculines! Is that to be worn by all of you?"
"I don't know," said Kate; "it is not fall with some of us yet."
"Thank you! and may I ask Miss Markham if it was the spring and summer style not to say good-bye at a parting?"
The tone was gay, but there was something more in it, and the girl replied: "That depends upon the lady, I presume; both styles may be varied at her pleasure."
"Ah, I think I understand! You are kind to explain."
"Mr. Barton," said Lizzie, "Flora and I here cannot determine about our colors"--holding up some gay ribbons--"and the rest can't help us out. What do you think of them?"
"That they are brilliant," answered Barton, looking both steadily and innocently in the faces, in a way that deepened their hues.
"Oh, no! these ribbons?" exclaimed the blushing girl, thrusting them towards his eyes.
"Indeed I am color blind, though not wholly blind to color." And a little ripple of laughter ran over the bright group, and then they all laughed again.
Can any one tell why a young girl laughs, save that she is happy and joyous? If she does or says anything, she laughs, and if she don't, she laughs, and her companions laugh because she does, and then they all laugh, and then laugh again because they laughed before, and then they look at each other and laugh again; thus they did now, and Barton could no more tell what they were laughing at than could they; he was not so foolishly jealous as to imagine that they were laughing at him.
Then Kate turned to him: "You won't go away again, I hope. We are going to have a little party before long, and you must come, and I want to see you waltz with my cousin. She waltzes beautifully, and I want to see her with a good partner. Will you come?"
"Indeed I would be most happy; but your compliment is ironical. You know we don't waltz, and none of us can, if we try."
"Is that the awful dance where the gentleman takes the lady around the waist, and she leans on him, and they go swinging around? Oh, I think that is awful!"
"The Germans, and many of our best ladies, and gentlemen, waltz," replied Miss Walters, "as they do in Baltimore and New York, and I suppose my cousin thought no harm could be said of it at her little party."
"Oh, I am sure I did not mean that it was wrong, and I would like to see the dance!" was the eager disclaimer.
Barton had drawn away from this discussion, and lingered a moment near Julia, to ask after her mother. She replied that Mrs. Markham was very well, but did not ask him to call and see for himself, nor did she in any way encourage him to prolong the conversation. So, with a little badinage and _persiflage_, he took his leave.
I shall not attempt to set down what was said of him after he left, nor will I affirm that anything was said. Young ladies, for aught I know, occasionally talk up young men among themselves, and if they do it is nobody's business.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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5
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MRS. MARKHAM'S VIEWS.
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In the gathering twilight, in a parlor at the Markham mansion, sat Julia by the piano, resting her head on one hand, while with the other she brought little ripples of music from the keys; sometimes a medley, then single and prolonged notes, like heavy drops of water into a deep pool, and then a twinkling shower of melody. She was not sad, or pensive, or thoughtful; but in one of these quiet, sweet, and grave moods that come to deep natures--as a cloud passing over deep, still water enables one under its shadow to see into its depths. Her mother stood at an open window, inhaling the evening fragrance of flowers, and occasionally listening to the wild note of the mysterious whippoorwill, that came from a thicket of forest-trees in the distance.
The step of her father caught the ear of the young girl, who sprang up and ran towards him with eager face and sparkle of eye and voice.
"Oh, papa, the trunks came this afternoon, with the fashion-plates, and patterns, and everything, and all we girls--Nell, Kate Fisher, Miss Flora Walter, Pearlie, Ann, and all hands of us--have had a regular 'opening.' We went through with them all. The cottage bonnet is a love of a thing, and I am going to have it trimmed for myself. Sleeves are bigger than ever, and there were lots of splendid things!"
"And so Roberts has suited you all, for once, has he?" said the Judge, passing an arm around her small waist.
"Roberts! Faugh, he had nothing to do with it. Aunt Mary selected them all herself. They are the latest and newest from Paris--almost direct."
"Does that make them better?"
"Well, I don't know that there is anything in their coming from Paris, except that one likes to know that they come from the beginning-place of such things. Now if they had been made in Boston, New York, or Baltimore, one would not be certain they were like the right thing; and now we know they are the real thing itself. Do you understand?"
"Oh, yes--as well as a man may; and it is quite well put, too, and I don't know that I ever had so clear an idea of the value of things from a distance before."
"Well, you see, when a thing comes clear from the farthest off, we know there ain't anything beyond; and when it comes from the beginning, we don't take it second hand."
"I see; but why do you care, you girls in this far-off, rude region?"
"Mamma, do you hear that? Here is my own especial father, and your husband, asking me, a woman, and a very young woman too, for a reason."
"It is because you are a very young one that he expects you to give a reason. Perhaps he thinks you will not claim the privilege of our sex."
"Well, I won't. Now, then, Papa Judge, this is not a far-off, rude region, and you see that the French ladies want these styles and fashions, and all that; well, if they want them, we want them too."
"Now I don't quite see. How do you know they want them? Perhaps they are sent here because they don't want them; and, besides, why should a backwoods girl in Ohio want what a high-born lady in the French capital wants?"
"Because the American girl is a woman; and, besides, the court must hear and decide, and not ask absurd questions."
"And who is to see you in French millinery, here in the woods?"
"Oh, bless its foolish man's heart, that thinks a woman dresses to please its taste, when it hasn't any! We dress to please ourselves and plague each other--don't you know that? and we ain't pleased with poky home-made things."
"Julia! Mother," appealed the Judge, with uplifted hands, to Mrs. Markham, "where did this young lady get her notions?"
"From the common source of woman's notions, as you call them, I presume--her feelings and fancies; and she is merely letting you see the workings of a woman's mind. We should all betray our sex a hundred times a day, if our blessed husbands and fathers had the power to understand us, I fear."
"And don't we understand you?"
"Of course you do, as well as you ever will. My dear husband, don't you also understand that if you fully comprehended us, or we you, we should lose interest in each other? that now we may be a perpetual revelation and study to each other, and so never become worn and common?"
"There, Papa Judge, are you satisfied--not with our arguments, but with us?"
"The man who was not would be unreasonable and--" "Man-like," put in Julia. "Let me sing you my new song."
A piano was a novelty in Northern Ohio. Julia played with a real skill and expression, and her father, though no musician, loved to listen, and more to hear her sing, with her clear, strong, sweet voice, and so she played and sang her song.
When she had finished, "By the way," remarked her father, "I understand that our travelled young townsman, who has just returned from foreign parts, was at the post-office this afternoon, and perhaps you met him."
"Whom do you mean?" asked Julia.
"Your mother's pet, Bart Ridgeley."
"Now, papa, that is hardly kind, after what you said of him the other day. He is not mother's pet at all. She is only kind to him, as to everybody. Indeed, he don't seem to me like anybody's pet, to be patted and kept in-doors when it rains, and eat jellies, and be nice. I saw him at the store a moment; he was very civil, and merely asked after mamma, and went out."
"Did you ask him to call and see mamma?" asked her father a little gravely.
"Not at all. The truth is, papa, after what you said I could not ask him, and was hardly civil to him."
"Was it unpleasant to be hardly civil to him?"
"No; though I like to be civil to everybody. You know I have seen little of him since I came home, and when I have, he was sometimes silent and distant, and not like what he was before I went away."
"You find him improved in appearance and manners?" persisted the Judge.
"Well, he was always good-looking, and had the way of a gentleman. Miss Walters seemed quite taken with him, and was surprised that he had grown up here in the woods."
Her father was silent a moment, and the subject was changed. Mrs. Markham was attentive to what was said of poor Bart, but made no comment at the time.
* * * * * In their room, that night, in her sweet, serious way, she said to her husband, "Edward, I do not want to say a word in favor of Barton Ridgeley. I do not ask you to change your opinion of him or your course towards him; but I wish to ask if it is necessary to discuss him, especially with Julia?"
"Why?"
"Well, can it be productive of good? If you are mistaken in your estimate of him, you do him injustice, and in any event you will call her attention to him, and she may observe and study him; and almost any young woman who should do that might become interested in him."
"Do you think so? Men don't like him."
"Is that a reason why a woman would not?"
"Have you discovered any reason to think that Julia cares in the least for him?"
"Julia is young, and, like the women of our family, develops in these respects slowly; but, like the rest of us, she will have her own fancies some time, and you know"--with a still softer voice--"that one of them left a beautiful home, and a circle of love and luxury, to follow her heart into the woods."
"Yes, and thank God that she did! Roses and blessings and grace came with you," said the Judge, with emotion. "But this boy--what is he to us, or what can he ever be? He is so freaky, and unsteady, and passionate, and flies off at a word, and goes before he is touched. He will do nothing, and come to nothing."
"What can he do? Would you really have him buy an axe and chop cord-wood, or work as a carpenter, or sell tape behind the counter? Are there not enough to do all that work as fast as it needs to be done? Is there not a clamorous need of brain-work, and who is there to do it? Who is to govern, and manage, and control twenty years hence? Look over all the young men whom you know, and who promises to be fit to lead? Think over those you know in Cleveland, or Painesville, or Warren. Is somebody to come from somewhere else? Think of your own plans and expectations. Who can help you? I see possibilities in this wayward, passionate, hasty, generous youth. He is a tender and devoted son, and I am glad he came back; and nobody knows how he may be pushed against us and others."
"Well," said the Judge, after a thoughtful pause, "what can I do? What would you have me do--change myself, or try to change him?"
"I don't know," thoughtfully: "I think there is nothing you can do now. I would wish you to cultivate a manner towards him that would leave it in your power to serve him or make him useful, if occasion presents. He needs a better education, and perhaps a profession. He should study law. He has a capacity to become a very superior public speaker--one of the first. I don't think there is much danger of his forming bad habits or associations. He avoids and shuns everything of that kind. You know he deeded his share of his father's land to his brother, to provide a home for his mother, and I presume will remain, both from choice and necessity, with her for the present."
The Judge mused over her words. He did not tell her of having met and left Barton the other side of the Chagrin; nor did he disclose fully the dislike he felt for him, or the fears he may have entertained at the idea of any intimacy between him and Julia. His wife mused also in her woman's way. She, too, would have hesitated to have Barton restored to the old relations of his boyhood. While she knew of much to admire and hope for in him, she knew also that there was much to cause anxiety, if not apprehension. In thinking further, she was inclined to call upon his mother, whom she much esteemed for her strong and decisive traits of character, soft and womanly though she was. Cares and anxieties had kept her from association with her neighbors, among whom, as she knew, she seldom appeared, except on occasions of sickness or suffering, or when some event seemed to demand the presence of a deciding woman's mind and will. She remembered one or two such times in their earlier forest life, when Mrs. Ridgeley had quietly assumed her natural place for a day, to go back to her round of widowed love, care and toil. She would make occasion to see her, and perhaps find some indirect way to be useful to both mother and son.
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{
"id": "12249"
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6
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WHAT HE THOUGHT OF THINGS.
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How grateful to the sensitive heart of the young man would have been the knowledge that he was an object of thoughtful interest to Julia's mother, who, next to his own, had his reverence and regard! He knew he was generally disliked; his intuitions assured him of this, and in his young arrogance he had not cared. Indeed, he had come to feel a morbid pleasure in avoiding and being avoided; but now, as he sat in the little silent room in the late night, he felt his isolation. He had been appalled at a discovery--or rather a revelation--made that afternoon. He knew that he loved Julia, and that this love would be the one passion of manhood, as it had been of his boyhood. He had given himself up to it as to a delicious onflowing stream, drifting him through enchanted lands, and had not thought or cared whither it might bear, or on what desolate shore it might finally strand him.
Now he felt its full strength and power, and he knew, too, that it was a force to be controlled, when perhaps that had become impossible. He had never asked himself if a return of his passion were even possible, until now, when his whole fervid nature had gone out in a great hungry longing for her love and sympathy. She had never stood so lovely and so inaccessible as he had seen her that day. How deeply through and through came the first greeting of her eyes! It was an electric flash never received before, and which as suddenly disappeared. How cool and indifferent was her manner and look as he approached, and stood near her! No inquiry, save that mocking one! Not a word; not a thought of where he had been, or why he had returned, or what he would do; the shortest answer as to his inquiry about her mother; no intimation that he might even call at the house. Thus he went over with it all--over and over again. What did he care? But he did, and could not deceive himself. He did care, and must not; and then he went back over all their intercourse since her return home, two or three months before he left, and it was all alike on her part--a cool, indifferent avoidance of him.
Oh, she was so glorious--so beautiful! The whole world lay in the span of her slender waist--a world not for him. Was it something to be adventured for, fought for, found anywhere? something that he could climb up to and take? something to plunge down to in fathomless ocean and carry back? No, it was her woman's heart. Like her father, she disliked him; and if, like her father, she would openly let him see and hear it--but doesn't she? What had he to offer her? How could he overcome her father's dislike? He felt in his soul what would come to him finally, but then, in the lapsing time? And she avoided him now!
He returned to his algebraic problem, with a desperate plunge at its solution. The unknown quantity remained unknown; and, a moment later, he was gratified to see how he had finally caught and expressed, with his pencil, a look of Julia, that had always eluded him before. But was he to be overcome by a girl? Was life and its ambitions to be crushed out and brought to nought by one small hand? He would see. It would be inexpressible luxury to tell her once--but just once--all his passion and worship, and then, of course, remain silent forever, and go out of her presence. He wished her to know it all, so that, as she would hear and know of him in the coming years, she would know that he was worthy, not of her love, but worthy to love her, whatever that may mean, or whatever of comfort it might bring to either. What precious logic the heart of a young man in his twenty-second year is capable of!
|
{
"id": "12249"
}
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7
|
LOGIC OF THE GODS.
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"Doctor," said Barton, in the little office of the latter, "I've called to borrow your Euclid; may I have it? I have never tried Euclid, really."
"Oh, yes, you can have it, and welcome. Do you want to try yourself on the _pons asinorum? _" "What is that; another bridge of sighs? for I suppose they can be found out of Venice."
"It is a place over which asses have to be carried. It is, indeed, a bridge of sighs, and a bridge of size."
"Oh, Doctor, don't you do that! Well, let me try it! I want more work; and especially I want a wrestle with Euclid."
"Work! what are you doing, that you call work?"
"Well, hoeing beans, pulling up weeds, harvesting oats, with recreations in Latin Grammar, Dabol, Algebra, Watts on the Mind, Butler's Analogy, and other trifles."
"All at one time?"
"No, not more than three at the same time. Don't lecture me, Doctor, I am incorrigible. When I work, I don't play."
"And when you don't play you work, occasionally; well, I think Euclid will do you good."
"I won't take it as a prescription, Doctor!"
"A thorough course of mathematics would do more for one of your flighty mind, than anything else; you want chaining down to the severe logic of lines and angles."
"To the solution of such profound problems as, that the whole of a thing is more than a fraction of it; and things that are exactly alike resemble each other, for instance, eh?"
"Pshaw! you will make fun of everything. Will you ever reach discretion, and deal with things seriously?"
"I was never more serious in my life, and could cry with mortification over my lost, idled-away hours, you never believed in me, and are not to blame for that, nor have I any promises to make. I am not thought to be at all promising, I believe."
"Bart," said the Doctor, seriously, "you don't lack capacity; but you are too quick and impulsive, and all imagination and fancy."
"Well, Doctor, you flatter me; but really is not the imagination one of the highest elements of the human mind? In the wide world's history was it not a crowning, and one of the most useful qualities of many of the greatest men?"
"Great men have had imagination. I presume, and achieved great things in spite of it; but through it, never."
"Why, Doctor! the mere mathematician is the most servile of mortals. He is useful, but cannot create, or even discover. He weighs and measures. Project one of his angles into space, and, though it may reach within ten feet of a blazing star that dazzles men with eyes, yet he will neither see nor know of its existence. His foot-rule won't reach it, and he has no eyes. Imagination! it was the logic of the gods--the power to create; and among men it abolishes the impossible. By its force and strength one may strike fire from hidden flints in darkened worlds, and beat new windows in the blind sides of the ages. Columbus imagined another continent, and sailed to it; and so of all great discoverers."
The Doctor listened with some surprise. "Did it ever occur to you, Bart, that you might be an orator of some sort?"
"Such an orator as Brutus is--cold, formal, and dead? I'd rather not be an orator at all, 'but talk right on,' like plain, blunt Mark Antony."
"And yet Brutus has been quoted and held up by poets and orators as a sublime example of virtue and patriotism, young man!"
"And yet he never made murder the fashion;" and--striking an attitude--"Caesar had his Brutus! Charles had his Cromwell! and George III. had--what the devil did George have? He was stupid enough to have been a mathematician, though I never heard that he was."
"Oh dear, Bart!" said the Doctor, with a sigh, "for God's sake, and your own, do study Euclid if you can! Don't you see that your mind is always sky-rocketing and chasing thistle-down through the air?" " 'The downy thistle-seed my fare, My strain forever new,'" said Bart, laughing, and preparing to go.
"By the way," asked the Doctor, "wouldn't you like to go fishing one of these nights? We haven't been but once or twice this summer. Jonah, and Theodore, and 'Brother Young' and I have been talking about it for some days. We will rig up a fire-jack, if you will go, and use the spear."
"I am afraid I would be sky-rocketing, Doctor; but send me word when you are ready."
* * * * * Barton had now entered upon something like a regular course. He had one of those intense nervous temperaments that did not require or permit excessive sleep. He arose with the first light, and took up at once the severest study he had until breakfast, and then worked with the boys, or alone, the most of the forenoon, at whatever on the farm, or about the house, seemed most to want his hand; the afternoons and evenings were given to unremitting study or reading. His tone of mind and new habit of introspection induced him to take long walks in the woods and secluded places, and after his work for the day was done; he imposed upon himself a regular and systematic course, and compelled himself to adhere to it. He saw few, went nowhere; and among that busy people, after the little buzz occasioned by his return had subsided, he ceased to be an object of interest or comment.
It was remarked among them that they did not hear his rifle in the forests, and nobody had presents of wild turkeys and venison, as they sometimes had, and he was in his own silent way shaping out his own destiny.
He received a letter from Henry in reply to his own, full of kindness, with such hints as the elder could give as to his course of study. His observing mother saw at once a marked change in his manner and words. Thoughtful and forbearing, his arrogance disappeared, and his impetuous, dashing way evidently toned down, while he was more tender towards her, and seemed to fall naturally into the place of an elder brother--careful and gentle to the young boys.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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8
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A RAMBLE IN THE WOODS, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
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Already the summer had deepened and ripened into autumn. The sky had a darker tint, and the breeze had a plaintive note in its voice; and here and there the footprints of change were in the tree-tops.
On one of those serene, deep afternoons, Barton, who had been importuned by the boys to go into the woods in pursuit of a flock of turkeys, that George had over and over declared "could be found just out south, and which were just as thick and fat as anything," yielded, and, taking his rifle, started out, accompanied by them, in high glee. George's declaration about the turkeys was, without much difficulty, verified, and Bart, who was a practised hunter, and knew all the habits of the shy and difficult bird, managed in a short time to secure two. He felt an old longing for a good, long, lonely ramble, and directed the boys, who were in ecstacies at his skill and the result, to carry the game back to their mother, while he went out to the Slashing, adding that if he did not come back until into the night, they might know he had gone to the pond, to meet the Doctor and a fishing-party; and with a good-natured admonition from George, to look out for that wolverine that haunted the Slashing, they separated.
The "Slashing" was a large tract of fallen timber, all of which had been cut down years before, and left to decay as it fell. Near this, and to the east, an old roadway had been cut, leading south, which was often used by the neighbors to go from the Ridgeley neighborhood to settlements skirting the eastern border of "the woods" before mentioned. Still further east, and surrounded by forest, on a small stream, was Coe's carding machine and fulling mill, to which a by-way led from the State road, at a point near Parker's. The Coes, a shiftless, harmless set, lived much secluded, and were often the objects of charity, and as such somewhat under the patronage of Mrs. Markham and Julia; and some of her young friends were occasionally attracted there for a ramble among the rocks and springs, from which Coe's creek, a little stream, arose. From the old road a path led to the fields of Judge Markham, about a fourth of a mile distant, which was the shortest route from his house to Coe's.
* * * * * On his return ramble, just as Bart was about to emerge from the woods into the opening made by the old road from the west, he was surprised to see Julia approaching him, going along that track towards home. She was alone, and walking with a quick step. Lifting his hat, he stepped forward towards the path in which she was walking. The meeting in the wild, still woods, under the deepening shades of approaching night, was a surprise to both; and, by the light in the eyes of the youth, and warmer color in the face of the maiden, seemed not unpleasant to either.
"This is a surprise, meeting you here alone," said Barton, stepping to the side of the footway, a little in advance of her.
"It must be," answered Julia. "Poor old lady Coe is quite ill, and I've been around there, and, as it was latish, I have taken this short way home, rather than go all the way around the road."
"Indeed, if you are really going this way you must permit me to attend you," said Bart, placing his gun against a stump. "It is a good half-mile to the path that leads out to your father's, and it is already darkening;" and he turned and walked by her side.
"It is really not necessary," said the girl, quite decidedly. "I know the way, and am not in the least afraid."
"Forgive me, Miss Markham, but I really fear that you must choose between my attendance out of these woods and turning back around the road," replied Bart.
His manner, so frank and courteous, and his voice, so gentle, had nevertheless, to her woman's ear, a vibration of the man's nerve of force and will, to which the girl seemed unconsciously to yield. They walked along. The mystery of night was weaving its weird charm in the forest, and strange notes and sounds came from its depths, and these young, pure natures found an undefined sweetness in companionship. On they walked in silence, as if neither cared to break it. The young girl at length said: "Mr. Ridgeley"--not Barton, or his first name, as in her childhood--what a heart-swoon smote the youth at the formal address! --"Mr. Ridgeley, there is something I must say to you. My father does not care to have me in your company, and I must not receive the most ordinary attention from you. He would not, I fear, like to know that you were at our house."
Did it cost her anything to say this? Apparently not, though her voice and manner diminished its sting. A moment's pause, and Barton's voice, cold and steady, answered back: "I know what your father's feelings towards me are," and then, with warmth, "but I am sure that he would think less of me, if possible, were I to permit any woman to find her way, at this hour, out of this wilderness."
It was not much to say, but it was well said, and he turned his face towards her as he said it, lit up with a clear expression of man's loyalty to woman--not unpleasant to the young girl. Why could not he leave it there and to the future? They walked on, and the shadows deepened.
"Miss Markham, I, too, must say a thing to you: from my boyhood to this hour, deeply, passionately, with my whole heart and soul, have I loved you."
There was no mistaking; the intensity of his voice made his words thrill. She recoiled from them as if stunned, and turned her face, pale now, and marked, fully towards him.
"What! What did you say?"
"I love you!" with a deep, full voice.
"How dare you utter such words to me?"
Her eyes flashed and nostrils dilated.
"Because they are true; because I am a man and you are a woman," steadily and proudly.
"A man! you a man! Is it manly to waylay me in this lonely place, and force yourself upon me, and insult me with this? You compel me to--to--" "Scorn and despise you!" supplied the youth, in a bitter tone.
"Take the words, then, if you choose them."
She was simply grand in her style, till this last expression, which had the angry snap of an enraged woman. Some high natures might have answered back her scorn; a lower one might have complained; and still another would have left her in the woods. Barton said nothing, but, with a cold, stony face, walked on by her side. If, in his desperation, he wanted this killing thrust, which must ever rankle and never heal, to enable him to overcome and subdue his great passion, he had got it. That little hand, that emphasized her words with a gesture of superb disdain, would never have to repeat the blow. It raised about her a barrier that he was never after to approach.
He was not a man to complain. He would have told her why he said these words; he could not now. Some men are like wolves in traps, and die without a moan. Barton could die, and smile back into the face of his slayer, and say no word.
Night was now deepening in the woods, with the haughty maiden, and high, proud and humiliated youth, walking still side by side through its shadows. They at length reached the path that led from the open way to the left, approaching Julia's home. There was a continuous thicket of thrifty second-growth young trees bordering the track along which the two were journeying, and the opening through it made by this narrow path was black with shadow, like the entrance to a cave.
"This is the way," said Bart, turning into it.
These were the first words he had uttered, and came as if from a distance. Without a word of hesitation Julia turned into the path with him, yet with almost a shudder at the darkness. They had not taken a dozen steps when an appalling, shrieking yell, a brute yell, of ferocious animal rage--the rage for blood and lust to mangle and tear--burst from the thicket on their right. A wild plunge through tangled brush and limbs, another more appalling shriek, and a dark, shadowy form, with a fierce, hungry growl, crouched in the pathway just before them, with its yellow, tawny, cruel eyes flashing in their faces. The first sound seemed to heat every fiery particle of the blood of the youth into madness, and open an outlet to the burning elements of his nature. Here was something to encounter, and for her, and in her presence; and the brute had hardly crouched as if for its spring, when, with an answering cry, a man's shout, a challenge and a charge, he sprang forward, with his unarmed strength, to the encounter. As if cowed and overcome by the higher nature, the brute turned, and with a complaining whine like a kicked dog, ran into the depths of the woods. Barton had momentarily, in a half frenzy, wished for a grapple, and felt a pang of real disappointment.
"The brute is a coward," he said, as he turned back, where the white robes of Julia were dimly visible in the darkness. She was a daughter of the Puritans, and had the blood and high courage of her race. The first cry of the animal had almost frozen her blood, but the eager, proud, manly shout of Barton affected her like a trumpet-call. She exulted in his dashing courage, and felt an irresistible impulse to rush forward to his aid. It all occurred in the fraction of a moment; and when she realized that the peril was over, she was well-nigh overcome.
"You were always brave," said Barton, cheerily, with just a little strain in his voice; "you were in no danger, and it is all over."
No answer.
"You are not overcome?" with an anxious voice. "Oh," coming close to her, "if I might offer you support!"
He held out his hand, and she put hers in it. How cool and firm his touch was, and how her tremor subsided under it! He pulled her hand within his arm, and hers rested fully upon his, with but their light summer draperies between them.
"But a little way further," he said, in his cheery voice, and they hurried forward.
Neither spoke. What did either think? The youth was sorry for the awful fright of the poor girl, and so glad of the little thing that eased his own humiliation. The girl--who can tell what a girl thinks?
As they reached the cleared land, a sense of relief came to Julia, who had started a dozen times, in her escape out of the woods, at imaginary sounds. Day was still in the heavens, and the sight of her father's house gladdened her.
"Will you mind the dew?" asked her companion.
"Not in the least," she answered; and he led her across the pastures to the rear of an enclosure that surrounded the homestead. He seemed to know the way, and conducted her through a large open gate, and so to a lane that led directly to the rear of the house, but a few yards distant. He laid his hand upon the small gate that opened into it, and turning to her, said: "I may not intrude further upon you. For your relief, I ought perhaps to say that the words of madness and folly which I uttered to you will neither be recalled nor repeated. Let them lie where they fell--under your feet. Your father's house, and your father's daughter, will be sacred from me."
The voice was firm, low, and steady; and opening the gate, the young girl entered, paused a moment, and then, without a word, ran rapidly towards the house. As she turned an angle, she saw the youth still standing by the gate, as if to protect her. She flew past the corner, and called, in a distressed voice: "Mamma! mamma! oh, mother!"
She was a Puritan girl, with the self-repression and control of her race, and the momentary apprehension that seized her as she left the side of Barton was overcome as she entered her father's house.
"Julia!" exclaimed her mother, coming forward, "is that you? Where have you come from? What is the matter?"
"I came through the woods," said the girl, hurriedly. "I've been so awfully frightened! Such dreadful things have happened!" with a half hysterical laugh, which ended in a sob.
"Julia! Julia! my child! what under the heavens has happened? Are you hurt?"
"No, only dreadfully frightened. I was belated, and it came on dark, and just as we turned into the path from the old road, that awful beast, with a terrible shriek, sprang into the road before us, and was about to leap upon me, when Barton sprang at him and drove him off. If it had not been for him, I would have been torn in pieces."
"Barton? --was he with you? Thank God! oh, bless and thank God for your escape! My child! my child! How awful it sounds! Come! come to my room, and let me hold you, and hear it all!"
"Oh, mamma! what a weak and cowardly thing a woman is! I thought I was so strong, and really courageous, and the thought of this thing makes me tremble now."
They gained her mother's room, and Julia, seating herself at her mother's feet, and resting her arms on her mother's lap, undertook to tell her story.
"I cannot tell you how it all happened. Barton met me, and would come along with me, and then he said strange things to me; and I answered him back, and quarrelled with him, and--" "What could he have said to you? Tell me all."
Julia began and told with great minuteness, and with much feeling, her whole adventure. She explained that she really did not want Bart to come with her, for that it would displease her father; and that when he did, she thought he ought to know that he was not at liberty to be her escort or come to the house, and so she told him. She could not tell why she answered him just as she did, but she was surprised, and not quite herself, and she might have said it differently, and need not have said so much, and he certainly must know that she did not mean it all. Surely it was most his fault; if he really had such feelings, why should he tell her, and tell her as he did? It was dreadful, and she would never be happy again; and she laid her head in her mother's lap, in her great anguish.
When her burst of grief had subsided, and she was calm, her mother asked several questions, and learned all that was said, and was much excited at Julia's account of the encounter with the beast and Barton's intrepidity. She seemed to feel that they had both escaped a great danger, through his courage.
"My dear child," she said, "I don't know what to think of these strange and trying events, mixed up as they are. There is one very, very unfortunate thing about it."
"That I met Barton? Oh, mother!"
"No, no; not that. It was unfortunate that you came the way you did, or unfortunate that you went, perhaps; but it is not that. It was most providential that Barton was with you, but so unfortunate that he said to you what he did."
"Is it a misfortune to be loved, mother?"
"Let us not talk of this to-night, my darling," stooping and kissing her still pale cheek. "God only knows of these things. It may not be a misfortune, but it may bring unhappiness, dear, to somebody."
"Perhaps, mother, if he had not had such feelings he would not have come with me."
"My child! my child! don't say what might have happened. I am glad and grateful--so grateful that he was with you--that he was generous enough to come, after what you said to him; but now, how can we express our gratitude to him?"
"Oh, mamma! I am sure it is no matter. He won't care now what we think."
"You are too much agitated, my daughter, to-night; let us not talk it over now. But what became of Barton? did he come in?"
"No, I left him at the back gate, without a word, only waiting for me to run in. Of course he went back to the woods and wild beasts. What other place was there for him?"
"Don't, don't, Julia! don't say such words. Harm will not come to him."
"I know it won't," said the young girl; "for when the whole world turns against a brave, true heart, God watches over it with the more care."
"True, my child; and we can at least pray God to be near him, only don't think of this matter now. In a day or two you will be yourself, and look at it in a different light. Your father will return to-morrow, and it may not be best to tell him of all this at present. It would only disturb him."
"Yes, mamma; I could not tell him everything as I have told you, and so I must not tell him anything, nor anybody else. How wretched it all is!"
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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9
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A DARKENED SOUL.
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As Julia left Bart, the full force of her scornful words seemed for the first time to reach him. The great restraint her presence imposed in some way suspended, or broke their effect, and he turned from the gate with a half-uttered moan of anguish. He did not then recall her words or manner; he only realized that, in a cruel and merciless way, she had crushed his heart and soul. It was not long; both recoiled with a sense of wrong and injustice, and utter helplessness, for the hurt came from a woman. Instinctively he returned to the point whence they had emerged when they left the woods, and the thought of the screaming brute came to him with a sense of relief. Here was an object upon which he could wreak himself, and in a half frenzy of madness he hurried towards a spot in the edge of the Slashing, towards which the cowardly thing had run when it fled from his onset. He paused to listen upon the margin of that tangled wilderness of young trees, briers, and decaying trunks. How solemn and quiet, wild and lonely it was, in the deep night and deeper woods! The solemn hush fell upon the bruised spirit of the youth with the quieting touch and awe of a palpable presence, rebukingly, yet tenderly and pityingly.
Quick to compassionate others, he had ever been relentless to himself, and refused to regard himself as an object of injustice, or as needing compassion. As he stood for a moment confronting himself, scorned, despised and humiliated, he felt for himself the measureless contempt to which he seemed to have fallen; yet, under it all, and against it all, he arose. "Oh, Bart! Bart! what a poor, abject, grovelling thing you really are," he said bitterly, "when the word of a girl so overcomes you! when the slap of her little hand so benumbs and paralyzes you! If you can't put her haunting face from you now, God can hardly help you. How grand she was, in her rage and scorn! Let me always see her thus!" and he turned back into the old road. Along this he sauntered until his eye met the dull gleam of his rifle-barrel against the old stump where he left it. With a great start, he exclaimed, "Oh, if I could only go back to the moment when I stood here with power to choose, and dream!" It was a momentary weakness, a mere recoil from the wound still so fresh and ragged.
It was still in early evening, with time and life heavy on his hands, when he remembered that the Doctor had sent him word to come to the pond that night. Taking his rifle by the muzzle, and throwing it across his shoulder, he plunged into the woods in a right line for the west shore of the pond, at about its midway.
Through thick woods tangled with underbrush and laced with wild vines, down steep banks, over high hills and rocky precipices, across clearings and hairy brier patches, he took his way, and found relief in the physical exertions of which he was still capable. At last he stood on the margin of the forest and hill-embosomed waters of that lovely little lake. It was solitary and silent, but for the weird sounds of night birds and aquatic animals that frequented its reedy margin, and a soft, silvery mist was just rising from its unruffled surface, that gathered in a translucent veil against the dark forest of the opposite shore. Its simple, serene and quiet beauty, under the stars and rising moon, was not lost upon the poetic nature of Barton, still heaving with the recent storm.
He ran his eye along the surface of the water, and discerned in the shadow of the wood, near the island, a fourth of a mile distant, a light, and below it the dark form of a boat. Placing his closed hands to his lips, he blew a strong, clear, full whistle, with one or two notes, and was answered by Theodore. At the landing near him was a half-rotten canoe, partially filled with water, and near it was an old paddle. Without a moment's thought, Barton pushed it into deep water, springing into it as it glided away. He had not passed half the distance to the other boat, when he discovered that it was filling. With his usual rashness, he determined to reach his friends in it by his own exertions, and without calling to them for aid, and by an almost superhuman effort he drove on with his treacherous craft. The ultimate danger was not much to a light and powerful swimmer, and he plunged forward. The noise and commotion of forcing his waterlogged canoe through the water attracted the attention of the party he was approaching, but who had hardly appreciated his situation as he lightly sprang from his nearly filled boat into their midst.
"Hullo, Bart! Why under the heavens did you risk that old log? Why didn't you call to us to meet you?"
"Because," said Bart, excited by his effort and danger, "because to myself I staked all my future on reaching you in that old hulk, and I won. Had it sunk, I had made up my mind to go with her, and, like Mr. Mantalini, in Dickens's last novel, 'become a body, a demnition moist unpleasant body.'"
"What old wreck is it?" inquired Young, looking at the scarcely perceptible craft that was sinking near them.
"It is the remains of the old canoe made by Thomas Ridgeley, in his day, I think," said Jonah.
"Nothing of the sort," said Bart; "it is the remains of old Bullock's 'gundalow,' that has been sinking and swimming, like old John Adams in the Revolution, these five years past. Don't let me think to-night, Uncle Jonah, that anything from my father's hand came to take me into the depths of this pond."
The craft occupied by the party was a broad, scow-like float, with low sides, steady, and of considerable capacity. At the bow was a raised platform, covered with gravel, on which stood a fire-jack. The crew were lying on the silent water, engaged with their lines, when Bart so unceremoniously joined them. He went forward to a vacant place and lay down in the bottom, declining to take a line.
"What is the matter, Bart?" asked the Doctor.
"I don't know. I've been wandering about in the woods, and I must have met something, or I have lost something,--I don't know which."
"I guess you saw the wolverine," said Theodore.
"I guess I did;" and pretty soon, "Doctor, is this your robe? Let me cover myself with it; I am cold!" and there was something almost plaintive in his voice.
"Let me spread it over you," said the Doctor, with tenderness. "What ails you, Bart? are you ill?"
"If you left your saddle-bags at home, I think I am; if they are here, I am very well. Doctor," he went on, "can a man have half of his faculties shut off and retain the others clear and strong?"
"I don't know,--perhaps so; why?"
"Well, I feel as if one of your astringents had placed its claws on a full half of me and drawn it all into a pucker; and the other half is in some way set free, and I feel clairvoyant."
"What do you think you can see?" asked the Doctor.
"A young man--quite a young man--blindfolded, groping backward in the chambers of his darkened soul, and trying to escape out of it," said Bart.
"What a queer fancy!" said the Doctor.
"He must have an unusually large soul," said Uncle Jonah.
"Every soul is big enough for the man to move in, small as it is," said Bart.
"What is your youth doing in his, now?" asked the Doctor.
"He is sitting down, resigned," answered Bart.
"If his soul was dark, why was he blindfolded?" asked the Doctor.
"Well, I don't know. For the same reason that men with eyes think that a blind man cannot see so well in the dark, perhaps," was the answer. "And see here," looking into the water, "away down here is a beautiful star. There, I can blot it out with my hand! and see, now, how I can shatter it into wavelets of stars, and now break it into a hundred, by merely disturbing the water where I see it, 'like sunshine broken in a rill.' Who knows but it may be the just-arrived light of an old, old star which has just come to us? How easy to climb back on one of these filmy rays, myriads of millions of leagues, home to its source! I will take off the bandage and let the poor boy see it, and climb if he may."
"You are fanciful and metaphysical," said the Doctor. "Euclid has not operated, I fear. Why would you go up to the source of that ray? Would you expect to find God and heaven there?"
"I should but traverse the smallest portion of God," said Bart, "and yet how far away He seems just now. Somebody's unshapen hand cuts His light off; and I cannot see Him by looking down, and I haven't the strength to look up."
"How incoherently you talk; after all, suppose that there is no God, for do your best, it is but a sentiment, a belief without demonstrative proof."
"Oh, Doctor, don't! You are material, and go by lines and angles; cannot you understand that a God whose existence you would have to prove is no God at all? that if His works and givings out don't declare and proclaim him, He is a sham? You cannot see and hear, Doctor, when you are in one of your material moods. Look up, if you can see no reflection in the waters below."
"Well, when I look into the revealed heaven, for instance, Bart, I see it peopled with things of the earth, reflected into it from the earth; showing that the whole idea is of the earth--earthy."
"Oh, Doctor! like the poor old Galilean; when he thought it was all up, he went out and dug bait, and started off a-fishing. You attend to your fishing, and let me dream. If God should attempt to reveal Himself to you to-night, which I wouldn't do, He would have to elevate and enlarge and change you to a celestial, so that you could understand Him; or shrink and shrivel Himself to your capacity, and address you on your level, as I do, using the language and imagery of this earth, and you would answer Him as you do me--'It is all of the earth--earthy.' I want to sleep."
The Doctor pondered as if there was a matter for thought in what he had heard, and a little ripple of under-talk ran on about the subjects, the everlasting old, old and eternally new problems that men have dreamed and stumbled over, and always will--which Bart had dreamily spoken of as if they were very familiar to his thoughts, and they spoke of him, and wondered if anything had happened, and pulled their boat to a new position, while the overtaxed youth subsided into fitful slumber. Theodore finally awoke him, and said that they proposed to light up the jack, if he would take the spear, and they would push out to deeper water, and try for bass. Bart stared about him uncomprehendingly for a moment. "Oh, Theodore, my fishing days are over! I will never 'wound the gentle bosom of this lake' with fish spear, or gig, or other instrument; and I've backed this old rifle around for the last time to-day."
"Bart, think of all our splendid times in the woods!"
"What a funny dream I had: I dreamed I was a young Indian, not John Brown's 'little Indian,' but a real red, strapping, painted young Indian, and our tribe was encamped over on the west side of this Indian lake, by Otter Point; and I was dreadfully in love with the chief's daughter."
"Who didn't love you again," said Theodore.
"Of course not, being a well-brought up young Indianess: and I went to the Indian spring, that runs into the pond, just above 'Barker's Landing,' that you all know of."
"I never knew that it was an Indian spring," said Young.
"Well, it is," replied Bart. "It has a sort of an earthen rim around it, or had a few minutes ago; and the water bubbles up from the bottom. Well, you drop a scarlet berry into it, and if it rises and runs over the rim, the sighed-for loves you, or she don't, and I have forgotten which. I found a scarlet head of ginseng, and dropped the seeds in one after another, and they all plumped straight to the bottom."
"Well, what was the conclusion?"
"Logical. The berries were too heavy for the current, or the current was too weak for the berries."
"And the Indianess?"
"She and all else faded out."
"Oh, pshaw! how silly!" said Young. "Will you take the spear, or won't you?"
"Will you take the spear, or won't you?" replied Bart, mimicking him with great effect.
"Have you heard from Henry lately?" asked Uncle Jonah.
"A few days ago," answered Bart, who turned moodily away like a peevish child angered with half sleep, and a pang from the thrust he had received.
"Henry is the most ambitious young man I ever knew," said the Doctor; "I fear he may never realize his aspirations."
"Why not?" demanded Bart, with sudden energy. "What is there that my brother Henry may not hope to win, I would like to know? He will win it or die in the effort."
"He will not, if he lives a thousand years," said Young, annoyed at Bart's mimicking him. "It ain't in him."
"What ain't in him, Old Testament?" demanded Bart, with asperity.
"The stuff. I've sounded him; it ain't there!"
"You've sounded him! Just as you are now sounding this bottomless pond, with a tow string six feet long, having an angle worm at one end, and an old hairy curmudgeonly grub at the other."
"There, Brother Young," said Uncle Jonah, "stop before worse comes."
"Mr. Young," said Bart, a moment later, with softened voice, making way towards him, "forgive me if you can. I've done with coarse and vulgar speeches like that. You believe in Henry, and only spoke to annoy me. I take it all back. I will even spear you some bass, if Theodore will light up the jack. Give me the oars, and let me wake up a little, while we go to better ground below."
For a few moments he handled the polished, slender-tined, long-handled spear with great dexterity and success, and told the story of old Leather Stocking spearing bass from the Pioneers. He soon ceased, however, and declared he would do no more, and his companions, disgusted with his freaky humor, prepared to return. Bart, casting down his spear, remained in moody silence until they landed. Theodore picked up his rifle, the fish were placed in baskets, the tackle stowed away, the boat secured, and the party proceeded homeward.
Bart lived further from the pond than any of the party, and Theodore, who loved him, and was kind to his moods, taking a few of the finest fish, accompanied him home. As they were about to separate from Uncle Jonah--the father of Theodore--he turned to Bart, and said: "Something has happened, no matter what; don't be discouraged, you stick to them old books; there's souls in 'em, and they will carry you out to your place, some time."
"Thank you, thank you, Uncle Jonah!" said Bart, warmly; "these are the only encouraging words I've heard for two years."
"Theodore," said Bart, as they walked on, "what an uncomfortable bore I must have been to-night."
"Oh, I don't know! we thought that something had happened, perhaps."
"No, I'm trying to change, and be more civil and quiet, and have been thinking it all over, and don't feel quite comfortable; and we have both something to do besides run in the woods. You were very good to come with me, Theodore," he said, as they parted at the gate.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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10
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AFTER THE FLOOD.
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The next morning Bart was not up as usual, and George rushed into the low-ceiled room, under the roof.
"Bart! breakfast is ready! Ma thinks it strange you ain't up. That was a splendid big bass. Where did you take him? Are you sick?" as he came in.
"No, Georgie; I am only languid and dull. I must have been wofully tired."
"I should think you would be, running all day and up all night. I should think you'd be hungry, too, by this time."
"Georgie, how handsome you look this morning! What a splendid young man you will be, and so bright, and joyous, and good! Everybody will love you; no woman will scorn you. There, tell mother not to wait! I will get up soon."
Some time after, the light, quick step of his mother was heard approaching his door, where she paused as if to listen.
"I am up, mother," called out Bart; and she found him partly dressed, and sitting listlessly on his bed, pale and dejected.
"It is nothing, mother; I'm only a little depressed and dull. I'll be all right in an hour. I ran in the woods a good deal, took cold, and am tired."
She looked steadily and wistfully at him. The great change in his face could not escape her. Weary he looked, and worn, as from a heart-ill.
"What has happened, Barton? Did you go to anybody's house? Whom did you see?"
"No; I went to the pond, and met the Doctor and Uncle Jonah, and Theodore came home with me."
"Did you meet Julia Markham anywhere?"
"I did; she was going home from Coe's by the old road, and I went out of the woods with her."
A long, hard-drawn breath from his mother, who saw that he took her question like a stab.
"It is no matter, mother. It had to be over some time."
"Barton! you don't mean, Barton--" "I do, just that, mother," steadily. "She was kinder in her scorn than she meant. It was what I needed."
"Her scorn! her scorn, Barton!"
"Yes, her scorn, mother," decidedly and firmly.
"You must have talked and acted foolishly, Barton."
"I did talk and act foolishly, and I take the consequences."
"You are both young, Barton, and you have all the world in which to overcome your faults and repair your mistakes, and Julia--" "Not another word of her, mother dear! She has gone more utterly out of my life than as if she were buried. Then I might think of her; now I will not," firmly.
"Oh, that this should come to you now, my poor, poor boy!"
"Don't pity me, mother! I am soft enough now, and don't you for a moment think that I have nothing else to do in this world but to be killed out of it by the scorn of a girl. Let us not think of these Markhams. The Judge is ambitious, and proud of his wealth and self, and his daughter is ambitious too. The world wants me; it has work for me. I can hear its voices calling me now, and I am not ready. Don't think I am to sit and languish and pine for any girl;" and his mouth was firm with will and purpose, and a great swell of pride and pain agitated the bosom of his mother, who recognized the high elements of a nature drawn from her own.
"You know, mother," he continued, thoughtfully, "that I am not one to be loved. I am not handsome and popular, like Morris, whom all men like and many women love; nor thoughtful and accomplished and considerate, like Henry, whom everybody esteems and respects, and of whom so much is expected."
"Do you envy them, Barton?"
"Envy them, mother? Don't I love the world for loving Morris? Don't I follow him about to feel the gladness that he brings? Don't I live on the praises of Henry? and don't I tear every man that utters a doubt of his infallibility? Poor old Dominie Young! I was savage on him last night, for an unnecessary remark about Henry; and I'll go and hear him preach, to show my contrition; and penitence can't go further. Now, mother dear, I probably wanted this, and I am now down on the flat, hard foundation of things. Don't blame this Julia, and don't think of her in connection with me. No girl will ever scorn one of your boys but once."
She lingered, and would have said more; but he put her away with affected gayety, and said he was coming down immediately,--and he did. But the melancholy chords vibrated long.
There was another overhauling of the little desk, and innumerable sketches of various excellence, having a family resemblance, with faults in common, were sent to join the departed verses.
That night, in a letter to Henry, he said: "I've burned the last of my ships, not saving even a small boat."
* * * * * Mrs. Ridgeley pondered over the revelation which her woman's intuitions had drawn from Barton. No woman can understand why a son of hers should fail with any natural-born daughter of woman, and she suspected that poor Bart had, with his usual impetuosity, managed the affair badly. No matter if he had; she felt that he was not an object of any woman's scorn; and this particular Julia, she had every reason to know, would live to correct her impressions and mourn her folly. She, however, was incapable of injustice to even her own sex; and if Julia did not fancy Barton, she was not to blame, however faulty her taste. She remembered with satisfaction that she and hers were under no obligations to the Markhams, and she only hoped that her son would be equal to adhering to his purpose. She had little fear of this, although she knew nothing of the offensive manner of his rejection, and had no intimation of what followed it. To her, Julia was to be less than the average girl of her acquaintance.
In the afternoon the two mothers met by accident, at the store, whither Mrs. Ridgeley had gone to make a few small purchases, and Mrs. Markham to examine the newly-arrived goods. Mrs. Ridgeley had no special inducement to waste herself on Mrs. Markham, and none to exhibit any sensibility at the treatment of Barton; her manner was an admirable specimen of the cool, neighborly, indifferently polite. She was by nature a thorough-bred and high-spirited woman; and had Julia openly murdered poor Bart, the manner of his mother would not have betrayed her knowledge of the fact to Mrs. Markham. That lady busied herself with some goods until Mrs. Ridgeley had completed her purchases, when she approached her with her natural graciousness, which was so spontaneous that it was hardly a virtue, and was met with much of her own frank suavity. These ladies never discussed the weather, or their neighbors, or hired girls,--which latter one of them did not have; and with a moment's inquiry after each other's welfare, in which each omitted the family of the other, Mrs. Markham asked Mrs. Ridgeley's judgment as to the relative qualities of two or three pieces of ladies' fabrics, carelessly saying that she was choosing for Julia, who was quite undecided. Mrs. Ridgeley thought Miss Markham was quite right to defer the matter to her mother's judgment, and feared that her own ignorance of goods of that quality would not enable her to aid Mrs. Markham. Mrs. Markham casually remarked that there was much demand for the goods, and that Julia had had a long walk around to the Coes the day before, and home through the woods, and was a little wearied to-day, and had referred the matter to her. Mrs. Ridgeley understood that Miss Markham was accustomed to healthy out-door exercise, and yet young girls were sometimes, she presumed, nearly as imprudent as boys, etc.; she trusted Miss Markham would soon be restored.
If either of the ladies looked the other in the face while speaking and spoken to, as is allowable, neither discovered anything by the scrutiny. Mrs. Markham thought Mrs. Ridgeley must suffer much on account of the rashness of so many spirited boys, though she believed that Mrs. Ridgeley was fortunate in the devotion of all her sons. Mrs. Ridgeley thanked her; as to her boys, she had become accustomed to their caring for themselves, and when they were out she seldom was anxious about them. Mrs. Markham thought that they must have some interesting adventures in their hunting excursions. Mrs. Ridgeley said that Morris always enjoyed telling of what he had done and met in the woods, while Barton never mentioned anything, unless he had found a rare flower, a splendid tree, or a striking view, or something of that sort.
The ladies gave each other much well-bred attention, and Mrs. Markham went on to remark that she had not seen Barton since his return, but that Julia had mentioned meeting him once or twice. Mrs. Ridgeley replied that soon after Barton came home, she remembered that he spoke of meeting Miss Markham at the store. The faces of the ladies told nothing to each other. Mrs. Markham gave an animated account of her call at the house being built by Major Ridgeley for Mr. Snow, in Auburn, and said that Mr. Snow was promising that Major Ridgeley might give a ball in it; and the Major undertook to have it ready about New Year's, and that the ball would be very select, she understood; the house was to contain a very fine ball-room, etc.
Had Mrs. Ridgeley received a letter recently from Henry? She had. Would Barton probably go and study with his brother? She thought that would be pleasant for both. Mrs. Markham was very kind to inquire about the boys. Would Mrs. Ridgeley permit Mrs. Markham to send her home in her new buggy? It stood at the door. Mrs. Ridgeley thanked her; she was going up by Coe's, and so out across the bit of woods, home. Did not Mrs. Ridgeley fear the animal that had been heard to scream in these woods? Mrs. Ridgeley did not in the least, and she doubted if there was one.
The ladies separated. Mrs. Markham decided that Barton had not told his mother of meeting Julia the day before, nor of their adventure afterwards, and she was relieved from the duty of explaining anything; and she thought well of the young man's discretion, or pride.
Mrs. Ridgeley thought that Mrs. Markham was talking at her for a purpose, perhaps to find out what Barton told her; and it was some little satisfaction, perhaps, to know that Julia did not feel like being out,--but then Julia was a noble girl, and would feel regret at inflicting pain. Poor Bart! Generous Mrs. Ridgeley! It also occurred to Mrs. Ridgeley that Mrs. Markham did not return to the subject of the goods, and she was really afraid that Julia might lose her dress.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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11
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UNCLE ALECK.
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The marvellous power of Christianity to repeat itself in new forms apparently variant, and reveal itself under new aspects, or rather its wonderful fulness and completeness, that enables the different ages of men, under ever-varying conditions of culture and development, to find in it their greatest needs supplied, and their highest civilization advanced, may be an old observation. A change in the theological thought and speculation of New England was beginning to make its way to the surface at about the time of the migration of its sons and daughters to the far-off Ohio wilderness, and many minds carried with them into the woods a tinge of the new light. Theodore Parker had not announced the heresy that there was an important difference between theology and religion, and that life was of more consequence than creed. But Calvinism had come to mean less to some minds, and there was another turning back to the great source by strong new seekers, to whom the accepted formulas had become empty, dry shells, to be pulverized, and the dead dust kneaded anew with the sweet waters of the ever fresh fountain. Those who bore the germs of the new thought to the wild freedom of nature, in the woods, found little to restrain or direct it; and, as is usual upon the remoulding of religious thought, while the strong religious nature questions only as to the true, many of different temperament boldly question the truth of all. The seeds and sources of a religious revolution are remote, and its apparent results a generation of heretics and infidels. Heresy sometimes becomes orthodoxy in its turn, and in its career towards that, and in its days of zeal and warfare, the infidel often becomes its convert.
Those in the new colony, who turned to the somewhat softer and sweeter givings out of the Great Teacher, and to whom these qualities made the predominant elements of his doctrines, were few in numbers, scattered and weak, while the mass of the immigrants were staunch in the theology of their old home. The holders of the new ideas not only suffered from the odium of all new heresies, but their doctrines were especially odious, as tending to destroy the wholesome sanctions of fitting punishments, while, like the teachers of all ideas at variance with the old, they were surrounded by and confounded with the herd of old scoffers and unbelievers, who always try to ally themselves with those who, for any reason, doubt or question the dogmas always rejected by them.
And so it is that the apostles of a new dogma come to be weighted with whatever of odium may attach to the old rejectors of the old; and there is always this bond of sympathy between the new heretic and the old infidel; they are both opposed to the holders of the old faith, and hence so far are allies.
In Newbury, in that far-off time, a dozen families, perhaps, respectable for intelligence and morality, were zealous acceptors of the new ideas; and about these, to their great scandal, gathered the straggling, rude spirits and doubtful characters that lightly float on the wave of emigration, to be dropped wherever that subsides.
The organizing power of the new ideas in itself, was not great. Their spirit was not, and cannot, be aggressive. They consisted in part of a rejection of much that made Puritanism intolerant in doctrine, and that furnished it with its organizing and militant power.
Men organize to do, and not merely to not do. Among the most earnest in the support of these ideas were Thomas Ridgeley and his wife, who were also among the most prominent in their neighborhood. Their public religious exercises were not frequent, and were holden in a school-house in their vicinity, the most attractive feature of which was the excellent singing of the small congregation. Mrs. Ridgeley came from a family of much local celebrity for their vocal powers, while her husband was not only an accomplished singer, but master of several instruments, and in the new settlements he was often employed as a teacher of music.
The preacher of this small congregation was Mr. Alexander, "Uncle Aleck," as everybody called him, who lived in the west part of the town, on the border of "the woods." A man well in years, inferior in person, with a mild, sweet, benevolent face, and blameless, dreamy life, he spent much time in "sarching the Scripters," as he expressed it, in constant conversations and mild disputations of Bible texts and doctrines, and sermonizing at the Sunday assemblies of his co-believers. He was a man without culture, without the advantage of much converse with cultivated people, of rather feeble and slender mental endowments, but of a wonderfully sweet, serene, cheerful temper, and a most abiding faith. His was a heart and soul whose love and compassion embraced the created universe. He believed that God created only to multiply the objects of His own love, and that the ultimate end of all Providence was to bless, and he did not doubt that He would manage to have His way. That He had ever generated forces and powers beyond His control, he did not believe. The gospels, to him, were luminous with love, mercy, and protecting providence; and while his sermons were faulty and confused, his language vicious, and his pronounciation depraved, so that he furnished occasional provocation to scoffers among the profane, and to critics among the orthodox, there was always such sweetness and tenderness, and love so broad, deep, rich and pure, that few earnest or thoughtful minds ever heard him without being moved and elevated by his benignant spirit.
He was always in converse with the Master in his early ministrations, in beautiful, far-off, peaceful Galilee. He was a contented and happy feeder upon the manna and wine of those early wanderings and preachings among a simple and primitive people; and was forever lingering away from Jerusalem, and avoiding the final catastrophe, which he could never contemplate without shuddering horror. No power on earth could ever convert his simple faith to the idea that this great sacrifice was an ill-devised scheme to end in final failure; and he preached accordingly. The elder Ridgeley had been dead many years; the simple faith had gained few proselytes; Uncle Aleck's sermons made little impression, and gained nothing in clearness of statement or doctrine, but ripened and deepened in tenderness and sweetness. His people remained unpopular, and nothing but the force of character of a few saved them from personal proscription.
The Ridgeley boys, the older ones, were steady in the faith of their parents. Morris openly acknowledged it and Henry had been destined by his father to its teachings; Barton stood by his mother, however he esteemed her faith, and occasionally said sharp and pungent things of its opponents, which confirmed the unpopular estimate in which he was undoubtedly held.
The Markhams were orthodox. Dr. Lyman was a nearly unbelieving materialist at this time, but had several times "wabbled," as Bart expressed it, from orthodoxy to infidelity, without touching the proscribed ground of Uncle Aleck.
Mr. Young was an obsolete revival exhorter, whose life did little to illustrate and enforce his givings out. He had a weakness for the elder Scriptures; and hence the irreverent name applied to him in the boat by Bart.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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12
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A CONSECRATION.
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Among the adherents of uncle Aleck were the Coes, a mild, moony race, and recently it was understood that Emeline, the only daughter in a family of eight or nine, a languid, dreamy, verse-making mystic, had expressed a wish to receive the rite of Christian baptism, at that time practised by Uncle Aleck and his associates in Northern Ohio.
The ceremony had been postponed on account of the illness of her mother, and was finally performed on the Sunday following the incidents last narrated. A meeting was to be holden in the primitive forest, near Coe's cabin, on the margin of a deep, crystal pool, formed naturally by the springs that supplied Coe's Creek. Few events happened in that quiet region, and this was an event. News of it had circulated widely, and hundreds attended.
The occasion was not without a certain touching interest. The beauty of the day, the wildness of the scenery under the grand old trees, with rude rocks, beautiful slopes, and running, pure water, and the deepening tints of autumn in sky, cloud and foliage,--the warm shafts of sunshine that here and there lit it all up,--the sincere gravity that fell as a Sabbath hush on the expectant multitude, who seemed to realize the presence of a solemn mystery,--carried back an imaginative mind to an earlier day and a more primitive people, when the early Christians, in the absence of schism, administered the same rite.
Uncle Aleck, imbued with the sweetest spirit of his Master, seemed inspired with a sense of the sacredness of the act he was to perform. Of its divine origin, and sweet and consecrating efficacy, he had not the slightest doubt. The simple services of his faith he performed in a way that harmonized entirely with the occasion and its surroundings. A grand hymn under the old trees was sung by the choir with fine effect; a short, fervent prayer, the reading of two or three portions of one of the gospels, and a few words of sweet and simple fervor, expressive of a great love and sacrifice, and the unutterable hope and rest of its grateful acknowledgment in the public act about to be performed, followed; and then the believing, trembling girl was led into the translucent waters, which for a single instant closed over her, and was returned, with a little cry of ecstasy, to her friends. Another hymn, a simple benediction, and the solemnly impressed crowd broke up into little knots, and left the spot vacant to the silence of approaching night.
Conspicuous in this gathering, as conspicuous everywhere where he appeared, was Major Ridgeley, an elder brother of Bart. Slightly taller, and absolutely straight in the shoulders, with an uppish turn to his head, the Major was universally pronounced a handsome man. His large, bright, hazel eye, pure red and white complexion just touched by the sun, with a world of black curling hair swept carelessly back from, an open white brow, with well-formed mouth and chin, and his frank, dashing, manly way, cheery voice, and gay manner, made him a universal favorite; and, farmer and carpenter though he was, he was welcomed as an equal by the best people in the community. He had little literary cultivation, but mixing freely among men, and received with universal kindness by all women, he had the ready manners of a man of the world, which, with a shrewd vigor of mind, qualified him for worldly success.
Bart came upon the ground with his mother, near whom he remained, and to whom he was very attentive. To him the whole thing was very impressive. His poetic fancy idealized it, and carried him back till he seemed to see and hear the dedication of a young, pure spirit to the sweet sacredness of a holy life, as in the days of the preachings of the apostles. When the final hymn was given out he stood by his brother, facing most of the crowd, and for the first time they recognized in him a nameless something that declared and asserted itself--something that vaguely hinted of the sheaf of the boy Joseph, that arose and stood upright, and to which their sheaves involuntarily did obeisance.
Still very young, and less handsome than his brother, he was yet more striking, pale and fair, with little color, and a face of boyish roundness, which began to develop lines of thought and strength. His brow, not so beautiful, was more ample; his features were regular, but lacked the light, bright, vivacious expression of Morris; while from his deep, unwinking eyes men saw calmly looking out a strong, deep nature, not observed before. He joined his mother and brother in the last hymn. Everybody knew the Ridgeleys could sing. They carried the burden of the grand and simple old tune nearly alone. The fine mezzo-soprano of the mother, the splendid tenor of Morris, and the rich baritone of Bart, in their united effect, had never been equalled in the hearing of that assembly. The melody was a sweet and fitting finale of the day, swelling out and dying away in the high arches of the forest.
* * * * * The Coes were objects of the kindness of Mrs. Markham and Julia, obnoxious as was their religious faith; but Mrs. Markham was tolerant, and she and her husband and daughter, with most of the State road people, were present.
While they were waiting for the crowd to disperse, so that they could reach their carriage, the Ridgeleys, who began to move out, on their way home, approached, and were pleasantly recognized by the Markhams, with whom the Major was a great favorite. The two parties joined, shook hands, and interchanged a pleasant greeting--all but Bart. He moved a little away, and acknowledged their presence by holding his hat in his hand, as if unconscious that he was a spectacle for the eyes of some of them, and without betraying that he could by any possibility care. It was a sore trial for him.
Mrs. Markham looked at him several times as if she would go to him, and an expression once or twice came into the sweet and pensive face of Julia, that seemed to mean that she wished she could say to him, "I want so much to thank you for your courage and generosity!" Morris noticed the strange conduct of Barton, and felt an impulse to call to him, and on their way home he spoke to him about it.
"Why, Bart, what is the matter? I thought you and the Markhams were on the best of terms; especially you and Julia and Mrs. Markham."
"Well, Major, you see a shrewd man can be mistaken, don't you?"
"What has happened?"
"That which renders it absolutely impossible that I should ever voluntarily go into the presence of these Markhams, and especially of Julia."
The voice was low, and full of force, with a little bitterness. Morris looked at his brother with incredulous amazement.
"Morris," said Bart, "don't ask more about it. Mother guessed something of it. Pray don't refer to it ever again."
Morris walked forward, with their mother; and when he turned back to the stricken face of his young brother, there was a great tenderness in his eye; but his brow gathered and his face darkened into a momentary frown. He was by nature frank and brave, and could not long do any one injustice. His nature was hopeful, and bright, and manly. No girl could always scorn his brother Bart; nor did he believe that Bart would willingly remain scorned.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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13
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BLACKSTONE.
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The town of Burton was one of the oldest in the county. It was the residence of many wealthy men, the seat of Judge Hitchcock, Chief Justice of the State, as well as the home of Seabury Ford, a rising young politician, just commencing a most useful and honorable career, which was to conduct him to the Chief Magistracy of the State.
The young Whig party had failed to elect Gen. Harrison, but the result of the contest assured it of success in the campaign of 1840, for which a vast magazine was rapidly and silently accumulating. The monetary and credit disasters of '36-'37, occurring in the third term of uninterrupted party rule, would of themselves have overthrown a wiser and better administration than that of Mr. Van Buren, patriotic and enlightened as that was, contrasted with some which followed.
Men, too, were beginning to examine and analyze the nature and designs of slavery; and already Theodore Weld had traversed the northern and middle States, and with his marvellous eloquence and logic, second to none of those who followed him, had stirred to their profoundest depths the cool, strong, intellectual souls of the New Englanders of those regions.
One early October morning, as Gen. Ford, then commander of a brigade of militia, in which Major Ridgeley held a commission, was arranging some papers in his law office, a young man paused a moment in front of the open door, and upon being observed, lifted his hat and stepped frankly forward. Young men in Ohio then seldom removed their hats to men, and rarely to women; and the act, gracefully done as it was, was remarked by the lawyer.
"General Ford, I believe?" said the youth.
"Yes; will you walk in?"
"I am Barton Ridgeley," said the young man, stepping in; "usually called Bart."
"A brother of Major Ridgeley?"
"Yes; though I am thought not to be much like him."
"The Major is a warm friend of mine," said the General, "and I should be glad to serve you."
"Thank you, General; I feel awkward over my errand here," hesitating; "I wanted to see a lawyer in his office, with his books and papers, and be permitted to look, especially at his books."
"You are entirely welcome. I am not much of a lawyer, and have but a few books, but nothing would give me more pleasure than to have you examine them."
"I may annoy you."
"Not at all. I've not much to do. Take a seat."
Bart did so. He found the General, whom he had only seen at a distance on muster days, a man of the ordinary height, with heavy shoulders, with a little stoop in them, a very fine head and face, and a clear, strong, grayish, hazel eye; and, on the whole, striking in his appearance. There were files of leading newspapers, the _National Intelligencer, Ohio State Journal, Courier and Inquirer_, etc. These did not so much attract the young man's attention; but, approaching a large book-case, filled compactly with dull yellow books, uniform in their dingy, leathery appearance, he asked: "Are these law-books?"
"Yes, those are law-books."
"And these, then, are the occult cabalistical books, full of darkness and quirks and queer terms, in which is hidden away, somewhere, a rule or twist or turn that will help the wrong side of every case?"
"So people seem to think," said the General, smiling.
"Does a student have to read all of these?"
"Oh, no, not to exceed a dozen or fourteen."
"A-h-h-h! not more than that? Will you show me some of them?"
"Certainly. There, this is Blackstone, four volumes, which covers the whole field of the law; all the other elementary writers are only amplifications of the various titles or heads of Blackstone."
"Indeed! only four volumes! Can one be a lawyer by reading Blackstone?"
"A thorough mastery of it is an admirable foundation of a good lawyer."
"How long is it expected that an ordinary dullard would require to master Blackstone?"
"Some students do it in four months. I have known one or two to do it in three. They oftener require six, and some a year."
Bart could hardly repress his astonishment. "Four months! a month to one of these books!" running them over. "They have some notes, I see; but, General, a man should commit it to memory in that time!"
The General smiled.
"This is an English work; is there an American which answers to Blackstone?"
"Yes, Kent's Commentaries, four volumes, which many prefer. I have not got it. Also Swift's work, in two volumes, which does not stand so high. Judge Cowan, of New York, has also written a book of some merit."
"Shall I annoy you if I sit down and read Blackstone a little?"
"Not at all."
He read the title-page, glanced at the American preface, etc., and then plunged in promiscuously. "It has less Latin than I expected. Is it good classical Latin?"
A smile.
"It is law Latin, and most of it would have puzzled Cicero and Virgil, I fear. Are you a Latin scholar?"
"I'm not a scholar at all. I've been an idler, generally, and have picked up only a few phrases of Latin. I've a brother, a student with Giddings & Wade, at Jefferson, who would have told me all I want to know, but I had a fancy to find it out first hand."
"Exactly;" and the General thought he looked like a youth who would not take things second-hand. "They are able lawyers, and it is said Giddings will retire from the bar and run for Congress. It is thought that Mr. Whittlesey will resign, and make an opening."
Bart thought that the General spoke of this with interest, and he made another dab at Blackstone. He then wandered off to a small but select case of miscellaneous books. "Adam Smith!" he said, with animation; "I never saw that before. How interesting it must be to get back to the beginning of things. And here is Junius, whom I have only read about! and Hume! and Irving! and Scott's Novels! Oh dear, oh dear! General, what a happy man you must be, with all these about you, and these newspapers, to come and go between you and the outside world."
"Oh! I don't know. I have but few books, compared with real libraries, and yet I must say I have more than I make useful."
Bart plunged into Ivanhoe for a moment, and then laid it down with a sigh.
The General, who found much in the frank enthusiasm of Bart to attract him, asked him many questions about himself, surroundings, etc., all of which were answered with a modest frankness, that won much on the open, manly nature of Ford.
Bart said he most of all wanted to study law, but he did not know how to accomplish it. He was without means, and wanted to remain with his mother, and he wanted only to look at the books, and learn a little about what he would have to do, the time, etc. The General said "the laws of Ohio required two years' study, before admission, which would be upon examination before the Supreme Court, or by a committee of lawyers appointed for that purpose; lawyers who received students usually charged fifty or sixty dollars per year for use of books and instruction, the last of which often did not amount to much."
Bart looked wistfully at the books, and arose to go. The General asked him to remain to dinner with such hearty cordiality, that Bart assented, and the General took him into the house and introduced him to Mrs. Ford, a tall, slender woman, of fine figure, with striking features, and really handsome; of very kindly manners, and full of genuine good womanly qualities, who believed in her husband, and was full of ambition for him.
The quiet, easy manners, and frank, sparkling conversation of Bart, won her good-will at once.
"Was he acquainted with Judge Markham's people?"
"A little."
"Mrs. Markham is one of the most superior and accomplished women I ever met," said Mrs. Ford. Of course he was acquainted with Julia, who was thought to be the belle of all that region?
Barton was slightly acquainted with her, and thought her very beautiful. His acquaintance with young ladies of her position was very limited, but he could believe that few superiors of hers could be found anywhere, etc.
Poor Bart!
Mrs. Ford presumed that a great many young men had their eyes on her, and it would be a matter of interest to see where her choice would fall.
It was some satisfaction to Bart to feel that he could hear this point referred to without any but the same pain and bruise of heart that any thought of her occasioned.
After dinner, General Ford said to Bart that if he really wished to enter upon the study of the law, he would do what he could for him; that he would permit him to take home such books as he could spare, and when he had read one he would examine him upon it, and give him another.
This was more than had entered Bart's mind; and so unaccustomed was he to receiving favors, that the sensations of gratitude were new to him, and he hardly expressed them satisfactorily to himself.
His new tutor had taken a real liking to him; he may have remembered that the Major was one of the rising young men in the south-west part of the county, whom he liked also. He called Barton's attention to the chapters of Blackstone that would demand his more careful reading, and they parted well pleased with each other.
Bart pushed off across the fields in a right line for home, with the priceless book in his hand; light came to him, and opportunity. Lord! how his heart and soul and brain arose and went out to meet them! As the branches of the young forest-tree that springs up by a river-side shoot out, rank, and strong, and full, to the beautiful light and air, and so, too, as the tree grows one-sided and disfigured, the danger is that this embodiment of young force and energy may develop one-sided. The poetic, upward tendency of his nature will help him, and his devotion to his mother will hold him unwarped, while the struggle with a great, pure, and utterly hopeless passion shall at least make a sacred desert of his heart, where no unhallowed thought shall take root. His was eminently a nature to be strengthened and purified by suffering.
But he had the law in his hands. No matter how gnarled, warped or obscure were the paths to its lurking-places, he would find them all out, and pluck out all its meanings, and make its soul his own. He had already learned from his brother the fallacy of the vulgar judgment of the law, and he knew enough of history to know that some of the wisest and greatest of men were eminent lawyers, and he thought nothing of the moral dangers of the law as a profession. He had never been even in a magistrate's court, but he had heard the legends and traditions of the advocates; had read that eminent fiction, Wirt's Life of Patrick Henry, and a volume of Charles Phillips's speeches, and had felt that strong inner going forth of the soul that yearned to find utterance in oversweeping speech.
Several times on his way home he stopped to read, and only suspended his studies at the approach of evening, which found him east of the pond, lying across his direct route, and which he found the means of passing.
Blackstone he took in earnest, and smiled to find nothing that he did not seem to comprehend, and often went back, fearing that the seeming might not be the real meaning.
At the end of a week he returned to his kind friend, the General, not without misgivings as to the result of his work. He found him at leisure in the afternoon, and was received with much kindness.
"Well, how goes Blackstone?"
"Indeed I don't know; and I am anxious, if you have leisure, to find out."
The General took the book, and turning to the definition of law, and the statement of a few elementary principles, found that they were thoroughly understood. Turning on, he paused with his finger in the book.
"What do you think of the English Constitution?"
Bart looked a little puzzled.
"The English government seems to be an admirable structure--on paper; but as to the principles that lie below it, or around it, that govern and control its workings, and from which it can't depart, I am cloudy."
"Yes, a good many are; but then there is, as you know, a great unwritten English Constitution--certain great fixed principles which from time to time have been observed, through many ages, until their observance has become a law, from which the government cannot depart, and they take the form of maxims and rules."
"I think I understand what you mean; but to me everything is in cloud-land, vague and shifting, and the fact that nobody has ever attempted to put in writing these principles, or even to enumerate them, leads one to doubt whether really there are such things. When king, lords and commons are, in theory and practice, absolutely omnipotent, I can't comprehend how there can be any other constitution. When they enact a law, nobody can question it, nobody can be heard against it; no court can pronounce it unconstitutional. What may have been thought to be unconstitutional they can declare to be law, and that ends it. So they can annihilate any one of the so-called constitutional maxims. When a party in power wants to do a thing, it is constitutional; when a minister or great noble is to be got rid of, he is impeached for a violation of the constitution, and constitutionally beheaded."
"Well," said the General, smiling, "but this, for instance: the great palladium of British liberty, taxation, must be accompanied with representation."
"Yes; that, if adhered to, would protect property and its owners; but then it never has been carried out, even in England, while the non-taxpayer is wholly out of its reach; and my recollection is, that the constitutional violation of this palladium of the Constitution by king, lords and commons, produced a lively commotion, some sixty-odd years ago."
"Yes, I've heard of that; but the attempt to tax the colonies was clearly unconstitutional; they were without representation in the Parliament that enacted the law."
"But then, General, you are to remember that, according to Blackstone, Parliament was and is, by the English Constitution, omnipotent. The fact is, we took one part of the constitution, and George the other; we kept our part, and all our land, and George maintained his, on his island, strong as ever; and yet there, property-owners always have been and always will be taxed, who do not vote. I fear that it will be found that all the other maxims have from time to time suffered in the same way."
"You must admit, however," said the General, "that the maxims in favor of personal freedom have usually been adhered to in England proper."
"Yes, the sturdy elements of the natural constitution of the English people have vindicated their liberty against all constitutional violations of it; and while I cordially detest them, one and all, there isn't another nation in Europe that I am willing to be descended from."
"I fear that is the common sentiment among our people," said the General. "And so you think the world-famous British Constitution may be written in one condensed sentence--the old English formula--Parliament is omnipotent."
"Yes, just that. Parliament is the constitution; everything else is ornamental."
Without expressing any opinion, the General resumed, and turning at hop, skip and jump, he found that Bart happened to be at home wherever he alighted. He finally turned to the last page, and asked questions with the same result, closing the book with: "Well, what else have you been doing this week?"
"Not much; I've worked a little, dabbled with geometry some, read Gibbon a little, newspapers less, run some in the woods, and fooled away some of my time," answered Bart, with a self-condemning air.
"Have you slept any?"
"Oh, yes."
"Oh, dear!" said the General, laughing good-humoredly, and then looking grave, "this will never do--never!"
"Well, General," said Bart, crestfallen, "I've only had the book a week, and although I don't memorize easily, I believe I can commit the whole before a month is out, except the notes."
"Oh, my dear boy, it isn't that! I don't know but there is a man in the world who, without having seen a law book before, has taken up and mastered the first volume of Blackstone in a week, but I never heard of him. What will never do is--it will not do for you to go on in this way; you would read up a library in a year, if you lived, but will die in six months, at this rate."
With tears in his eyes, Bart said: "Do not fear me, General; I am strong and healthy; besides, there are a good many things worse than death."
"I am serious," said the General. "No mortal can stand such work long."
"Well, General, I must work while the fit is on; I am thought to be incapable of keeping to any one thing long."
"How old are you?"
"In my twenty-second year."
"Have you ever practised speaking in public?"
"I am thought to make sharp and rough answers to folks, quite too much, I believe," answered Bart, laughing; "but, save in a debating school, where I was ruled out for creating disorder, I've never tried speech-making."
"You will grow more thoughtful as you grow older," said the General.
"If I do," said Bart, "I know those who think I can't grow old fast enough."
The General gave him the second volume of Blackstone, with the injunction to be two weeks with it.
"Suppose I finish it in a week?"
"You must not; but if you do, bring it back, and take a scolding."
"Certainly," said Bart.
The General asked him to go in to tea. Bart thought that would not do, and excused himself.
* * * * * The end of another week found Bart at the end of the second volume, and also at General Ford's office. The General was away; but he found an opportunity further to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs. Ford, who introduced him to several of her circle of acquaintance, and permitted him to take the third volume of Blackstone.
The work was finished with the fourth week, to General Ford's satisfaction, and Bart was then set to try his teeth on Buller's "Nisi Prius," made up of the most condensed of all possible abstracts of intricate cases, stated in the fewest possible words, and those of old legal significance, the whole case often not occupying more than four or five lines.
The cases, as there stated, convey no shadow of an idea to the unlearned mind. What a tussle poor Bart had with them! How often he turned them over, and bit at and hammered them, before they could be made to reveal themselves.
The General looked grim when he handed him the book, and said that he did so by the advice of Judge Hitchcock. He also loaned him Adam Smith and Junius, with permission to take any books from his library during the winter, and they parted--the General to go to his duties in the Legislature, and Barton to work his way on through the winter and into the law.
The devotion of Bart to his books took him wholly from association with others. He wrote occasionally to Henry, saying little of what he was doing, and going rarely to the post-office, and never elsewhere. He developed more his care of his mother, and a protecting tenderness to his younger brothers.
Kate Fisher's little party came and went, without Bart's attendance.
The Major was spreading himself out in building houses, clearing land, and unconsciously preparing the way to a smash-up; and the immediate care of the family devolved more and more upon the younger brother.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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14
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THE YOUNG IDEA SHOOTS.
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There was a region south, on the State road, partly in the townships of Auburn and Mantua, that, like "the woods," long remained a wilderness, and was known as the "Mantua Woods." Within the last year or two, the whole of it had been sold and settled, with the average of new settlers, strong, plain, simple people, with a sprinkling of the rough, and a little element of the dangerous.
They had built there a neat frame school-house, just on the banks of Bridge Creek, and were fully bent on availing themselves of the benefits of the Ohio Common School Fund and laws.
Here, on one bleak, late November Monday morning, in front of the new school-house, stood Bart Ridgeley, who appeared then and there pursuant to a stipulation made with him, to keep their first school. He undertook it with great doubt of his ability to instruct the pupils, but with none of his capacity to manage them. He stood surrounded by some forty young specimens of both sexes and all ages--from rough, stalwart young men, bold and fearless in eye and bearing, down to urchins of five. One-half were girls, and among them several well-grown lasses, rustic and sweet.
There had also come up seven or eight of the principal patrons, to see the young school-master and learn of the prospects. They were evidently disappointed, and wondered what "Morey" could be thinking of to hire that pale, green boy, with his neat dress and gloves, to come down there. Grid Bingham or John Craft would throw him out of the window in a week. Finally, Jo Keys did not hesitate to recommend him to go home; while Canfield, who knew his brother Morris, thought he had better try the school.
Bart was surprised and indignant. He cut the matter very short.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly, but most decidedly, "I came down here to keep your school, and I shall certainly do it," with a little nod of his head to Keys. "I shall be glad to see you at almost any other time, but just now I am engaged." The decided way in which he put an end to the interview was not without its effect.
He called the scholars in, and began. They brought every sort of reading-book, from the Bible, English Reader, American Preceptor, Columbian Orator, Third Part, etc., to a New England Primer. But beyond reading, and spelling, and writing, he had only arithmetic, grammar and geography. On the whole, he got off well, and before the end of the first week was on good terms, apparently, with his whole school, with one or two exceptions; and so on through the second, which closed on Friday, and Bart turned gladly and eagerly toward home, to his mother and brothers.
The close of that week had been a little under a cloud, which left just a nameless shadow over the commencement of the third, and Bart began it with an uneasy feeling.
Bingham, a short, stout, compact young ruffian, of twenty-two or twenty-three, not quite as tall as Bart, but a third more in weight, and who had an ugly reputation as a quarrelsome fellow of many fights, had at first treated Bart with good-natured toleration, and said he would let him go on awhile. With him consorted John Craft, a chap of about his age, but of better reputation. Bingham had broken up a school the winter before, just below in Mantua, and was from the first an object of dread to parents in the new district. He was a dull scholar, and his blunders had exposed him to ridicule, which the teacher could not always repress. He left the school, on that Friday, moody and sullen, and came back on Monday full of mischief.
Not a word was said, that reached Bart's ears, but the young women had a scared look, and an ominous dread seemed to brood over the school-room. Monday and Tuesday came and went, as did the scholars, and also Wednesday forenoon.
The room was arranged with three rows of desks on two sides, and one on the third. Behind these sat the large scholars, with Grid, near the door. When he called the scholars in, after the recess, Bart quietly locked the outside door, and put the key in his pocket. He was cool, collected, and on the alert.
The first class began to read, each rising while reading, and then sitting down. Bart had observed that Bingham sat with his book closed, and wholly inattentive to the exercise, and quietly placed himself within a few feet of his desk.
As it came Bingham's turn, he sat with an assumed look of swaggering indifference. "Mr. Bingham," said Bart very quietly, "will you read?"
"I'm not goin' to read for any God damned----" the sentence was never finished, though Grid was; yet just how, nobody who saw it could quite tell. Something cracked, and Grid and his desk went sprawling into the middle of the floor. A hand came upon his collar as the last word was uttered. It was so sudden that he only seized his desk, which was taken from its fastening at the bottom as if it were pasteboard, and went in ruins with its occupant. As he struck, half stunned and surprised, he arose partly to his feet, and received on the side of his head a full blow from the fist of Bart.
Craft, who had been amazed at the suddenness of the catastrophe, and who was to have shared in the fight, if necessary, arose hesitatingly just as Grid received his _quietus_. Bart turned upon him with his white, galvanized face, and watery, flashing eyes, "Sit down, John Craft," in a voice that tore him like a rasp on his spine, and John sat down. During this time, and until now, no other sound was heard in the room; now a half sob, with suppressed cries, broke from the terrified girls and children. "Hush! hush! not a word!" said the still excited master; "it is over, and nobody much hurt." Bingham now began to rise, and Bart approached him: "Wait a moment, Mr. Bingham," he said, and, unlocking the outside door: "There! now take your books and leave, and don't let me find you about this school-house so long as I remain--go!" and the humbled bully sullenly picked up his small property and went.
"Mr. Craft," said Bart, approaching that cowed and trembling youth, "you and I can get along. I don't want to part with you if you will remain with me. I will excuse you from school this afternoon, and you can come back in the morning, and that may be the last of it. I will not humiliate you and myself with any punishment." There was a tremor in Bart's voice, and a softness in his face. John arose: "Mr. Ridgeley, I don't know how I came to--I am very sorry--I want to stay with you."
"All right, John, we will shake hands on it." And they did.
"My poor, poor children!" said Bart, going up to the younger ones, who had huddled into the farthest corner and clambered on to the desks. "My poor scared little things, it is all over now, and we are all so glad and happy, aren't we?" and he took up some of the smallest in his arms and kissed them, and the still frightened, but glad and rejoicing young women, looked as if they would be willing to have that passed round. When they were pacified, and resumed their places, Charley Smith gathered up the boards and parts of the disabled desk, and Bart, with a few kind words to the older scholars, resumed the exercises of the school.
Scenes of violence were rare, even in that rude day, among that people; the sensibilities of the children were deeply wounded, and none of them were in a fitting condition to profit by their exercises, which were barely gone through with, and they were early dismissed to their homes, with the marvellous tale of the afternoon's events.
Bart was in the habit of remaining to write up the copies, and place everything in order before he left. The young men and older maidens lingered at the door, and then returned in a body, to say how glad they were that it had ended as it did. They knew something would happen, and they were so glad, and then they shook hands with him, and went hurrying home.
When they left, Bart locked the door, and, throwing himself into the chair by his table, laid his head down and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears;--but he was a man now, and tears only choked and suffocated him. He was ashamed of himself for his weakness, and bathing his eyes, walked about the school-room to regain his composure. Every particle of anger left his bosom before Bingham left the house, and now he was fully under the influence of the melancholy part of his nature. Never before, even in childish anger, had he touched a human being with violence, and now he had exerted his strength, and had grappled with and struck a fellow-man in a brute struggle for animal mastery; he felt humiliated and abased. That the fellow's nature was low, and that he was compelled to act as he had done, was little comfort to him. He was glad that he decided not to punish or expel John. Darkness came, and he was aroused by a noise at the door. He unlocked it, and found Canfield and Morey and Smith.
"Hullo, Ridgeley!" exclaimed the former. "Good God! and so you had a pitched battle, and licked that bully before he had time to begin; give me your hand! Who would have thought it?"
"I did," said Morey. "I knowed he'd do it. What will Jo Keys say now, I wonder?" And the party went inside, and wondered over the wrecked desk, and asked all about it. And then came in the stalwart Jo himself, celebrated for his strength.
"Wal, wal, wal! if this don't beat all natur, I give it up! What are you made of, young man, all spring and whalebone? I'd a bet he would 'a cleaned out a school-house full o' such dainty book chaps. I give it up. Let me feel o' you," taking Bart good-naturedly by the shoulder. "You'll do, by----. My Valdy said that when Grid gathered himself up the first time, he went heels over head, clear to the fire-place."
And so the good-natured athlete went over with it all, with a huge relish for the smallest detail, and others came in, until nearly all the male patrons of the school had assembled; and Bart informally, but with hearty unanimity, was declared the greatest school-master of his day; they quoted all the similar instances within the range of memory or legend, and this achievement was pronounced the greatest. They were proud of him, and of the exploit, and of themselves that they had him. Morey, who had taken him because he could find no other, blazed up into a man of fine discernment; and Jo nearly killed him with approving slaps on his feeble back. Indeed, his apologies for what he had said were too striking.
Life in all new communities is run mainly on muscle, and whoever exhibits skill and bravery in its rough encounters, peaceful or warlike, always commands a premium. The people among whom Bart lived had not passed beyond the discipline of brute force, and he shared the usual fortune of heroes of this sort, of having his powers and achievements exaggerated, even by those under whose eyes he had acted.
A rumor reached Markham's and Parker's, from which it spread, that Bart's school had arisen against him, and the first version was that he was killed, or very dangerously wounded; that he defended himself with desperation, and killed one or two, but was finally overcome; that the neighborhood was divided and in arms, and the school-house had been burned. But the stage came in soon after, and the driver declared that he had seen Grid Bingham, whom he knew, brought out dead, that John Craft was badly hurt, and one or two more, and that Bart, who escaped without injury, would be arrested for murder. It was finally said that he would not be arrested, but that Grid was either dead or dying; that he headed four or five of the older boys, and they were whipped out by Bart single-handed, who locked the door, and pitched in, etc.
The rumor produced a deep sensation in Newbury; and, whilst it was thought that Bart had been rash, and undoubtedly in fault, yet he had behaved handsomely. When it was ascertained that he was victor, it was generally thought that he was a credit to the place, which was very natural and proper, considering that he had never before been thought to be a credit to anything anywhere.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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15
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SNOW'S PARTY.
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It was called a house-warming, although the proprietor had not taken possession of the house with his family. The ball-room and most of the rooms were complete, and the building was, on the whole, in a good condition to receive a large company. The Major was the presiding genius of the festivities; and while the affair was in a way informal, and an assemblage of friends and neighbors of the owner, still he had made a judicious use of his authority, and had invited a good many rather prominent people from a distance. The evening of the occasion saw not only a numerous assemblage, but one in which the highest grades of society were fully represented.
As it was not strictly a ball, there was not the least impropriety in the straightest church-members--and they were strict, then--attending it; and they did. The sleighing was fine, and, as the usage was, the guests came early, and went early--the next morning. The barns, stables and neighboring houses were freely offered, and an efficient corps of attendants were on hand, while the absence of public-houses in the immediate neighborhood relieved the occasion of the presence of the unbidden rough element that would otherwise have volunteered an attendance.
The Markhams were there, with Julia, and the bevy of beautiful girls we saw with her at the store; Mrs. Ford from Burton, with some of her set; two or three from Chardon; the Harmons from Mantua; some of the Kings from Ravenna; two or three Perkinses from Warren, and many others. A rather showy young Mr. Greer, a gentleman of leisure, and who floated about quite extensively, knew everybody, and seemed on pleasant terms with them all, was among the guests.
The essential elements of pleasure and enjoyment--high and gay spirits, good-nature, with a desire to please and be pleased, where everybody was at their best, and where was a large infusion of good breeding--were present, and a general good time was the logical result.
There was a plenty of good music, and the younger part of the company put it to immediate and constant use. The style of dancing was that of the mediaeval time, between the stately and solemn of the older, and the easy, gliding, insipid of the present; and one which required, on the part of the gentlemen, lightness and activity, rather than grace, and allowed them great license in the matter of fancy steps. Two long ranks contra-faced, and hence contra dance--degenerated to country dance--was the prevailing figure; the leading couple commencing and dancing down with every other couple, until in turn each on the floor had thus gone through.
The cotillon, with its uniform step and more graceful style, had been already introduced by instructors, who had found short engagements under the severe reprobation of the Orthodox churches; but the waltz was unknown, except in name, and the polka, schottische, etc., had then never been mentioned on the Reserve.
The young people early took possession of the dancing-hall, where, surrounded by the elders, a quick succession of Money Musk, Opera Reel, Chorus Jig, etc., interspersed sparingly with cotillons, evidenced the relish with which young spirits and light hearts enjoy the exercises of the ball-room.
Julia Markham was the conceded belle, beautiful and elegant in form and style, faultless in dress and manner, brilliant with the vivacity of healthy girlhood. Next to her, undoubtedly, was Miss Walters, with whom ranked several elegant girls from abroad.
And of the young people here may be remarked what is usually true in all country places, that there were about three cultivated and refined girls to one young man of corresponding accomplishments.
As the ball went forward, the elders--and the elders did not dance in the young Ohio in those days, rarely or never--gathered into various groups, discussing the dancers and various kindred topics, and the little odds and ends of graceful "they says" that append themselves to the persons of those at all noticeable.
Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Markham were the centre of the principal of these. They were really good friends, and liked each other. Their husbands were friends, and possible rivals, and watched each other. Both were ambitious, and lived too near each other.
"Who is Miss Walters?" Mrs. Ford asked.
"She is from Pittsburgh. Her brother is in New Orleans, and she remains with the Fishers, relatives of hers, till he returns."
"She is very elegant."
"She is indeed, and she and Julia are great friends."
"Who is that dancing with Julia?"
"A Mr. Thorndyke. He is of a Boston family, on a visit to his uncle in Thorndyke. Mr. Markham knew them, and he came up to call on us."
"He dances a little languidly, I think."
"He feels a little out of place in this mixed company, I presume. His notions are high Boston."
"How does that suit Julia?"
"It amuses her. He was telling her how this and that is done in Boston, and she in return told him how we do not do the same things here, and claimed that our way is the best."
"Here comes Major Ridgeley. He seems much at home in a ball-room."
"Yes, he is one of those ready men, who always appear best in a crowd."
He saw and made his way to them; inquired about the General, spoke of his reply to Byington, complimented the dancing of Julia, inquired about her partner, and rattled on about several things.
"Will your brother Barton be here this evening?" asked Mrs. Ford.
"I don't know; he thought he would not," was the reply. "He don't go out at all, lately."
"What an awful time he had with that Bingham!" said Mrs. Ford. "They say he has broken up two or three schools, and was a powerful and dangerous man, twenty-five or six years old. I would really like to see Barton. He is quite a lion."
"Bart is sensitive about it," answered the Major, "and don't speak of it. Why, I was on my way up from Ravenna, the next day after it happened, and called at his school-house for half an hour; the desk had not been put up then, and I asked him what had happened to it, and he said the boys had torn it down in a scuffle. He never said a word of the fracas to me, and I only heard of it when I got up to Parker's. There I found young Johnson, who had just come from there."
"Why, how you talk! What is the reason for that, do you suppose?"
"I don't know. He was at home a few days after, and seemed hurt and sad over it; and when I asked him how many innocents he had slaughtered since, he said one in two days, and at that rate they would just last him through."
"It is funny," said Mrs. Ford.
"As I have observed, Barton is not much inclined to talk about what he does," said Mrs. Markham; "and, do you know, Major, he has not given me a chance to speak to him since his return."
"He thinks, possibly, that he is under a cloud," answered the Major.
"He chooses to think so, then," said Mrs. Markham; and the music closed, and the dancers looked for seats, and the Major went away to meet an engagement for the next dance.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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16
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WALTZ.
|
A little commotion about the door--a little mob of young men and boys--and a little spreading buzz and whisper--some hand-shakings--two or three introductions--then another buzz--and Bart made his way forward, with an air of being annoyed and bored and pushed forward as if to escape. He was under the inspiration of one of those sudden impulses upon which he acted, so sudden, often, as to seem not the result of mental process.
He discovered Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Markham, with Julia, Miss Walters, and several others, about them, whom he at once approached with the modest assurance of a thorough-bred gentleman, safe in the certainty of a gracious reception, and conscious of power to please. A happy word to the two or three who made way for him, and he stood bowing and smiling, and turning and bowing to each with the nice discriminating tact that rendered to all their due.
Mrs. Ford graciously extended her hand, which he took, and bowed very low over; she was nearest him. Mrs. Markham, in a pleased surprise, gave him hers, and its reception was, to her nice perception, even more profoundly acknowledged. To Miss Markham and Miss Walters precisely the same, with a little of the chivalrous devotion of a knight to acknowledged beauty.
"The fall and _winter_ style prevails, I presume," he said, in gay banter, as if anticipating that their gloved hands were not to be touched.
"Your memory is good, Mr. Ridgeley," said Julia, with a little laugh and a little flush.
"Forgetfulness is not my weakness," he replied.
"I was not aware you knew Mrs. Ford," said Mrs. Markham, observing the little flutter in Julia's cheeks, and thinking there was a meaning in Bart's _persiflage_.
"Mrs. Ford and General Ford," he answered with much warmth, "have been so very, very kind to me, that I have presumed to claim her acquaintance, even here; but then, they have only known me three months," with affected despair.
"Well," said Mrs. Ford, "what of that?"
"I find you with those who have known me all my life," with a deprecating look towards Mrs. Markham.
"Well, Mr. Ridgeley, you are not deserving of forbearance at my hands, if I only knew of anything bad to say of you."
"What exquisite irony! May I be permitted to know which of my thousand faults is now specially remembered against me?"
"You have not permitted me, until this moment, even to speak to you since your return last summer."
"May I ask that you will permit that to stand with my other misdemeanors until some rare fortune enables me to atone for all at once?"
"And when will that be?"
"Oh!
In that blissful never, When the Sundays come together, When the sun and glorious weather Wrap the earth in spring forever; As in that past time olden, Which poets call the golden."
Laughing.
"And so I have poetry, and inspire it myself--that is some compensation, certainly," said Mrs. Markham, smiling.
"I fear my verses have deepened my offence," said Bart, with affected gravity.
Kate Fisher intervened here: "Mr. Ridgeley, I have more cause for offence than even Mrs. Markham. Why didn't you come to my little party? I made it on your account."
"The offence was great," he answered, "but then staying away was ample punishment, as you must know."
"No, I don't know it. I know you weren't there, and your excuse was merely a regret, which always means one don't want to go."
"Oh, Mrs. Ford!" said Bart, "see what your coming here, or my coming here, exposes me to!"
"Have I heard the worst?"
"Well, you see, Mrs. Ford," said Kate, "that Mr. Ridgeley can waltz, and so can Miss Walters, and I made a little party to see them waltz, and he didn't come."
"That is grave. Will you leave it to me to pass judgment upon him?"
"I will."
"And do you submit, Mr. Ridgeley?"
"She's so very kind to you," remarked Mrs. Markham.
"I do," said the young man, "and will religiously perform the sentence."
"Well, it won't be a religious exercise--you are to waltz with Miss Walters, now and here."
A little clapping of little hands marked the righteousness of the award.
"Mrs. Ford," observed the culprit, "your judgment, as usual, falls heaviest on the innocent. Miss Walters, it remains for you to say whether this sentence shall be executed. If you will permit me the honor, I shall undergo execution with an edifying resignation."
The smiling girl frankly placed her hand in his: "I should be sorry to prevent justice," she said, which was also applauded.
Major Ridgeley was spoken to, and it was understood that the next dance would be a waltz, which had never before been more than named in a Yankee ball-room, on the Reserve; and it was anticipated with curiosity, not unmixed with horror, by many.
The floor was cleared, a simple waltz air came from the band, and the pleased Miss Walters, in the arms of Barton, was whirled out from her mob of curious friends, on to and over the nearly vacant floor, the centre of all eyes, few of which had witnessed such a spectacle before. The music went on with its measured rise and fall, sweet and simple, and youth and maiden possessed with it, seemed to abandon themselves utterly to it, and were controlled and informed by it; with one impulse, one motion, and one grace, each contributing an exact proportion, they glided, circling; and while the maiden thus yielded and was sustained, her attitude, so natural, graceful and womanly, had nothing languishing, voluptuous or sensuous; a sweet, unconscious girl, inspired by music and the poetry and grace of its controlling power, in the dance. Miss Walters dearly loved to dance, and above all to waltz. She had rarely met a partner who so exactly suited her step and style, and who so helped the inspiration she was apt to feel.
Bart had had little practice as a waltzer, but natural grace, and the presence of ladies, usually brought him to his best; and it was not in nature, perhaps, that he should not receive some inspiration from the beautiful girl, half given to his embrace, and wholly to his guidance.
So around and around through the hushed and admiring throng they went, whirling, turning, advancing, retreating, rising and falling, swaying and sinking, yet always in unison, and in rhythmic obedience to the music.
Sometimes the music rose loud and rapid, and then languished to almost dying away; but whatever its movement or time, it was embodied and realized by the beautiful pair, in their sweeping, graceful motions. The maiden's face was wrapt with a sweet, joyous light in her half-shut eyes; his, pale, but lit up and softened in the lamp-light, seemed fairly beautiful, like a poet's.
"How beautiful!" "How exquisite!" from the ladies.
"What a dance for lovers!" said Mrs. Ford.
"They are lovers, are they not?" asked a lady from Warren.
"I think not," said Mrs. Markham, with a glance at Julia, who, never withdrawing her eyes, stood with lips slightly apart, and her face bright with unenvying admiration.
A little ripple--a murmur--and a decided clapping of hands around the room, with other sounds from the crowd at the entrance, marked the appreciation of the beautiful performance. The moment that this reached Barton, he led his delighted partner towards her group of friends, remarking: "Your admirers are sincere, Miss Walters, but too demonstrative, I fear."
"Oh, I don't mind it," said the straightforward girl.
"And I have to thank you for your courtesy to me," he went on, "and only hope that all my punishments may come in the same form."
"Mrs. Ford, is the judgment satisfied?"
"Satisfactory as far as you went, but then you did not serve out your time."
"Have consideration, I pray, for the minister of justice," bowing to Miss Walters.
"She seemed rather to like it," said Mrs. Ford.
"Indeed I did!" and the young ladies gathered about to congratulate her, and cast admiring glances at her partner.
"Mr. Ridgeley," said Mrs. Markham, "I was not aware that you were an accomplished waltzer."
"You forget," Bart answered mockingly, "that I am travelled; and you know my only aptitude is for the useless."
"I did not say that."
"You are too kind. I sometimes supply words to obvious thoughts."
"And sometimes to those that have no existence."
The floor filled again, and the music struck up. Standing, a moment later, at a window, Julia saw a figure pass out, pause at the roadway, turn and look up. The full glare of the lamps revealed the face of Bart, from which the light had faded, and its beauty and spirit of expression had departed. He gazed for an instant up at the brilliant and joyous scene, where a moment before he had been a central and applauded figure, and then, muffling his face in his cloak, he turned away.
He had not intended to go, and sat melancholy through the darkness of the early night; but somehow, a hungry, intense longing came to him to go and look for a moment upon the loveliness of Julia, as she would stand open to the eyes of all, just for one moment, and then to go away. He felt that he ought not to do it, but he went. He could not help it.
When he reached the place, three miles away, he was annoyed by being recognized and pointed at, and talked at, on account of his late encounter with Grid.
"He ain't a powerful-lookin' chap." "I wouldn't be afeared o' him." "He's a darned sight harder'n he looks," etc.
When he escaped into the ball-room, the impulse to go into the immediate presence of Julia was followed, and ended by as sudden a retreat. He had not known how utterly weak and helpless he was, and felt angry with himself that he could ever wish for the presence of one who had so scorned him. He was ashamed, also, that the music, the dance, and gay joyance of the scene he had just left, had still such a seductive charm for him, and he recorded a mental resolution to avoid all similar allurements for the future. Having made this resolution, and strong in his faith of keeping it, he merely turned to take final leave, as he fell under the eyes of Julia, and without seeing her.
The night outside was cold, dark, and thick, with a pitiless snow, that was rapidly filling the track along the highway. Bart turned, without the remotest touch of self-pity, to face it, with a heart as cold and dark as the night that swallowed him up. He felt that there was not a heart left behind that would throb with a moment's pain for him--that would miss him, or wonder at his departure; and he was sure that he did not care.
Yet, with what a sweet, remonstrating, expostulating call the music came after him, with its plaining at his desertion! Fainter and sweeter it came, and died out with a wailing sob, as the night, with its storm and darkness, blotted him out!
Mrs. Ford, who may have anticipated his attendance at the supper-table, missed him. His late partner in the dance cast her eyes inquiringly through the thronged rooms. She remarked to Julia that she believed Mr. Ridgeley had left, and thought it very strange. Julia said she presumed he had, and did not say what she thought.
Most of the elders left early; the young people danced the music and themselves away, and the gray, belated dawn of the next day looked coldly into the windows of a sacked, soiled, and silent house.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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17
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BART.
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Bart devoted himself unselfishly and unsparingly to his school, to all its duties and to all his scholars, and especially to the children of the poor, and the backward pupils. He went early to the house, and remained late. He was the tender, considerate, elder brother of the scholars, and was astonished at his power to win regard, and maintain order. Order maintained itself after one memorable occasion--one to which he never referred, and of which he did not like to hear. It made his school famous, and drew to it many visitors, and to himself no little curiosity and attention.
He endeavored to carry on his law-reading; but beyond reviewing--and not very thoroughly--Blackstone, he could do little. As usual, he was homesick; and whenever a week was ended he left the school-house for his mother's, and never returned until the following Monday morning.
His kind patrons noticed with surprise that he seemed sad and depressed after the expulsion of Grid, and that this gloominess was deepened about the time of Snow's ball.
Barton came to take a real pleasure in his school. Formed to love everything, and without the power of hating, or of long retaining a resentment, he became attached to his little flock, especially the younger ones, and was loved in return by them, without reserve or doubt. He did much to improve, not alone the minds of the older pupils, but to soften and refine the manners of the young men under his charge; while the young women, always inclined to idealize, found how pleasant it was to receive little acts of gentlemanly attention from him.
In the afternoon of a long, bright, March day--one of those wondrous days, glorious above with sky and sun, and joyous with the first note of the blue-bird--the little red school-house by the margin of the maple-woods was filled with the pupils and their parents, assembled for the last time. Bart, in a low voice, tremulous with emotion, bade them all good-by, and most of them forever, and taking his little valise, walked with a saddened heart back to his mother. This time he had not failed, and he never was to fail again.
How many events and occurrences linked in an endless series unite to form the sum-total of ordinary human life! Incident to it, they are in fact all ordinary. If any appear extraordinary, it is because they occur in the life of an extraordinary individual, or remarkable consequences flow from them. Like all parts of human life, in and of themselves they are always fragmentary: springing from what precedes them, they have no beginning proper; causing and flowing into others, they have no ending, in effect; and as the dramatic in actual life is never framed with reference to the unities, so results are constantly being produced and worked out by accidents, and the prominent events often contribute nothing to any supposed final catastrophe. Strangers interlope for a moment, and change destinies, coming out for a day, from nothing, and going to nowhere, but marring and misshaping everything.
No plot is to develop as this sketch of old-time life continues, and incidents will be of value only as they tend to mould and develop the character and powers of one, and little will be noticed save that which concerns him. It is, perhaps, already apparent that he is very impressible, that slight forces which would produce little effect on different natures, are capable of changing his shape, will beat him flat, roll him round, or convert him into a cube or triangle, and yet, that certain strong, always acting forces will restore him, with more or less of the mark or impress of the disturbing cause upon him. He has a strong, tenacious nature, unstained with the semblance of a vice. He forms quick resolutions, but can adhere to them. He is tender to weakness, and fanciful to phantasy. His aptitude for sarcasm and ridicule, unsparingly as it had been turned upon everybody, brought upon him general dislike. His indecision and vacillation in adopting and pursuing a scheme in life, lost him the confidence of his acquaintances--ready to believe anything of one who had dealt them so many sharp thrusts. He was sensitive to a fault, and a slight word would have driven him forever from Julia Markham, and turned him back upon himself, as a dissolving and transforming fire. Mentally, he was quick as a flash, with a strong grasp, and a power of ready analysis; and so little did his mental achievements cost him, that his acquirements were doubted. He already paid the penalty of a nervous and brilliant intellect--that of being adjudged not profound. Men are always being deceived as to the real value of things, by their apparent cost.
We see this illustrated in the case of some grave and ponderous weakling, who has nothing really in him, and yet who creaks, and groans, and labors, and toils, to get under way, until our sympathy with his painful effort leads us so to rejoice over his final delivery that we have lost all power or disposition to weigh or estimate his half-strangled, commonplace bantling, when it is finally born, and we are rather inclined to wonder over it as a prodigy. No doubt the generation of men who witnessed the mountain in labor, regarded the sickly, hairy little mouse, finally brought forth, as a genuine wonder.
Great is mediocrity! It is the average world, and the majority conspires to do it reverence. Genius, if such a thing there is, may be appreciated by school-boys; the average grown world count it as of no value. If a man has a brilliant intellect, let him bewail it on the mountains, as the daughter of Jephtha did her virginity. If he has wit, let him become Brutus.
Readiness and genius are apt to be arrogant; and, when joined with a lively temper, with an ardent, impetuous nature, they render a young man an object of dread, dislike, or worse. Bart had grave doubts of his being a genius, but it had been abundantly manifest to his sensitive perceptions that he was disliked; and he had in part arrived at the probable cause, and was now very persistently endeavoring to correct it by holding his tongue and temper.
Like all young men bent upon a pursuit where his success must depend upon intellect, he was most anxious to ascertain the quality and extent of his brain-power--a matter of which a young man can form no proper idea. Later in life a man is informed by the estimate of others, and can judge somewhat by what he has done. The youth has done nothing. He has made no manifestation by which an observer can determine; when he looks at himself, he can examine his head and face; but the mind, turned in upon itself, with no mirror, weight, count or measure, feels the hopelessness of the effort.
If some one would only tell him of his capacity and power, of his mental weakness and deficiency, it would not, perhaps, change his course, but might teach him how best to pursue it.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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18
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SUGAR MAKING.
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The long, cold winter was past; spring had come, and with it sugar making, the carnival season, in the open air, among the trees.
The boys had the preparations for sugar making in an advanced stage. A new camp had been selected on a dry slope, wood had been cut, the tubs distributed, and they were waiting for Bart and a good day. Both came together; and on the day following the close of his school, at an early hour they hurried off to tap the trees.
Spring and gladness were in the air. The trill of the blue-bird was a thrill; and the first song of the robin was full of lilac and apple blossoms. The softened winds fell to zephyrs, and whispered strange mysterious legends to the brown silent trees, and murmured lovingly over the warming beds of the slumbering flowers. Young juices were starting up under rough bark, and young blood and spirits throbbed in the veins of the boys, and loud and repeated bursts of joyous voices gushed with the fulness of the renewing power of the season.
The day, with its eager hope, strength and joyousness, filled Bart to the eyes, and his spirit in exultation breaking from the unnatural thrall that had for many months of darkness and anxious labor overshadowed it, went with a bound of old buoyancy, and he started with laughing, open brow, and springy step, over the spongy ground, to the poetry of life in the woods.
That one day they tapped all the trees. The next, the kettles were hung on the large crane, the immense logs were rolled up, the kettles filled with sap, and the blue smoke of the first fire went curling up gracefully through the tree-tops. What an event, the first fire! Not as in New England, sugar in the West is never made until the winter snow has disappeared, and the surface has become dry, and the woods pleasant, and the opening day at the boiling was as brilliant as its predecessor.
Bart and Edward, with a yoke of steers, gathered the sap towards evening, and George tended the kettles; many curious bright-eyed chickadees boldly ventured up about the works, peeping, flitting, and examining, with head first on one side and then on the other, the funny doings of these humans in their dominions, and searching for the store of raw pork, which, according to their recollection, ought to be hid away somewhere near by.
The boys had pulled down, removed and rebuilt their old snug cabin, with one end open to the broad and roaring fire; in the bottom of which, over its floor, were placed a large quantity of sweet bright straw, and two or three heavy blankets.
The "run" made it necessary to boil all night; and filling the kettles and adjusting the fires, Bart and the boys, hungry and tired, went up to supper and the chores; after which Bart and Edward, taking the former's rifle, and lighted by a hickory torch, returned to the camp for the night--Edward really to sleep, sweet and unbroken, in the cabin, and Bart to take care of the kettles and fires, to muse and dream, and think bright, strange thoughts, and watch the effects of the lights and shadows, listen to the dropping of the sap into the buckets, and the boding owls, whose melancholy notes harmonized with, rather than interrupted, the solemn effect of deepest night. Man easily reverts to savagery and nature; and this tendency was marked in Bart, whom this new recurrence to old habits of wood-life, so dear to him, filled with such pleasant sensations of joyous unrest, that until near the coming dawn he was disinclined to sleep, and when he did, the first note of an old robin from the topmost twig of a giant old maple awoke him fresh to the labor and enjoyment of another resplendent day. And so the days followed each other, and the spring deepened. Myriads of flower-beds shot up through the dead leaves, and opened out their frail and wondrously tinted petals for a single day, and faded. Not a new one opened--not a cloud or tint varied the sky--not a note of a bird or tap of a woodpecker, that was not marked by Bart, to whom Nature had at least given the power to appreciate and love her lighter works.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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19
|
HENRY.
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The principal event of the spring among the Ridgeleys, was the return home of Henry. He had closed his novitiate, and was awaiting his examination for admission to the bar. He had already, on the recommendation of his friend and instructor, Wade, formed a favorable business connection with the younger Hitchcock, at Painesville; and now, after a year's absence, he came back to his mother and brothers, for a few days of relaxation and visiting. Less strong than the Major, of grave, thoughtful, but cheerful face and mien, heavy-browed and deep-eyed, with plain, marked face, and finished manners, he was well calculated to impress favorably, and win confidence and respect. His mind was solid, but lacked the sparkle and vivacity of Bart's, and compensatingly was believed to be deep. He was the pride and hope of the family: around him gathered all its expectations of distinction, and no one shared all these more intensely than Bart, who had awaited his coming with hope and fear. He was accompanied by a fellow-student named Ranney, of about his own age, and like him, above the usual height, broad and heavy-shouldered, with a massive head and strong face, a high narrow forehead; rather shy in manner, and taciturn.
They came one night while Bart was in the sugar-camp, where he spent many nights, and he met them the next morning at the breakfast-table. No one could be gladder than he to meet his brother, but, like his mother, he was struck by his emaciated form and languor of manner.
Bart had heard of Ranney as a man of strong, profound, ingenious mind, with much power of sarcasm, and who had formed a partnership with Wade, on the retirement of Mr. Giddings from the bar. He stood a little in awe of him, whose good opinion he would have gladly secured, but who, he had a presentiment, would not understand him. Indeed, he was quite certain he did not understand himself.
The young men had been fellow-students for two years, had many things in common, and were strong friends.
Bart soon found that they had a slender view of his law reading, and spoke slightingly of Ford as a lawyer. They had both diligently studied to the lower depths of the law, had a fair appreciation of their acquisitions, and would not overestimate the few months of solitary reading of a boy in the country.
Bart did not mention his studies, and only answered modestly his brother's inquiries, who closed the subject for the time by saying that if he was serious in his desire to study law, "he would either arrange to take him to Painesville in the Fall, or have his friend Ranney take him in hand." Bart was pleased with the idea of being with either; and possibly he may have wondered whether whoever took him in hand would not have that hand full.
The young men strolled off to his sugar-camp during the forenoon, lounged learnedly about, evincing little interest in the camp and surroundings, although the deepening season had filled the woods with flowers and birds; and Bart wondered whether "Coke on Littleton," and executory devises, and contingent remainders, had produced in them their natural consequences. He watched to see whether new maple sugar was sweet to them, and on full reflection doubted if it was.
They did not interfere with his work, and sauntered back to an early dinner, and Bart saw no more of them until night.
He closed out his work early for the day, and spent the evening with them and his mother.
Henry naturally inquired about his old acquaintances, and Bart answered graphically. He was in a mood of reckless gayety. He took them up, one after another, and in a few happy strokes presented them in ludicrous caricature, irresistible for its hits of humor, and sometimes for wit, and sometimes sarcasm--a stream of sparkle and glitter, with queer quotations of history, poetry, and Scripture, always apt, and the latter not always irreverent. Ranney had a capacity to enjoy a medley, and both of the young men abandoned themselves to uncontrollable laughter; and even the good mother, who tried in vain to stop her reckless son, surprised herself with tears streaming down her cheeks. Bart, for the most part, remained grave, and occasionally Edward helped him out with a suggestion, or contributed a dry and pungent word of his own.
As the fit subsided, Henry, half serious and half laughing, turned to him: "Oh, Bart, I thought you had reformed, and become considerate and thoughtful, and I find that you are worse than ever."
"But, Henry, what's the use of having neighbors and acquaintances and friends, if one cannot serve them up to his guests; and only think, I've gone about for six months with the odds and ends of 'flat, stale and unprofitable' things accumulating in and about him--the said Bart--until, as a sanitary measure, I had to utter them."
"How do you feel after it?" inquired Henry.
"Rather depressed, though I hope to tone up again."
"Bart," said Henry, gravely, "I haven't seen much of you for two or three years; I used to get queer glimpses of you in your letters, and I must look through your mental and moral make-up some time."
"You will find me like the sterile, stony glebe, which, when the priest reached in his career of invocation and blessing--'Here,' said the holy father, 'prayers and supplications are of no avail. This must have manure.' Grace would, I fear, be wasted on me, and our good mother would willingly see me under your subsoiling and fertilizing hand."
"Do you ever seriously think?"
"I? oh yes! such thoughts as I can think. I think of the wondrously beautiful in nature, and am glad. I think of the wretched race of men, and am sad. I think of my shallow self, and am mad."
Henry, with unchanged gravity: "Do you believe in anything?"
"Yes, I believe fully in our mother; a good deal in you, though my faith is shaken a little just now; and am inclined to great faith in your friend Mr. Ranney."
All smile but Henry. "Yes, all that of course, but abstract propositions. Have you faith, in anything?"
"Well, I believe in genius, I believe in poetry--though not much in poets--music--though that is not for men. I believe in love--for those who may have it. I believe in woman and in God. When I draw myself close to Him, I am overcome with a great awe, and dare not pray. It is only when I seem to push Him off, and coop Him up in a little crystal-domed palace beyond the stars, and out of hearing, that I dare tell Him how huge He is, and pipe little serenades of psalmody to Him."
"Oh, Barton, you are profane!"
"No, mother, men are profane in their gorgeous egotism. We are the braggarts, and ascribe egotism to God Himself; while we are the sole objects of interest in the universe. God was and is on our account only; and when men fancy that they have found a way of running things without Him, they shove Him out entirely. I put it plainly, and it sounds bad."
"This is a compendious confession of faith," said Henry; and, pausing, "why do you put genius first?"
"As the most doubtful, and, at the same time, an interesting article. I am at the age when a young man queries anxiously about it. Has he any of it--the least bit?"
"Well, what is your conclusion?"
"Sometimes I fancy I feel faintly its stir and spur and inspiration."
"When it may be only dyspepsia," said Henry.
"It may be. I haven't ranked myself among geniuses."
"Yet you believe in it. What is it?"
"I can't tell. Can you tell what is electricity or life?"
"That is not logical. You answer one question by asking another."
"I am not sure but that is allowable," interrupted Ranney. "You pose your opponent with an unanswerable question, and he in turn proposes several, thereby suggesting that there are things unknown, and that if you will push him to that realm you are equally involved. It may not be logical, but it usually silences."
"Not quite, in this instance," said Henry, "for we know by their manifestations that life and electricity are; they manifest themselves to us."
"And by the same rule genius manifests itself to your brother, although it may not to you."
"Thank you, Mr. Ranney," said Bart.
"Now I do not suppose," he went on, "that genius is a beneficent little imp, or genie, lodged in the brain of the fortunate or unfortunate, who is all-powerful, and always at hand to give strength, emit a flash of light, or pour inspiration into the faculties, nor does it consist in anything that answers to that idea. But there are men endowed with quick, strong intellects, with warm, ardent, intense temperaments, and with strong imaginations; where these, or their equivalents, are found happily blended, the result is genius. There is a working power that can do anything, and with apparent ease. If it plunges down, it need not remain long; if it mounts up, it alights again without effort or injury."
"And such a 'working power,' you suppose, would, of itself, be a constant self-supply, and always equal to emergencies, and of its own unaided spontaneous inspirations and energies, I suppose," said Henry, "and has nothing to do but float and plunge about, diving and soaring, in the amplitude of nature?"
"Well, Henry, you can't get out of a man what isn't in him. You need not draw on a water-bottle for nectar, or hope to carve marble columns from empty air; genius can't do that. An unformed, undeveloped mind never threw out great things spontaneously, as the cloud throws out lightning. Men are not great without achievement, nor wise without study and reflection. Nor was there ever a genius, however strong and brilliant in the rough, that would not have been stronger and more brilliant by cutting," said Bart, with vehemence. "All I contend for is, that genius, as I have supposed, can make the most and best of things, often doing with them what other and commoner minds cannot do at all."
"This is not the school-boy's idea of genius," said Ranney.
"And," said Bart, a little assertively, "I am not a school-boy."
"So I perceive," said Ranney, coolly.
"The fault I find with you geniuses--" "We geniuses!! --" "Is," said Henry, "you perpetually fly and caracol about, and just because you can, apparently, and for the fun of the thing."
"Eagles fly," said Bart.
"And so do butterflies, and other gilded insects."
"Therefore, flying should be dispensed with, I suppose," said Bart. "Because things of mere painted wings, all wing and nothing else, can float in the lower atmosphere, are all winged things to be despised? Birds of strong flight can light and build on or near the ground, but your barn-yard fowl can hardly soar to the top of the fence for his crow."
"But your geniuses, Bart, will not work, will not strip to the long, patient, delving drudgery necessary to unravel, separate, analyze, weigh, measure, estimate and count, and come to like work for work's sake, and so grow to do the best and most work. They deal a few heavy blows, scatter things, pick up a few glittering pebbles, and--" "Leave to dullards the riches of the mines they never would have found," broke in Bart.
"And fly away into upper air," pursued Henry.
"Oh, I know that some chaps rise for want of weight, as you would say; but mere weight will keep a man always at the surface. Your men who are always plunging into things, digging and turning up the earth--who believe with the ancients that truth is in a well--often lose themselves, and are smothered in their own dirt-holes, and call on men to see how deep they are. God coins with His image on the outside, as men mint money, and your deep lookers can't see it; they are for rushing into the bowels of things."
"There is force in that, Bart. Men may see God in His works, if they will; but men don't so stamp their works. At his best, man is weak; unknowing truth, he puts false brands on his goods, mixes and mingles, snarls and confuses, covers up, hides and effaces, so far as he can, God's works, and palms off as His the works of the other. And it is with these that the lawyer has to do: a work in which your mere genius would make little headway. He would go to it without preparation; he would grow weary of the hopelessness of the task, and fly away to some pleasant perch, and plume his wing for another flight, I fear."
"Might not his lamp of genius aid him somewhat?" put in Bart.
"It might," said Ranney, "and he might be misled by its flare. He would do better to use the old lights of the law. Some are a little lurid, and some a little blue, but always the same in tempest or calm. The law, as you have doubtless discovered, is founded in a few principles of obvious right. Their application to cases is artificial. The law, for its own wise purposes, takes care of itself; of its own force, it embraces everything, investigates everything, construes itself, and enforces itself, as the sole power in the premises. Its rules in the text-books read plain enough, and are not difficult of apprehension. The uncertainty of the law arises in the doubt and uncertainty of the facts; and hence the doubt about which, of many rules, ought to govern. A man of genius, as you describe him, ought to become a good lawyer; he would excel in the investigation and presentation of facts; but none but a lawyer saturated with the spirit of the law until he comes to have a legal instinct, can with accuracy apply it."
This was clear and strong to Barton, and profitable to him.
"Now Barton," said Henry, turning to Ranney, as if Bart were absent, "went through with Blackstone in a month, and probably would go through it every month in the year, and then he might be profitably put to read Blackstone. If I were to shut him up with the 'Institutes,' in four days there might be nothing of poor Coke left but covers and cords."
"And what would become of Bart?" asked Ranney.
"Go mad--but not from much learning," answered the youth for himself; "or you would find him like a dried geranium-leaf hid in the leaves of the year-books,-- 'Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.'"
There was a touch of sarcasm in his mocking voice; and flashing out with his old sparkle, "Be patient with me, boys, the future works miracles. There Are mountains ungrown, And fountains unflown, And flowers unblown, And seed never strown, And meadows unmown, And maids all alone, And lots of things to you unknown, And every mother's son of us must Always blow his own--nose, you know."
And while the young men were a little astonished at the run of his lines, the practical and unexpected climax threw them into another laugh.
Soon Henry took a candle, and the two young men retired. They paused a moment in the little parlor.
"Was there ever such a singular and brilliant compound?" said Ranney. "What a power of expression he has! and I see that he generally knows where he is going to hit. If you can hold him till he masters the law, he will be a power before juries."
"I think so too," said Henry; "but he must be a good lawyer before he can be a good advocate,--though that isn't the popular idea."
"Let him work," said Ranney. "He will shed his flightier notions as a young bird moults its down."
How kind to have said this to Bart! Oh, what a mistake, that just praise is injurious! How many weary, fainting, doubting young hearts have famished and died for a kind word of encouragement!
When Bart returned to the sitting-room, his mother and younger brothers had retired.
"I am scorned of women and misunderstood of men--even by my own brother," he said bitterly to himself. "Let me live to change this, and then let me die."
The old melancholy chords vibrated, and he went to his little attic, remembering with anguish the stream of nonsense and folly he had poured forth, and thought of the laughter he had provoked as so much deserved rebuke; and he determined never to utter another word that should provoke a smile. He would feed and sleep, and grow stupid and stolid, heavy and dull, and bring forth emptiness and nothings with solemn effort and dignified sweatings.
Early on the morrow he was away to the camp, to renew the fires under his sugar-kettles. The cool, fresh air of the woods refreshed and restored his spirits somewhat. He placed on the breakfast-table two bouquets of wood-flowers, and met his guests with the easy grace and courtesy of an accomplished host; and both felt for the first time the charm of his manner, and recognized that it sprung from a superior nature.
As they were about to rise from the breakfast-table, "Gentlemen," said he, "Miss Kate Fisher gives, this afternoon, a little sugar party, out at her father's camp. Henry, she sent over an invitation specially for you two, with one to me, for courtesy. I cannot go; but you must. You will meet, Mr. Ranney, several young ladies, any one of whom will convert you to my creed of love and poetry, and two or three young, men stupid enough to master the law,"--with a bright smile. "I promised you would both go. The walk is not more than a mile, the day a marvel right out of Paradise, and you both need the exercise, and to feel that it is spring."
"And why don't you go, Barton?" asked Henry.
"Well, you are not a stranger to any whom you will meet, and don't need me. In the first place, I must remain and gather the sap, and can't go; in the second, I don't want to go, and won't; and in the third, I have several good reasons for not going,"--all very bright, and in good humor.
"What do you say, Ranney?"
"Well, I would like to go, and I would like to have Barton go with us."
"Would you, though?" --brightening. "No, I can't go; though I would be glad to go with you anywhere."
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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20
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WHAT THE GIRLS SAID.
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Kate's little party, out on the dry, bright yellow leaves, gay with early flowers, under the grand old maples, elms and beeches, in the warm sun, came and went, with laughter and light hearts. If it could be reproduced with its lights, and colors, and voices, what a bright little picture and resting-place it would be, in this sombre-colored annal! I am sad for poor Bart, and I cannot sketch it.
The young lawyers had been there, seen, talked to, got acquainted with, were looked up to, deferred to, admired and flirted with, and had gone, leaving themselves to be talked about.
Two young girls, amid the fading light, with the rich warm blood of young womanhood in their cheeks, and its latent emotions sending a softened light into their eyes, with their arms about each other's waists, were pensively walking out of the dusky woods to the open fields, with a little ripple and murmur of voices, like the liquid pearls of a brook.
They had been speaking of the young lawyers. "And these two," said Julia, "are some of those who are to go out and shape and mould and govern. I am glad to have seen them, and hear them talk."
"Do you think these are to be leading men?" asked Flora Walters.
"I presume so. It is generally conceded that Henry Ridgeley is a young man of ability; and I don't think any one could be long in the company of Mr. Ranney without feeling that he is no ordinary man. Indeed, Henry said that he was destined to a distinguished career."
"Well, now to me they were both a little heavy and commonplace. Mr. Ridgeley was easy and gentlemanly; Mr. Ranney a little shy and awkward. I've no doubt one would come to like either of them, when one came to know him."
"Oh, Flora! the beauty of a man is strength and courage, and power and will and ability. When one comes to see these, the outside passes out of sight."
"Do you think that absolute ugliness could be overcome in that way?"
"Yes, even deformity. I should be taken even by beauty, in a man, and should expect conforming beauty of heart and soul. Do you know, I sometimes half feel that I would like to be a man?"
"You, Julia! with your wealth, beauty and friends, who may, where you will, look and choose?"
"Yes, I, as much as you flatter me. I can feel the ambition of a young man; and were I one, how gladly would I put the world and its emptiness from me, and nurse and feed my soul and brain with the thoughts and souls of other men, till I was strong and great; and then, from my obscurity, I would come forth and take my place in the lead;" and her great eyes flashed.
"If you are ambitious, you have but to wait until the leading spirit comes. What a help you would be to him!"
"He might never come, or I might not know him when--" "Or you would not love him, if you did know him."
"He might not love me; or, if he did, I might drive him away. But that is not what was in my mind, although a woman must be ambitious through another. To be one of these young men, to know their minds, to feel their hopes and ambitions, and struggle with and against them, for the places, the honors and leaderships!"
"And would you never love and wed, woo and marry?"
"Yes; and I would like to see the woman who would scorn me. I would take her as mine, and she should not choose but love me!"
"Why, Julia! who would think that you, sweet and deep as you are, could say such things! Would you like to be wooed in that way?"
"I never came to that. I am only a woman without aim in life. I am only to float along between flowery banks, until somebody fishes me out, I suppose!"
"I am sure, were I you, I could well float on until the right man came; and you, Julia, it is your own fault if you do not marry for love. You will not be obliged to consult anything else."
"And you?" said Julia, laughing.
"I? oh! I am dependent on my brother, you know."
"Yes, and there comes in the hardship; were you a man, you could go out and make and choose. Now, a daughter remains where her father and mother leave her. The sons may rise, the daughters stay below, and if sought for, it is usually in the same channels in which the parents move, and that is the hardship of those who, unlike you, are on a lower plane, or who, like you, have no father and mother to sustain them in their proper place. If you could win wealth, you would only marry for love; and I am sure you will do so now."
"A woman who wins fortune usually loses the capacity to win love, I fear," said Flora.
"And the woman who wins nothing deserves nothing," said Julia. "I am a little like my mother, I presume; but who would win you, and how, I wonder?"
"Oh," answered Flora, "I suppose the man who really and truly loved me. I would like to have him come, as the breeze comes, with the odor of flowers, as the spring comes, with music and song, with all sweet and gentle influences, with beauty and grace; but he must not be effeminate."
"He would have to be a good waltzer, I presume?"
"Would that be an objection?" asked Flora.
"No; but a man who excels in these light accomplishments may fail in the stronger qualities. I admit that beauty and grace would go a great way, if one could have them also."
"Julia, were I you, I would have them all."
"Girls, what are you loitering along there for? Talking over the young lawyers, I'll bet; who takes which?" called back Kate, impetuously; "I don't want either."
* * * * * All the afternoon long, Bart was sad and silent, and spite of himself, his thoughts would hover about that bright place in the maple woods, sweet with one face of indescribable beauty; one form, one low, many-toned voice which haunted--would haunt him.
He came in to a latish supper, with a grave face. The spring was not in his step; the ring was not in his voice, or the sparkle in his words.
The two guests were in high spirits, and talked gushingly of the young ladies they had met, and they wondered that it did not provoke even a sarcasm from him.
"It would compensate you for not going," said Ranney, kindly, "if we were to tell you what was said of you in your absence."
"And who said it," added Henry. Not a word, nor a look even.
"One might be willing to be called a genius, for such words, and from such a young lady," ventured Ranney.
"I am not sure but that I would even venture upon poetry, under such inspiration," said Henry.
To the youth these remarks sounded like sarcasm, and he felt too poor even to retort.
"Oh, boys!" finally said Bart, "it is good exercise for us all; _persiflage_ is not your 'best holt,' as the wrestlers would say, and you need practice, while I want to accustom myself to irony and sarcasm without replying. If by any possibility you can, between you, get off a good thing at my expense, it would confer a lasting obligation; but I don't expect it."
"Upon my word--" began Ranney.
"We all speak kindly of our own dead," said Bart, "and should hardly expect the dead to hear what we said. Mother said you had determined to leave us in the morning;" to Ranney--"Our brother the Major will be home in the morning, and would be glad to make your acquaintance, and show you some attention." And so he escaped.
When Ranney took leave the next morning, he kindly remarked to Bart that he would at any time find a place in his office, and should have his best endeavor to advance his studies. It was sincere, and that was one of the charms of his character. Bart was pleased with it, and it almost compensated for the unintentional wounds of the night before.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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21
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A DEPARTURE.
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Morris came, and the brothers were together, and the two elder went around to many of their old acquaintance--many not named here, as not necessary to the incidents of this story. For some reason Barton did not accompany them. If anything was said between them about him, no mention of it was made to him. Henry came to regard him with more interest, and to treat him with marked tenderness and consideration, which Bart took as a kindly effort to efface from his mind the pain that he supposed Henry must be aware he had given him. Had he supposed that it arose from an impression that he was suffering from any other cause, he would have coldly shrunk from it.
* * * * * At the end of ten days, Henry's baggage was sent out to Hiccox's for the stage, and he took leave of his mother, Morris, Edward, and George, and, accompanied by Bart, walked out to the State road, to take the stage for Painesville, where his work was to begin. He was in bright spirits; his hopes were high; he was much nearer home; his communication was easier, and his absences would be shorter.
Bart, for some reason, was more depressed than usual. On their way down, Henry asked him about a Mr. Greer whom he first saw at the sugar party, and afterwards at Parker's, and who had seemed to take much interest in Bart. Bart had met him only once or twice, and was not favorably impressed by him. Henry said that he had talked of seeing Bart, and that he (Henry) rather liked him.
It had been already talked over and understood that Bart should go to Painesville in the Fall, and enter fully upon the study of the law. As they reached the stage-road, Bart's depression had been remarked by Henry, who made an ineffectual effort to arouse him. Finally the stage came rattling down the hill, and drew up. The brothers shook hands. Henry got in, and the stage was about to move away, when Bart sprang upon the step, and called out "Henry!" who leaned his face forward, and received Barton's lips fully on his mouth. Men of the Yankee nation never kiss each other, and the impression produced upon Henry was great. Tears fell upon his face as their lips met, and from his eyes, as the heavy coach rolled into the darkness of the night.
Are there really such things as actual presentiments? God alone knows. Is the subtle soul-atmosphere capable of a vibration at the approach and in advance of an event? And are some spirits so acutely attuned as to be over-sensible of this vibration? God knows. Or was the act of Bart, like many of his, due to sudden impulse? Perhaps he could not tell. If the faculty was his, don't envy him.
Barton had already resumed his connection with Gen. Ford's office. The General had returned full of his winter's labors, and found an intelligent and sympathizing listener in Bart, who had a relish for politics and the excitements of political life, although he was resolved to owe no consideration that he might ever win to political position.
Under the stimulus from his intercourse with his brother and Ranney, and profiting by their hints and suggestions, he plunged more eagerly into law-books than ever. He constructed a light boat, with a pair of sculls, and rigged also with a spar and sail, with which to traverse the pond, with places to secure it on the opposite shores; and early passers along the State road, that overlooked the placid waters, often marked a solitary boatman pulling a little skiff towards the eastern shore.
And once, a belated picnic party, returning from Barker's landing, discovered a phantom sail flitting slowly in the night breeze over the dark waters to the west. They lingered on the brow of the hill, until it disappeared under the shadow of the western wooded shore, wondering and questioning much as to who and what it was. One, the loveliest, knew, but said nothing.
The Markhams, one day, in their carriage, passed Bart with his books toiling up Oak Hill. He removed his hat as they passed, without other recognition. All of them felt the invisible wall between them, and two, at least, silently regretted that they might not invite him to an unoccupied seat. They were at the Fords' to dinner that day, and Bart, being invited to join them by the General, politely declined.
The General was a little grave at the table, while Mrs. Ford was decided and marked in her commendation of the young student, and described, with great animation, a little excursion they had made over to the pond, and the skill with which Bart had managed his little sail-boat.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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22
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A SHATTERED COLUMN.
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In mid June came the blow. George brought up from the post-office, one evening, the following letter: "PAINESVILLE, June 18, 1837. BARTON RIDGELEY, ESQ.: "_Dear Sir_,--I write at the request of my sister, Mrs. Hitchcock. Your brother is very ill. Wanders in his mind, and we are uneasy about him. He has been sick about a week. Mr. Hitchcock is absent at court. Sincerely yours, Edward Marshall."
"Henry is ill," said Barton, very quietly, after reading it. "This letter is from Mrs. Hitchcock. He has been poorly for a week. I think I had better go to him."
"He did not write himself, it seems," said his mother.
"He probably doesn't regard himself as very sick, and did not want us sent for," said Bart, "and they may have written without his knowledge. I will take Arab, and ride in the cool of the night."
"You are alarmed, Barton, and don't tell me all. Read me the letter." And he read it. "I will go with you, Barton," very quietly, but decidedly.
"How can you go, mother?"
"As you do," firmly.
"You cannot ride thirty miles on horseback, mother, even if we had a horse you could ride at all."
"I shall go with you," was her only answer.
An hour later, with a horse and light buggy, procured from a neighbor, they drove out into the warm, sweet June night. At Chardon, they paused for half an hour, to breathe the horse, and went on. Bart was a good horseman, from loving and knowing horses, and drove with skill and judgment. They talked little on the road, and at about two in the morning they drove up to the old American House in Painesville, and, with his mother on his arm, Barton started out on River Street, to the residence of Mr. Hitchcock.
How silent the streets! and how ghostly the white houses stood, in the stillness of the night! and how like a dream it all seemed! They had no difficulty in finding the house, with its ominous lights, that had all night long burned out dim into the darkness.
The door was open, and the bell brought a sweet, matronly woman to receive them.
"We are Henry Ridgeley's mother and brother," said Barton. "Is he still alive?"
The question indicated his utter hopelessness of his brother's condition.
"Come in this way, into the parlor," said the lady; and stepping out, "Mother," she called, "Mr. Ridgeley's mother has come. Please step this way."
A moment later, a tall, elderly lady, sad-faced as was her daughter, and much agitated, entered the room.
"My mother," said the younger lady. "I am Mrs. Hitchcock."
"Your son--" said the elder lady.
"Take me to him at once, I pray you! Let me see him! I am his mother! Who shall keep me from him?"
"Mother," said Barton, stepping up and placing his hands about her, "don't you feel it? Henry is dead. I knew it ere we stepped in."
"Dead! who says he is dead? He is not dead!"
"Tell her," said Barton; "she is heroic: let her know the worst."
"Take me to him!" she said, as they remained silent.
Up the stairs, in a dimly-lighted room, past two or three young men, and a kind neighbor or two, they conducted her; and there, composed as if in slumber, with his grand head thrown back, and his fine strong face fully upward, she found her third-born, growing chill in death. She sprang forward--arrested herself when within a step of him, and gazed. The light passed from her own eye, and the warmth from her face; a spasm shook her, and nothing more.
She did not shriek; she did not faint; she made no outcry,--scarcely a visible sign; but steadily and almost stonily she gazed on her dead, until the idea of the awful change came fully to her. The chill passed from her face and manner; and seating herself on the bed,--"You won't mind me, ladies. You can do no more for him. Leave him to me for a little;" and she bent over and kissed his pallid lips, and laid her face tenderly to his, and lifted with her thin fingers the damp masses of his hair, brown and splendid, like Bart's, but darker, and without the wave.
"What a grand and splendid man you had become, Henry! and I may toy with and caress you now, as when you were a soft and beautiful baby, and you will permit me!" and lifting herself up, she steadfastly gazed at his emaciated face and shrunken temples, and opening his bosom, and baring its broad and finely-formed contour, she scanned it closely.
"Oh, why could not I see and know, and be warned! I thought he could not die! Oh, I thought that all I had would remain! that in their father God had taken all he would reclaim from me! that I should go, and together we should adorn a place where they should come to us! Oh, Merciful Father!" and the storm of agony, such as uproots and sweeps away weak natures, came upon her.
As for Barton, his sensibilities were stunned and paralyzed, while his mind was left to work free and clear. All his anguish was for his mother; for himself, the moment had not come. He was appalled to feel the almost indifference with which he looked upon the remains of his manly and high-souled brother, and he repeated over and over to himself: "Henry is dead! he is dead! Don't you hear? don't you know? He is dead! Why don't you mourn?"
An hour later, came a gentle tap at the door. Barton went to find Mrs. Hitchcock standing there.
"Your mother must be aroused and taken away. My mother and I will take you to her house. She must be cared for now."
"Mother," said Bart, taking her lightly in his arms, "these dear good ladies must care for you. Let me take you out; and our dear Henry must be cared for, too."
How unnatural his voice sounded to him! Had he slain his brother, that he should care so little? --that his voice should sound so hoarse and hollow?
His mother was passive in his hands,--wearied, broken, and overwhelmed. He carried her across a small open space, and into a large house, where her kind hostess received and cherished her as only women experienced and chastened by sorrow can.
Barton was conducted to a spacious, cool room, luxurious to his eyes; yet he felt no weariness, but somehow supernaturally strained up to an awful tension.
"Why don't I shriek, and tear my hair, and make some fitting moan over this awful loss? Why can't I feel it? O God! am I a wretch without nature, or heart, or soul? He is dead! Why should he die, and now, plucked and torn up by the root, just at flowering? What a vile economy is this! what a waste and incompleteness! and the world full of drivellers and dotards, that it would gladly be quit of. Wasn't there space and breath for him? Why should such qualities be so bestowed, to be so wasted? Why kindle such a light, to quench it so soon in the dark river? What a blunder! Why was not I taken?"
Why? Oh, weak, vain questioner!
He threw off part of his clothing, and lay down on the bed and slept. He awoke, offended and grieved that the sun should shine. Why was it not hidden by thick clouds, and why should they not weep? But why should they, if he did not? And what business had the birds to be glad and joyous, and the perfume of flowers to steal out on the bright air?
He knew he was wrong. He was no longer angry and defiant, but his grief was dry and harsh, and his sensibilities creaked like a dry axle.
He found his mother tender, calm, and pitying him. Awful as was the bereavement to her, she felt that the loss was, after all, to him. Her strong nature, quivering and bleeding under the blow, had righted itself, and the sweet influence of faith and hope was coming up in her heart. She saw Barton with his pallid face, and steady but bright eyes. She knew that she never quite understood, had never quite fathomed, his nature.
Gentle voices, assuaging hands, and sweet charities were about the stricken ones; and pious hands, with all Christian observances, ministered to their beautiful dead. Nothing more could be done; and before mid-day Barton, with his mother, started on their return, to be followed at evening by the remains of the loved one, arrayed for sepulture.
Barton, with every faculty of mind intensely strong and clear, and weighted with the great calamity to absolute gravity, had struck those he met as a marvel of clear apprehension and perception of all the surroundings and proprieties of his painful position. The younger members of the Painesville Bar, who had begun to know and love their young brother, had gathered about him in his illness, and now came forward to take charge of and prepare his remains for final rest, and to render to his friends the kindness of refined charity. Barton knew that somehow they looked curiously at him, as he introduced himself to them, and fancied that his dazed and dreamy manner was singular; but knew that such considerate and kind, such brotherly young men, would make allowances for him.
When they gathered silently to take leave, he turned: "Gentlemen, you know our obligations to you. Think of the most grateful expression of them, and think I would so express them if I could. Some day I may more fittingly thank you."
They thought he never could. He remembered the fitting words to Mrs. Hitchcock and her mother, Mrs. Marshall, and drove away, with his pale, silent mother.
All the way home in a dream. Something awful had happened, and it was not always clear what it was, or how it had been brought about.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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23
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THE STORM.
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About midnight the Painesville hearse drove up, accompanied by the four young pall-bearers, of the Painesville Bar, who attended the remains of their young brother. The coffin was deposited in the little parlor, and the carriages drove to Parker's for the night.
The stricken and lonely mother was in the sanctity of her own room. The children had cried themselves to sleep and forgetfulness. The brother, who had been sent for, could not reach home until the next morning.
Barton had declined the offers of kind friends to remain, and was alone with his dead. The coffin-lid had been removed, and he lifted the dead-cloth from the face. He could not endure the sharp angle of the nose, that so stabbed up into the dim night, unrelieved by the other features.
The wrath of a strong, deep nature, thoroughly aroused, is sublime; its grief, when stirred to its depths, is awful. Barton knew now what had happened and what he had lost. The acuteness of his fine organization had recovered its sharpest edge. The heavens had been darkened for him nearly a year before, but now the solid earth had been rent and one-half cloven away, and that was the half that held the only hopes he had. He didn't calculate this now. Genius, intellect, imagination, courage, pride, scorn, all the intensities of his nature, all that he supposed he possessed, all that lay hidden and unsuspected, arose in their might to overcome him now. He did not think, he did not aspire, or hope, or fear, or dream, or remember: he only felt, and bled, and moaned low, hopeless, helpless moans. If it is given to some natures to enjoy intensely, so such correspondingly suffer; and Bart, alone with his pale, cold, dead brother, through this deep, silent night, abandoned himself utterly to the first anguish at his loss, and it was wise. As it is healthful and needful for young children to cry away their pains and aches, so the stricken and pained soul finds relief in pouring itself out in oversweeping grief.
The storm swept by and subsided, and Bart, kneeling by the coffin of his brother, in the simple humility of a child, opened his heart to the pitying eye of the Great Father. His lips did not move, but steadily and reverently he turned to that sweet nearness of love and compassion. Finally he asked that every unworthy thought, passion, folly, or pride, might be exorcised from his heart and nature; and then, holding himself in this steady and now sweet contemplation and silent communion, a great calm came into his uplifted soul, and he slept. And, as he passed from first slumber to oblivious and profound sleep, there floated, through a celestial atmosphere, a radiant cloud, on which was reclining a form of light and beauty. He thought it must be his departed brother, but it turned fully towards him, and the face was the face of Julia, with sweetest and tenderest compassion and love in her eyes; and he slept profoundly.
In the full light of the early morning, the elder brother stole into the room, to be startled and awed by the pale faces of his dead and his sleeping brothers, now so near each other, and never before so much alike. How kingly the one in death! How beautiful the other in sleep! And while he held his tears in the marvellous presence, his pale, sweet mother came in, and placed her hand silently in his, and gazed; and then the young boys, with their bare feet; and so the silent, the sleeping, and the dead, were once more together.
* * * * * At mid-day, those who had heard of the event gathered at the Ridgeley house, sad-faced and sorrow-stricken. The family had always been much esteemed, and Henry had been nearly as great a favorite as was Morris, and all shared in the hope and expectation of his future success and eminence. Uncle Aleck came, feeble and heart-stricken. A sweet prayer, a few loving words, a simple hymn, and the young pall-bearers carried out their pale brother, and, preceding the hearse in their carriage, followed by the stricken ones and the rest in carriages and on foot, the little procession went sadly to the burying-ground. There a numerous company, attracted from various parts where the news had reached, were assembled and awaiting the interment. The idle and curious were rewarded by the sight of a hearse, and the presence of the deputation of the Painesville Bar, and impressed with a sense of the importance and consideration of the young man in whose honor such attentions were bestowed.
The ceremony of interment was short, and of the simplest. The committing of the dead to final rest in the earth, is always impressive. Man's innate egotism always invests the final hiding away of the remains of one of his race in perpetual oblivion, with solemnity and awe. One of the lords has departed; let man and nature observe and be impressed.
Uncle Aleck was too feeble to go to the grave.
The mourners--the mother sustained by Barton, and Morris, attended by his promised bride, a sweet and beautiful girl, and the two young boys so interesting in their childish sorrow, so few in number, and unsupported by uncles, aunts or cousins--were objects of unusual interest and commiseration. But now, when the last act was performed for them, and the burial hymn had been sung, there was no one to speak for them the usual thanks for these kindnesses, and just as this came painfully to the sensibilities of the thoughtful, Barton uncovered his head and said the few needed words in a clear, steady voice, with such grace, that matronly women would gladly have kissed him; and young maidens noticed, what they had observed before, that there was something of nameless attraction in his face and manner.
Kind hands and sympathizing hearts were about the Ridgeleys, to solace, cheer and help; but the great void in their circle and hearts, only God and time could fill. The heart, when it loses out of it one object of tenderness and love, only contracts the closer and more tenderly about what it has left.
* * * * * Time elapses. It kindly goes forward and takes us with it. No matter how resolutely we cling to darkness and sorrow, time loosens our hearts, dries our tears, and while we declare we will not be comforted, and reproach ourselves, as the first poignancy of grief consciously fades, yet we are comforted. The world will not wait for us to mourn. The objects of love and of hate we may bear along with us, but distance will intervene between us and the sources of deep sorrow.
So far as Bart was concerned, his nature was in the main healthy, with only morbid tendencies, and the great blow of his brother's death seemed in some way to restore the equilibrium of his mind, and leave it to act more freely, under guidance of the strong common sense inherited from his mother. He knew he must not linger about his brother's grave and weep.
He knew now that he was entirely upon his own resources. His brother Morris's speculations, and dashing system of doing things, had already hopelessly involved him, and Bart knew that no aid could be expected from him. He had returned to Painesville, and closed up the few matters of his brother Henry; had written to Ranney, at Jefferson, and already had resumed his books with a saddened and sobered determination. He supposed that Henry had died in consequence of a too close and long-continued application to his studies; and while this admonished him, he still believed that his own elasticity and power of endurance would carry him forward and through, unscathed.
He began also to mingle a little with others, and to take an interest in their daily affairs. People affected to find him changed, and vastly for the better. "He's had enough to sober him." "It is well he has been warned, and heeds it." "God will visit with judgments, until the thoughtless forbear," and other profound and Christian remarks were made concerning him. As if Providence would cut off the best and most promising, for such indirect and uncertain good as might, or might not be produced in another less worthy!
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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24
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A LAW-SUIT (TO BE SKIPPED).
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A young lover's first kiss, a young hunter's first deer, and a young lawyer's first case, doubtless linger in their several memories, as events of moment.
Bart had tried his first case before a justice of the peace, been beaten, and was duly mortified. It is very likely he was on the wrong side, but he did not think so; and if he had thought so, he would not have been fully consoled. A poorer advocate than he could have convinced himself that he was right, and fail, as he did, to convince the court. It was a case of little importance to any but the parties. To them, every case is of the gravest moment. He acquitted himself creditably: showed that he understood the case, examined his witnesses, and presented it clearly.
Others came to him, and he advised with caution and prudence; and as Fall approached, he was in request in various small matters; men were surprised at the modesty of his deportment, and the gentleness of his speech. Instead of provoking his opponents, and answering back, as was to be expected of him, he was conciliating and forbearing.
A case finally arose, of unusual importance in the domestic tribunals; it attracted much attention, helped to bring him forward in a small way, and gained him much reputation among some persons whose esteem was enviable.
Old man Cole, "Old King Cole," as the boys derisively called him, an inoffensive little man, with a weak, limp woman for a wife, and three or four weaker and limper children, had for many years vegetated on one corner of an hundred-and-sixty acres of woods, having made but a small clearing, and managed in some unknown way to live on it. His feeble condition exposed him to imposition, and he was the butt for the unthinking, and victim of the unscrupulous and unruly. For some years his land, a valuable tract, had been coveted by several greedy men, and especially by one Sam Ward. Failing to induce Cole to sell what right it was admitted he had, Ward, as was supposed, attempted to intimidate, and finally to annoy Cole to such an extent, that for peace and safety he would willingly part with his possession. He was one of the earliest settlers, had become attached to his land, and declined to be driven off.
A lawless set of young men and boys were Ward's agents, although his connection with them was never made very apparent, and had committed various depredations upon the old man; until one night they made a raid upon his premises, cut down several fruit-trees, filled up his spring, tore down his old barn, and committed various acts of trespass of a grave character. It would seem as if some intelligence controlled their movements; no act criminal by the statutes of Ohio had been committed, and, so far as was suspected, none but those under age had been concerned in the affair.
Poor old Cole, an object of derision, was barely within common sympathy; and living remote, few knew of, and fewer cared for his misfortunes. He applied for advice to Bart, who was indignant at the recital, and entered upon an investigation of the outrage with great energy. He was satisfied that the fathers of the trespassers could not be held for their acts, that no breach of the criminal laws had been committed; but that the boys themselves could be made liable in an action, and that on failure to pay the judgment, they could themselves be taken in execution and committed to jail. He at once commenced a suit for the trespass before a magistrate, against all whom he suspected.
The commencement of the suit caused greater excitement then the perpetration of the outrage. Many of the young men belonged to respectable families, while many were old offenders, who had been permitted to escape for fear of provoking graver misdemeanors. It was known that Bart had taken up the case, and there was a feeling that he had at least the courage to encounter the dangerous wrath of the young scamps; the only ground of apprehension was that he had mistaken the law. The popular impression was that an action could not be maintained against minors.
On the return-day of the summons Barton appeared, and demanded a jury, then allowable, and the time for trial was fixed for the fifth day afterwards.
In that day, with the exception of one or two small lawyers at Chardon, and Ford at Burton, there were none within twenty-five miles of Newbury, and the legal field was gleaned in the magistrates' courts, as in all new countries, by pettifoggers, of whom nearly every township was made luminous with one. Of these, the acknowledged head was Brace. In ordinary life he was a very good sort of a man, not without capacity, but conceited, obstinate, and opinionated; he never had any law learning. In his career before justices of the peace, he was bold, adroit, unscrupulous, coarse, browbeating, and sometimes brutal; anything that occurred to his not uninventive mind, as likely in any way to help him on or out, he resorted to without hesitation. At this time he was in full career, and was constantly employed, going into two or three counties, occasionally meeting members of the profession, who held him in detestation, and whom he was as likely to drive out of court as he was to be worsted by them.
He had been employed by the young scamps to defend them. He and Bart had already met, and the latter was worsted in the case, and had received from Brace the usual Billingsgate. He was on hand well charged on the day for the appearance of the defendants, and was at no pains to conceal the contempt he felt for his young opponent.
Bart said no more than the occasion demanded, and seemingly paid no attention to Brace.
The magistrate, a man of plain, hard sense, adjourned the case to a large school-house, and invited Judge Markham to sit in, and preside at the trial, to which the Judge consented, which secured a decorous and fair hearing.
On the day, parties, witnesses, court, jury, and counsel, were on hand--a larger crowd than Newbury had seen for years. The case was called and the jury sworn, when Brace arose, and with a loud nourish demanded that the plaintiff be nonsuited, on the ground of the nonage of the defendants, and concluded by expressing his surprise at the ignorance of the plaintiff's counsel: everybody knew that a minor could not be sued; he even went so far as to express his pity for the plaintiff. Bart answered that it did not appear that any of the defendants were under age. If they were infants, and wanted to escape on the cry of baby, they must plead it, if their counsel knew what that meant; so that the plaintiff might take issue upon it, and the court be informed of the facts. The court held this to be the law, and Brace filed his plea of infancy. Bart then read from the Ohio statutes that when a minor was sued in an action of tort, as in this case, the court should appoint a guardian _ad litem,_ and the _parol_ should not _demur_; and he moved the court to appoint guardians _ad litem_, for the defendants.
Brace's eyes sparkled; and springing to his feet, he thundered out: "The parol shall not demur--the parol shall not demur. I have got this simpleton where I wanted him! I didn't 'spose he was fool enough to run into this trap; I set it on purpose for him: anybody else would have seen it; anything will catch him. The case can go no farther; the phrase, may it please the court, is Latin, and means that the case shall be dismissed. The _parol_, the plaintiff shall not _demur_, shall not have his suit. Why didn't Ford explain this matter to this green bumpkin, and save his client the costs?"
Barton reminded the court that the statute made it the duty of the court to appoint guardians _ad litem_, which was a declaration that the case was to go on; if it was to stop, no guardians were needed. Brace had said the terms were Latin; he presumed that his Latin was like his law; he thought it was old law French. He produced a law--dictionary, from which it appeared that the meaning was, the case should not be delayed, till the defendants were of age. Guardians should be appointed for them, and the case proceed, and so the court ruled.
Bart went up immensely in popular estimation. Any man who knew a word of Latin was a prodigy. Bart not only knew Latin, but the difference between that and old law French. Who ever heard of that before? and he had lived among them from babyhood, and they now looked upon him in astonishment. "It does beat hell, amazingly!" said Uncle Josh, aside.
After brief consultation the court appointed the fathers of the defendants their guardians, when Bart remarked that his learned and very polite opponent having found nurses for his babies, he would proceed with the case, and called his witnesses.
Against two or three of the ringleaders, the evidence was doubtful. When Bart moved to discharge three of the younger of the defendants, Brace opposed this. Bart asked him if he was there to oppose a judgment in favor of his own clients? The court granted his motion; when Bart put the young men on the stand as witnesses, and proved his case conclusively against all the rest.
What wonderful strategy this all seemed to be to the gaping crowd; and all in spite of Brace, whom they had supposed to be the most adroit and skilful man in the world; and who, although he objected, and blustered, and blowed, really appeared to be a man without resources of any sort.
Barton rested his case.
Brace called his witnesses, made ready to meet a case not made by the plaintiff, and Bart quietly dissmissed them one after the other without a word. Then Ward, who had kept in the background, was called, in the hope to save one of the defendants. Him Bart cross-examined, and it was observed that after a question or two he arose and turned upon him, and plied him with questions rapid and unexpected, until he was embarrassed and confused. Brace, by objections and argument, intended as instructions to the witness, only increased his perplexity, and he finally sat down with the impression that he had made a bad exhibition of himself, and had damaged the case.
It was now midnight, when the evidence was closed, and Barton proposed to submit the case without argument. Brace objected. He wanted to explain the case, and clear up the mistakes, and expose the rascalities of the plaintiff's witnesses; and the trial was adjourned until the next morning.
When the case was resumed the following day, Bart, in a clear, simple way, stated his case, and the evidence in support of it, making two or three playful allusions to his profound and accomplished opponent.
Brace followed on full preparation for the defence. Of course it was obvious, even to him, that he was hopelessly beaten; and mortified and enraged, he emptied all the vials of his wrath and vituperation upon the head of Bart, his client and witnesses, and sat down, at the end of an hour, exhausted.
When Bart arose to reply, he seemed to stand a foot taller than he ever appeared before. Calmly and in a suppressed voice he restated his case, and, with a few well--directed blows, demolished the legal aspects of the defence. He then turned upon his opponent; no restraint was on him now. He did not descend to his level, but cut and thrust and flayed him from above. Even the Newbury mob could now see the difference between wit and vulgarity, and were made to understand that coarseness and abuse were not strength. His address to the court was superb; and when he finally turned to the jury, with a touching sketch of the helplessness of the plaintiff, and of the lawless violence of the defendants, who had long been a nuisance, and had now become dangerous to peace and good order, and submitted the case, the crowd looked and heard with open-mouthed wonder. Had a little summer cloud come down, with thunder, lightning and tempest, they would not have been more amazed. When he ceased, a murmur, which ran into applause, broke from the cool, acute, observing and thinking New Englanders and their children, who were present.
Judge Markham promptly repressed the disorder, and in a few words gave the case to the jury, who at once returned a verdict for the largest amount within the court's jurisdiction; judgment was promptly rendered, execution for the bodies of the defendants issued, and they were arrested.
The excitement had now become intense. Here were half a score of young men in the hands of the law, under orders to be committed to jail. No one remembered such a case in Newbury. Breaches of the law, in that usually orderly community, were unknown, until the acts which gave rise to this suit, and some fainter demonstrations of the same character. The poor youths and their friends gathered helpless and anxious about Brace, who could suggest nothing. Finally, Barton came forward, and offered to take the promissory notes of the parties and their fathers, for the amount of the judgment and costs, and release them from arrest, which offer they gladly accepted, with many thanks to their prosecutor; and the blow which he thus dealt was the end of disorder in Newbury.
For the time being Cole was left at peace, and enjoyed more consideration than had ever been conceded to him before. He was destined, however, not long after, to appear in the higher court, to defend the doubtful title of his property, as will appear in the progress of this narrative.
As a general rule, the people of new communities are more curious and interested in law--suits, and trials, and lawyers, than in almost anything else to which their attention can be called. Lawyers, especially, are the objects of their admiration and astonishment. Unaccustomed to mental labor, conscious of an inability to perform it, and justly regarding it as holding the first place in human effort, the power and skill to conduct and maintain a long-continued mental conflict, to pursue and examine witnesses, answer questions as well as ask them, make and meet objections, make impromptu speeches and argue difficult propositions, and, finally, to deliver off-hand, an address of hours in length, full of argument, illustration, sometimes interspersed with humor, wit, and pathos, and sometimes really eloquent, is by them always regarded, and not without reason, as a marvel that cannot be witnessed without astonishment.
And here was this young Bart Ridgeley, who had been nowhere, had read next to nothing, whom they had esteemed a lazy, shiftless fellow, without capability for useful and thrifty pursuits, and who had in their presence, for the last two days, taken up a hopeless case, and conducted it against a man who, in their hearts, they had supposed was more than a match for Joshua R. Giddings or Chief Justice Hitchcock, beaten and baffled him, and finally thrashed him out of all semblance of an advocate.
When the case was over, and he came out, how quickly they made way for him, and eagerly closed in behind and followed him out, and looked, and watched, and waited for a word or a look from him. "What did I tell you?" "What do you say now?" "I allus knew it was in 'im." "He'll do," etc., rained about him as he went into the open air.
Greer had attended the trial, and was one of the warmest admirers of Bart's performance. Nobody knew much about this man, except that he was often on hand, well dressed, drove good horses, was open, free and pleasant, with plenty of leisure and money, always well received, and often sought after. He had, at the first, taken a real liking to Bart; and now, when the latter came out, he pleasantly approached him, and offered to carry him home in his carriage, an offer the tired youth was glad to accept.
On their way, he mentioned to Bart something about a very profitable and pleasant business, conducted by a few high-minded and honorable gentlemen, without noise or excitement, which consisted in the sale of very valuable commodities. They employed agents--young, active, and accomplished men, and on terms very remunerative, and he thought it very likely that if Bart would enter their service, it could be made much for his advantage to do so; he would call again after Bart had thought it over.
His remarks made an impression on Bart's mind, and excited his curiosity, and he remembered what Henry had said about Greer when at home.
Judge Markham had been very much impressed by Bart's management of his case; perhaps to say that he was very much astonished, would better express its effect upon him. He had always given him credit for a great deal of light, ready, dashing talent, but was wholly unprepared for the exhibition of thought, reflection, and logical power which he had witnessed; the young man's grave, cautious and dignified manner won much upon him, and he was surprised when he reflected how slender was the ground of his dislike, and how that dislike had somehow disappeared. Then he recalled the favorable estimate which his wife had always put upon the qualities of Bart, and that he had usually found her opinions of persons accurate. The frank appeal of Bart to him was manly, and almost called for some acknowledgment; and he felt that the invisible barrier between them was unpleasant. After all, was not this young man one of the few destined to distinction, and on all accounts would it not be well to give him countenance? And in this the Judge was not wholly politic. He felt that it would be a good thing to do, to serve this struggling young man, and he came out of the crowded room with the settled purpose of taking Bart home to his mother's, if he would ride with him, let what would come of it. He would frankly tell him what he thought of his conduct of his case, and at least open the way to renewed intercourse.
He was detained for a moment, to answer questions, and got out just in time to see Bart, apparently pleased, get into Greer's carriage and ride away. The Judge looked thoughtful at this; and a close observer would have noticed a serious change in the expression of his face.
Of course he was well and intimately known to all parties present, and his frank and cordial manners left him always open to the first approach. He listened to the comments upon the trial, which all turned upon Bart's efforts, and the Judge could easily see that the young advocate had at once become the popular idol. He was asked what he thought of Bart's speech, and replied that one could hardly judge of a single effort, but that the same speech in the higher courts would undoubtedly have gained for its author much reputation, and that if Bart kept on, and did himself justice, he was certainly destined to high distinction. It was kind, judicious, and all that was deserved, but it was not up to the popular estimate, and one remarked that "the Judge never did like him"; another, "that the Judge was afraid that Julia would take a liking to Bart, and he hoped she would"; and a third, "that Bart was good enough for her, but he never did care for girls, who were all after him."
How freely the speech of the common people runs!
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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25
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THE WARNING.
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Two or three things occurred during the Autumn which had some influence upon the fortunes of Barton.
Five or six days after the trial, he received a letter, postmarked Auburn, which read as follows: "Beware of Greer. Don't listen to him. Be careful of your associations."
Only three lines, with the fewest words: not another word, line, mark, or figure on any side of it. The hand was bold and free, and entirely unknown to him. The paper was fine-tinted note, and Bart seemed to catch a faint odor of violets as he opened it; a circumstance which reminded him that a few days before he had found on the grave of his brother, a faded bouquet of flowers. There was perhaps, no connection between them, but they associated themselves in his mind. Some maiden, unknown to him, had cherished the memory of his brother, may have loved him; and had secretly laid this offering on his resting-place. How sweet was the thought to him! Who was she? Would he ever know? She had heard something of this Greer--there was something bad or wrong about him; Henry may have spoken to her about the man; and she may have seen or known of Greer's taking him home, and had written him this note of warning. The hand was like that of a man, but no man in Ohio would use such paper, scented with violets. How queer and strange it was! and how the mind of the imaginative youth worked and worried, but not unpleasantly, over it! Of course, if the note was from a woman, she must have written because he was Henry's brother; and it was, in a way, from him, and to be heeded, although Henry had himself been favorably impressed by Greer. The warning was not lost upon him, although it may not have been necessary.
A few days later, the elegant and leisurely Greer made his appearance; and after complimenting Bart upon his success in an easy, roundabout way, approached the subject of his call; and Bart was duly impressed that it arose from considerations of favor and regard to him, that Greer now sought him. The visitor referred to the rule among gentlemen, which Bart must understand, of course, that what he might communicate, as well as their whole interview, must be purely confidential. The agents, he said, were selected with the utmost care, and were usually asked to subscribe articles, and sworn to secrecy; but that he had so much confidence in Bart, that this would not be necessary. Bart, who listened impassively, said that he understood the rule of implied confidence extended only to communications in themselves right and honorable; and that of course Mr. Greer could have no other to make to him. Greer inquired what he meant. Bart said that if a man approached, with or without exacting a pledge of confidence, and made him a proposition strictly honorable, he should of course regard it as sacred; but if he proposed to him to unite in a robbery, house-burning, or to pass counterfeit money, or commit any breach of morality, he should certainly hold himself at liberty to disclose it, if he deemed it necessary. "If I am, in advance, asked to regard a proposed communication as confidential, I should understand, of course, that the proposer impliedly pledged that it should be of a character that a man of honor could listen to and entertain; of course, Mr. Greer, you can have no other to make to me, and you know I would not listen to any other."
During this statement, made with the utmost courtesy, Bart looked Greer steadily in the face, and received a calm, full, unwinking look in return. Greer assured him that his notions of the ethics of honor, while they were nice, were his own, and he was glad to act upon them; that he was not on that day fully authorized to open up the matter, but should doubtless receive full instructions in a day or two; and he had called to-day more to keep his word with Bart than to enter upon an actual business transaction. Nothing could be franker and more open than his way and manner in saying this; and as he was trained to keenness of observation, he may have detected the flitting smile that just hovered on Bart's lips. After a little pleasant commonplace talk of common things, the leisurely Greer took a cordial leave, and never approached Bart but once again.
At the Whig nominating convention, for the county of Geanga, that Fall, Major Ridgeley, who had, by a vote of the officers of his regiment, become its Colonel, was a candidate for the office of sheriff. He was popular, well-known, and his prospects fair. The office was attractive, its emoluments good, and it was generally sought after by the best class of ambitious men in the counties.
He was defeated in the convention through a defection of his supposed friends, which he charged, justly or otherwise, upon Judge Markham. The disappointment was bitter, and he was indignant, of course. Like Bart, when he thought a mishap was without remedy, he neither complained nor asked explanations. When he and the Judge next met, it was with cool contempt on his side, and with surprise, and then coldness, on the part of Markham. Their words were few and courteous, but for the next eighteen months they avoided each other. Of course, Bart sympathized with his brother Morris; although he did not suppose the Judge was ever committed, still he felt that he and all his friends should have stood by his brother, and apprehended that the Judge's dislike to him may have influenced his course. However that may have been, Judge Markham never approached Bart, who continued to act upon his old determination to avoid the whole Markham family.
His engagements took the Judge to the State capital for the winter, where, with his wife and Julia, he remained until the early spring, following; as did also General and Mrs. Ford.
Barton undertook the school in his mother's neighborhood for the winter, with the understanding that he might attend to calls in the line of his proposed profession, which grew upon his hands. He pushed his studies with unremitting ardor; he had already made arrangements with Mr. Ranney to enter his office on the first of the April following, and hoped to secure an admission in the next September, when he should seek a point for business, to which he proposed to remove his mother and younger brothers, as soon afterwards as his means would warrant.
His friend Theodore had gone away permanently, from Newbury, and the winter passed slowly and monotonously to Bart. He knew, although he would not admit to himself, that the principal reason of his discontent was the absence of Julia. What was she to him? What could she ever be? and yet, how dreary was Newbury--the only place he had ever loved---when she was away. Of course she would wed, some time, and was undoubtedly much admired, and sought, and courted, by elegant and accomplished men, this winter, upon whom she smiled, and to whom she gave her hand when she met them, and who were permitted to dance with her, and be near her at any time. And what was it all to him? How sore, after all, his heart was; and how he hated and cursed himself, that he must still think of her! He would go forever and ever away, and ever so far away, and would hear and think of her no more. But when she came back, with March, he somehow felt her return, and Spring seemed naturally to come with her; and bright thoughts, and beautiful and poetic figures and images, would arrange themselves in couplets and stanzas, with her in the centre, in spite of him.
Then came sugar making, with life and health of spirit, in the woods. His brother was arranging to dispose of his interests, and had gone further West, to look for a new point, for new enterprises.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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26
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LOST.
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March and sugar making had gone, and Bart had completed his scanty arrangements to depart also; and no matter what the future might have for him, he knew that he was now leaving Newbury; that whatever might happen, his home would certainly be elsewhere; although it would forever remain the best, and perhaps sole home of his heart and memory.
What he could do for his mother he had done. His limited wardrobe was packed. He went to the pond, to all the dear and cherished places in the woods; and one night he was guilty of the folly, as he knew it was, of wandering up the State road, past Judge Markham's house. He did not pretend to himself that it was not with the hope of seeing Julia, but he only passed the darkened house where she lived, and went disappointed away. He would go on the morrow, and when it came, he sent his trunk up to Hiccox's, intending to walk down in the evening, and intercept the stage, as Henry had done.
He went again to his brother's grave, and there, on its head, was an almost fresh wreath of wild flowers! He was unmanned; and, kneeling, touched the dead children of the Spring with his lips, and dropped tears upon them. How grateful he was that a watchful love was there to care for this consecrated place, and he felt that he could not go that night. What mattered one day? He would wait till to-morrow, he thought, but was restless and undecided. George left him at the cemetery, and went to the post-office, and was to have gone with Edward to see him off, on the stage. As the time to leave approached, Bart found his disinclination to go even stronger; and he finally told his mother he would remain until the next day.
She, unwomanlike, did not like the idea of his yielding to this reluctance to go. "He was ready, nothing detained him, why not have the final pain of going over at once?"
He made no reply, but lounged restlessly about.
At about nine o'clock George came bursting in, with his eyes flashing, and his golden hair wet with perspiration; and catching his breath, and reducing and restraining his voice, cried out: "Julia Markham is lost in the woods, and they can't find her!" The words struck Bart like electricity, and at once made him his best self.
"Lost, George?" taking him by both hands, and speaking coolly, "tell me all about it."
A few great gasps had relieved George, and the cool, firm hands of Bart had fully restored his quick wits.
"She and Nell Roberts had been to Coe's, and Orville started to go home with Julia, and he did go down to Judge Markham's fields, where he left her."
"Well?"
"She did not go home, nor anywhere, and they have been looking for her, all through the woods, everywhere."
"All through what woods, Georgie?"
"Down between Coe's and the State road."
"They will never find her there; there is a new chopping, back of Judge Markham's fields, which she mistook for the fields, and when she found out the mistake she turned back to the old road, and I will wager the world that she went into 'the woods,' confused and lost." After a moment--"Mother, put some of your wine in my hunting-flask, and give me something that can be eaten. Edward, bring me two of those bundles of hickory; and George, let me have your hatchet and belt."
He spoke in his ordinary voice, but he looked like one inspired. Throwing off his coat, and arraying himself in a red "wamus," and replacing his boots with heavy, close-fitting brogans, he was ready.
"Boys," said he, "go about and notify all in the neighborhood to meet at Markham's, at daylight; and tell them for God's sake, if she is not found, to form a line, and sweep through the west woods. If I am not back by daylight, push out and do all you can. Mother, don't be anxious for me. If it storms and grows cold, you know I am a born woodsman. I know now what kept me."
"I am anxious, Barton, only that you may find her. God go with you!"
With the other things, Edward placed in his hands a long wax taper, made for the sugar camp, lighted, and with a kiss to his mother, and a cheery good-night to the boys, he sprang out.
As Julia did not return at dark, her father and mother supposed she had stopped with Nell Roberts. Mrs. Markham remembered the adventure which signalized her last walk from Coe's, and was anxious; and the Judge went down to Roberts's for her. Nell had been home one hour, and said Orville had gone home with Julia. A messenger was hurried off to Coe's, and word was sent through the neighborhood, to call out the men and boys. It had been years since an alarm and a hunt for the lost had occurred. The messenger returned with young Coe, who said that he went with Miss Markham to within sight of her father's fields, when she insisted that he should return, and he did.
Cool and collected, the Judge and his party, with lanterns and torches, accompanied by Coe, proceeded to the point where he parted with Julia, when it was discovered that what she had mistaken for her father's fields, was a new opening in the woods, a considerable distance back from them. It was supposed that in endeavoring to find a passage through, or around the fallen timber, she had lost her way. Obviously, if she went back towards the old road, which was a broad opening through the woods, she would in no event cross it, and must be somewhere within the forest, east of it, and between the State road and the one which led from it to Coe's. Through these woods, with flashing torch and gleaming lantern, with shout and loud halloa, the Judge and his now numerous party swept. As often as a dry tree or combustible matter was found, it was set on fire, there being no danger of burning over the forest, wet with the rains of Spring.
This forest covered hundreds of acres, traversed by streams and gullies, and rocky precipices, rendered difficult of passage by fallen trees, thickets, twining vines and briers.
The weather had been intensely hot for the season, ominously so, for the last two days, and on this day, the sun, after hanging like a fiery ball in the thickening heavens, disappeared at mid-afternoon, in the dark mass of vapor that gathered in the lower atmosphere. The night came on early, with a black darkness, and while there was no wind, there was a low, humming moan in the air, as if to warn of coming tempest, and the atmosphere was already chill with the approaching change.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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27
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THE BABES IN THE WOODS.
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"There, Orville, here are our fields. I am almost home; now hurry back. It is late. I am obliged to you." They had reached the opening, and the young man turned back, and the young girl tripped lightly and carelessly on; not to find the fence, as she expected, but an expanse of fallen timber, huge trunks, immense jams of tree-tops, and numerous piles of brush, under which the path was hidden. As she looked over and across, in the gloomy twilight, trees seemed to stand thick and high on the other side. Julia at once concluded that they had taken a wrong path; and she thought that she remembered to have seen one, which she and Barton passed, on the memorable night of their adventure; and without attempting to traverse the chopping, or go around it, she turned and hurried back to the old road. As she went, she thought of what had then happened, and how pleasant it would be if he were with her, and how bad it had all been since that time.
When she got back to the old road, it seemed very strange, and as if it had undergone some change; looking each way, for a moment, undecided, she finally walked rapidly to the north, until she came to a path leading to the left, which she entered, with a sense of relief, and hurried forward.
It was quite dark, silent, and gloomy in the woods, and she sped on--on past huge trees, through open glades, down through little sinks and swales, and up on high ground, until she came to an opening. "Thank God! thank God!" cried the relieved and grateful child; "I am out at last. How glad I am!" And she reached the margin of the woods, to be confronted with an interminable black jungle of fallen and decaying tree-trunks, limbs and thick standing brush, over which, and out of which, stood the dense tops of young trees. She paused for a moment, and turning to the left, thought to skirt about this obstruction, until she should reach the fence and field, which she was sure were now near her. On and on, and still on she went; over the trunks of fallen trees, through tangles of brush and pools of water, until, when she turned to look for the opening, she was alarmed and dismayed to find that it had disappeared. Her heart now for the first time sank within her. She listened, but no sound, save the ominous moan in the air, came to her ear. The solemn, still, black night was all about her. She looked up, and a cold, starless, dim blank was all over her; and all around, standing thick, were cold, dark, silent trees. She stood and tried to think back: where was she, and how came she there? She knew she had once turned back, from something to somewhere--to the old road, as she remembered; and it flashed across her, that in the strange appearance of things, and in her confusion, she had crossed it, and was in the awful, endless woods! How far had she gone? If lost, had she wandered round and round, as lost folks do? Then she thought of her dear, distracted mother, and of her brave and kind father. She had been missed, and they were looking for her. Everybody would hear of it, and would join in the hunt; and Barton might hear of it, and if he did, she knew he would come to find her. He was generous and heroic; and what a wonder and a talk it would all make, and she didn't care if it did. Then she wondered if she had not better stop and stand still, for fear she would go wrong. How awfully dark it was, and the air was chilly. Did she really know which way home was? And she strained her unseeing eyes intently for a moment, and then closed them, to let the way come into her mind. That must be the way, and she would go in that direction until she thought she could make them hear; and then she would call. And ere she started, amid the cold, unpitying trees, in her purity and innocence, that savage nature reveres and respects, she knelt and prayed; she asked for guidance and strength, and arose hopeful. But she found that she was very weary: her feet were wet and cold, and when she was to start, that she was confused and uncertain as to the direction. One more invocation, and she went forward. How far or how long she travelled, she had no idea. She paused to listen: no sound. Perhaps they would now hear her, and she raised her voice, and called her father's name, and again and again, with all her force, through the black, blank, earless night, she sent her cry.
As her voice went out, hope, and spirit, and strength went with it. She trembled and wept, and tried once again to pray. She clasped her hands; but suffocating darkness seemed to close over her, and she felt lost, utterly and hopelessly lost!
A sense of injustice, of ill-usage, came to her, and she dried her eyes; she was young, and brave, and strong; and must; and would care for herself. She should not perish; day would come some time, and she should get out. She found she was very cold, and must arouse and exert herself. Then came the thought and dread of wild animals; of that awful beast; and she listened, and could hear their stealthy steps in the dry leaves, and she shrunk from meeting the horrid glare of their eyes. Oh, if Barton were only with her, just to drive them away! God would protect him.
There--as she could not help but stare into the black darkness, there surely was the glare of their eyes, that horrid, yellowish-green, glassy glare! and with a shriek she fled--not far, for she fell, and a half swoon brought her a moment's oblivion; when the dead cold night, and the dumb trees came back about her again. With the reaction she arose, and found that she had lost her hood. She felt that a wild beast had torn it from her head; and that she had taken his hot, brute breath.
Weak, hardly with the power of motion, she supported herself by the trunk of a tree. "Father! Father God! a helpless, weak child calls to Thee; show me my sin, let me repent of it; weak and lost, and hopeless; sweet Saviour, with Thy loving sympathy, stay and help my fainting heart. If it be Thy will that I perish, receive my spirit, and let this weak, vain body, unmangled, be given back to my poor grief-stricken parents. God and Saviour, hear me!"
There now came to her ear the voice of running water. It had a sweet sound of companionship and hope, and she made towards it, and soon found herself on the banks of a wild and rapid stream. "Oh, thanks! thanks!" she murmured, "this runs from darkness out to human habitations, somewhere. It will lead out to daylight, and on its banks are human homes, somewhere. Oh, give me strength to follow it, it is so hard to perish here!"
The wind had long been blowing, and had now risen to a tempest, bitter and sharp from the north, and the trees were bending and breaking under its fury. Julia was thoroughly chilled, and her feet were benumbed with cold. She had been aware for some time that snow was sifting over her, and rattling on the dry leaves under her feet. She was dizzy, and almost overcome with sleep; and was conscious of strange visions and queer voices, that seemed to haunt her senses. Could she hold out till morning? She could not fix her wandering mind, even on this question. She occasionally heard her own voice in broken murmurs, but did not understand what she said. It was like the voice of another. She knew her mouth was dry and parched with thirst, but never thought of trying to drink from the stream, whose drowsy voice ran through her wandering consciousness. The impulse to move on remained long after all intelligent power of directing her movements had left her; and blindly and mechanically, she staggered and reeled about for a few or many minutes, until she sank to the earth unable and unwilling to struggle further. Her last act was with pure womanly instinct, to draw her torn and draggled skirts about her limbs and feet. The faces of her father and mother, warm and sweet, were with her for a moment, and she tried to think of her Heavenly Father; and another face was all the time present, full of tenderness and love; and then all faded into oblivion, blank and utter ... What was it? something whispered, or seemed to whisper in her heart as vague consciousness returned, unutterably sweet; was it the voice of an angel coming to bear her hence? Once again! and now her ear caught--and still again--a voice of earth, clear; and it had power to start her up from under the snow, that was surely weaving and thickening her virgin winding-sheet. God in heaven! once again! Strong, clear and powerful, it pealed through the arches of the forest, overtopping the tempest. It was a voice she knew, and if aught might, it would have called her back from death; as now, from a deadly swoon.
And once again, and nearer, with a cadence of impatience, and almost doubt, a faint answer went back; and then a gleam of light; a broad, wavering circle of glory, and Barton, with his flashing eyes, and eager, flushed face, with his mass of damp curls filled with snow, and dashed back, sprang with a glad cry to her side!
"Barton!" she cried, trying to rise, and throwing out her hands to him.
"Oh, Julia! you are found! you are alive! Thank God! thank God!" Throwing himself on his knees by her, and, clasping her cold hands in his, and, in a paroxysm, pressing them to his lips and heart, and covering them with kisses and with tears.
"God sent you to me! God sent you to me!" murmured the poor, dear grateful girl.
Bart's self-command returned in a moment; he lifted her to her feet, and supported her. "You are nearly frozen, and the snow had already covered you. See what my mother sent to you," filling the top of his flask and placing it to her lips. "It is nothing but old wine." How revivingly it seemed to run through her veins! "I am very thirsty," she said, and he brought her a full draught from the running stream.
"Can you walk? let me carry you. We must get to some shelter."
"I thought you would come. Where is my father?"
"I am alone--may I save you?"
"Oh, Barton!"
"I have not seen your father; they are looking for you, miles away. How under the heavens did you ever find your way here? How you must have suffered! See! here is your hood!" placing it over her tangled and dripping hair. "And let me put this on you." Removing his "wamus," and putting her arms through the sleeves, he tied the lower corners about her little waist, and buttoned the top over her bosom and about her neck. He gave her another draught of wine, and paused for a moment--"I must carry you."
"Oh, I can walk!" said the revived girl, with vivacity.
He lifted his nearly consumed torch, and conducted her to the stream. "We must cross this, and find shelter on the other side." He let himself at once from the abrupt bank, into the cold, swift water, that came to his middle. "I must carry you over;" unhesitatingly she stooped over to him, and was taken with one strong arm fully to himself, while he held his torch with the other. He turned with her then, and plunged across the creek, holding her above its waters. Its deepest part ran next the bank where he entered; fortunately it was not very wide, and he bore her safely to the opposite and lower bank.
The other side was protected from the tempest, which was at its greatest fury, by a high and perpendicular ledge of rocks which the course of the creek followed, but leaving a narrow space of hard land along the base. Under the shelter, Bart turned up stream with his charge, occasionally lifting his torch and inspecting the mossy ledge. Within a few feet of them the snow fell in wreaths and swirls, and sometimes little eddies of wind sifted it over them.
"Somewhere near here, is a place where they made shingles last summer, and there was a shed against the rocks, if we could only find it." Finally they doubled an abrupt angle in the nearly smooth wall, which bent suddenly back from the stream, for many feet, making a semicircle of a little space, and in the back of which Bart discovered the anxiously looked-for shed;--a mere rude cover, on posts driven into the ground.
Under and about it were great quantities of dry shavings, and short bits of wood, the hearts and saps of shingle blocks. To place a pile of these on the margin of the creek, and apply his torch to them, took but a moment; and in an instant a bright, white flame flashed and lit up the little sheltered alcove. Another, and the almost overcome girl was placed on a seat of soft, dry shavings, against the moss-grown rock, under the rude roof, out of the reach of the snow or wind; and another fire was lit of the dry shingle blocks, at her feet, from which her saturated shoes were removed, and to which warmth was soon restored.
Barton now took from a pocket on the outside of the "wamus," a small parcel, and produced some slices of tongue and bread, which the famished girl ate with the relish and eagerness of a hungry child. More wine, now mingled with water, completed her repast; and Bart made further preparations for her comfort and rest. A larger mass of the shavings so adjusted that she could recline upon them, was arranged for her, which made an easy, springy couch; and as she lay wearily back upon them, still others were placed about and over her, until, protected as she was, warmth and comfort came to her.
What a blessed sense of shelter, and safety, and peace, as from heaven, fell upon the rescued girl's heart! And how exquisitely delicious to be carried, and supported, and served by this beautiful and heroic youth, who hovered about her so tenderly, and kneeling at her feet, so gently and sweetly ministered to her! No thought of being compromised, none of impropriety in the atmosphere of absolute purity, came to cloud the stainless mind of the maiden. No memory of the past, no thought of the future, was near her. She was lost, exhausted, and dying, and God sent him to her; and she accepted him as from the hand of God. He had restored, warmed and cheered her. She was under shelter and protection, and now heavy with sleep, and still the storm raged all about and over their heads, and the snow still fell within a few feet of them, while in that little circle warmth and light pulsated, like a tender human heart.
When all was done that occurred to the tender, thoughtful youth, and the eyes of the maiden were dreamily closing: "Have you said your prayers?" asked Bart, who had spoken barely a word since lighting the fires.
"Not of thanks for my deliverance," replied the girl. "Will you say a prayer for us?" in a low, sweet voice.
The youth knelt a little from her.
"Our Father, Whose Presence is Heaven, and Whose Presence is everywhere, let this weary, wandering one feel that Presence in Its sweetest power; let her repose in It; and through all time rest in It. Hush the storm, and make short the hours of darkness, and with the dawn give her back to her home of love. Impress her parents with a sense of her safety. Remember my widowed mother and young brothers. Be with all wanderers, all unsheltered birds, and lambs on bleak hill-sides, and with all helpless, hopeless things."
He ceased.
"You ask nothing for yourself, Barton," in her tenderest voice.
"Have I not been permitted to save you? What remains for me to ask?"
How these words came to her afterwards! She turned, moved a little, as if to make room, and slept.
Barton shall at some time, in his own way, tell of his experiences of that strange night.
It had never come near him--the thought of seeking and saving her for himself---and when he found her perishing, and bore her over the water, and found shelter, and cheered and restored her, and as he now sat to protect her, the idea that she was or could be more to him, or different from what she had been, never approached him. It had been an inspiration to seek her, and a great possession to find her. It had brought back to him his self-respect, and had perhaps redeemed him, in her eyes, from the scorn and contempt with which she had regarded him, and in his heart he gratefully thanked God for it. Now his path was open and serene, although unwarmed and unlighted with this precious love, and so, in the heart of the forest, in the soul of the night, in the bosom of the tempest, he had brought life and hope and peace and rest to her, and an angel could not have done it with a purer self-abnegation.
He sat near her, at the foot of an old hemlock, waiting for the dawn. The forest and night and storm thus held in their arms these two young, strong, brave, sweet, and rich natures, so tender, and so estranged, till the morning light brightened and flashed up in the serene sky, and sent a new day over the snow-wreathed earth. The tempest subsided, the snow ceased, the wind sunk to whispers, and the young morning was rosy in the east.
Barton had kept the fire burning near Julia, and when the new light became decided, approached her, and not without some anxiety: "Miss Markham--Miss Markham--Miss Markham!" raising his voice at each repetition. She did not hear. "Julia!" in a low voice, bending over her. Her eyes opened to the rude roof over her, and she started, turned to him, flushed, and smiled: "Oh, we are still here in the woods! Is it day?"
"Yes; how do you feel? Can you walk?" cheerily.
"Oh yes, I haven't suffered much!" rising from the woody coverings, which she gayly shook from her.
"Excuse me, while you make your toilet in this extensive dressing-room, and I will look about. I will not go far, or be gone long." Going still further up the stream, he found the end of the ledge of rocks, with a steepish hill sloping down to the creek, down which, under the snow, appeared to wind a road, which crossed the creek when the water was low. He turned into this road, and went up to the top of the hill, from which he could see an opening in the otherwise unbroken woods, and a little farther on he was gladdened with the sight of a smoke, rising like a cloud-column, above the trees.
He hastened back to find Julia equipped, and busy placing new fuel to the crackling fire. "There is a cabin not more than half a mile away, and the snow is not more than two or three inches deep; we can easily reach it," he said, brightly.
"Oh, Barton!" said the girl, with a deep rich voice, coming to him, "how can we ever--how can my father and mother ever--how can I repay"--and her voice broke and faltered with emotion, and tears fell from her wondrous eyes.
"Perhaps," said Bart, off his guard, "perhaps you may be willing to forget the past!"
"The past--forget the past?"
"Pardon me, it was unfortunate! Let us go."
"Barton!"
"Not a word now," said Bart, gayly. "I am the doctor, you are terribly shaken up, and not yourself. I shall not let you say a word of thanks. Why, we are not out of the woods yet!" --this last laughingly. "When you are all your old self, and in your pleasant home, everything of this night and morning will come to you."
"What do you mean, Mr. Ridgeley?" a little coolly.
"Nothing," in a sad, low voice. They had gained the road. "See," said he, "here is somebody's road, from some place to somewhere; we will follow it up to the some place. There! I hear an axe. I hope he is cutting wood; and there--you can see the smoke of his cabin.
'I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled.'
Oh, I hope he will have a rousing fire."
Julia walked rapidly and silently by his side, hardly hearing his last words; she was thinking why he would not permit her to thank him--and that it would all be recalled in her home--finally, his meaning came to her. He would seek and save her from death, and even from the memory of an unconsidered word, which might possibly be misconstrued; and she clung more closely to the arm which had borne her over the flood.
"I am hurrying you, I fear."
"No, not a bit. Oh, now I can see the cabin; and there is the man, right by the side of it."
"It must be Wilder's," said Bart. "He moved into the woods here somewhere."
As they approached, the chopper stopped abruptly, and gazed on them in blank wonder. The dishevelled girl, with hanging hair, and red "wamus," and the wild, haggard-looking, coatless youth, with belt and hatchet, were as strange apparitions, coming up out of the interminable woods, as could well meet the gaze of a rustic wood-chopper of an early morning.
"Can you give this young lady shelter and food?" asked Bart, gravely.
"I guess so," said the man; "been out all night?" and he hurried them into a warm and cheerful room, bright with a blazing fire, where was a comely, busy matron, who turned to them in speechless surprise.
"This is Judge Markham's daughter," said Bart, as Julia sank into a chair, strongly inclined to break down completely; "she got lost, last night, near her father's, and wandered all night alone, and I found her just beyond the creek, not more than two hours ago. I must place her in your hands, my good woman."
"Poor, precious thing!" cried the woman, kneeling and pulling off her shoes, and placing her chilled feet to the fire. "What a blessed mercy you did not perish, you darling."
"I should, if it had not been for him," now giving way. Mrs. Wilder stepped a moment into the other of the two rooms, into which the lower floor of the cabin was divided, and spoke to some one in it; and giving Julia a bowl of hot milk and tea, led her to the inner apartment.
"Take care of him;" were her words, as she left, nodding her head towards Barton.
"How far is it to Markham's?" asked Bart. " 'Bout seven mile round, an' five 'cross."
"Have you a horse?"
"Fust rate!"
"Saddle him, and go to Markham's at once. The father and mother of this girl are frantic: a thousand men are hunting for her; you'll be paid."
"I don't want no pay," said Wilder, hurrying out. Five minutes later, sitting on his saddle, he received a slip of paper from Bart.
"Who shall I say?" said Wilder, not without curiosity on his own account.
"That will tell the Judge all he'll want to know. He will hear my name as soon as he will care to."
Wilder dashed off down the forest-road by which Bart and Julia had approached his house.
Bart went listlessly into the house. His energy and excitement had suddenly died out, with the exigency which called them forth; his mental glow and physical effort, both wonderful and long-continued to an intense strain, left him, and in the reaction he almost collapsed. Mrs. Wilder offered him one of her husband's coats. He was not cold. She placed a smoking breakfast before him. He loathed its sight and fragrance, and drank a little milk.
She knew he was a hero; so young and so handsome, yet a mere boy; his sad, grave face had a wonderful beauty to her, and his manners were so high, and like a gentleman born. She asked him some questions about his finding Julia, and he answered dreamily, and in few words, and seemed hardly to know what he said.
"Is Miss Markham asleep? --is she quiet?"
Mrs. Wilder stepped to the inner room. "She is," she answered; "nothing seems to ail her but weariness and exhaustion. She will not suffer from it."
"Is she alone?"
"She is in bed with my daughter Rose."
"May I just look at her one moment?"
"Certainly."
One look from the door at the sweetly-sleeping face, and without a word he hurried from the house. He had felt a great heart-throb when he came upon her in the woods, and now, when all was over, and no further call for action or invention was on him, the strong, wild rush of the old love for a moment overwhelmed him. It would assert itself, and was his momentary master. But presently he turned away, with an unspoken and final adieu.
Two hours later the Judge, on his smoking steed, dashed up to the cabin, followed by the Doctor and two or three others. As he touched the ground, Julia, with a cry of joy, sprang into his arms.
She had murmured in her sleep, awoke, and would get up and dress. She laughed, and said funny little things at her looks and dress, and examined the "wamus" with great interest, with a blush put it on, and tied it coquettishly about her waist, then seemed to think, and took it off gravely. Next she ran eagerly out to the other room, and asked for Bart, and looked grave, and wondered, when Mrs. Wilder told her he had gone, and she wondered that Mrs. Wilder would let him go.
She kissed that good woman when she first got up, and was already in love with sweet, shy, tall, comely Rose, who was seventeen, and had made fast friends with Ann and George, the younger ones. Then she ran out into the melting snow and bright soft air. How serene it all was, and how tall and silent stood the trees, in the bright sun! How calm and innocent it all was, and looked as if nothing dreadful had ever happened in it, and a robin came and sang from an old tree, near by.
And she talked, and wondered about her mother and father, and, by little bits, told much of what happened the night before; and wondered--this time to herself--why Bart went off; and she looked sad over it.
Mrs. Wilder looked at her, and listened to her, and in her woman's heart she pondered of these two, and wished she had kept Bart; she was sad and sorry for them, and most for him, for she saw his soul die in his eyes as he turned from Julia's sleeping face.
Then came the tramp of horses, and Julia sprang out, and into her father's arms.
One hour after came Julia's mother and Nell, in the light carriage; and kisses, and tears, and little laughy sobs, and words that ran out with little freshets of tears, and unanswered questions, and unasked answers, broken and incoherent; yet all were happy, and all thankful and grateful to their Father in Heaven; and blessings and thanks--many of them unsaid--to the absent one.
And so the lost one was restored, and soon they started back.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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28
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AT JUDGE MARKHAM'S.
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When Mrs. Markham at last realized that Julia was lost, she hastily arrayed herself and went out with the others to search for her, calmly, hopefully, and persistently. She went, and clambered, and looked, and called, and when she could look and go no further, as woman may, she waited, and watched, and prayed, and the night grew cold, and the wind and snow came, and as trumpets were blown and guns discharged, and fires lighted in the woods, and torches flashed and lanterns gleamed through the trees, she still watched, and hoped, and prayed.
When at last the storm and exhaustion drove men in, she was very calm and pale, said little, and went about with chilled tears in her eyes.
Judge Markham was a strong, brave, sagacious man, and struggled and fought to the last, but finally in silence he rejoined his silent wife. At about three in the morning, and while the storm was at its height, she turned from the blank window where she stood, with a softened look in her eyes, from which full tides were now for the first time falling; and approaching her husband, who man-like, when nothing more could be done by courage and strength, sat with his face downward on his arms, resting on the table, and breathing great dry gasps, and sobs of agony.
"Edward," said she, stooping over him, "it comes to me somehow that Julia is safe; that she has somewhere found shelter, and we shall find her."
And now she murmured, and whispered, and talked, as the impression seemed to deepen in her own heart, and she knelt, and once more a fervent prayer of hope and faith went up. The man came and knelt by her, and joined in her prayer, and grew calm.
"Julia," said he, "we have at least God, and with Him is all."
When the morning came, five hundred anxious and determined men, oppressed with sad forebodings, had gathered from all that region for the search.
Persistently they adhered to the idea that the missing girl was in the lower woods.
A regular organized search by men and boys, in a continuous line, was resolved upon. Marshals were appointed, signals agreed upon, and appliances and restoratives provided; and the men were hastening to their places. A little knot near the Judge's house were still discussing the matter, as in doubt about the expediency of further search in that locality.
George was in this group, and had, as directed, given Barton's opinion. Judge Markham, who was giving some last directions joined these men, and listened while Uncle Jonah, in a few words, explained Bart's theory--that the girl would turn back from the chopping to the old road, and if there confused, would be likely to go into the woods, and directly away from her home.
"And where is Bart?" asked the Judge.
"He started at about nine last night, with two big bundles of hickory," said George, "to look for her, and had not returned half an hour ago."
"Where did he go?" asked the Judge eagerly.
"Into the woods."
"And has not returned?"
"No."
"Your girl is safe," said Uncle Jonah. "The boy has found her, I'll bet my soul!"
While the Judge stood, struck and a little startled, by this information, and Jonah's positive assurance, a man on a foaming steed came plunging down the hill, just south of the house, and pulling up, called out, "Where is Judge Markham?"
"I am he."
"Oh! Good-morning, Judge! This is for you. Your girl is safe."
The Judge eagerly took the paper, gazed at it, and at the man, speechless.
"She's at my house, Judge, safe and sound."
And then the group of men gave a shout; a cheer; and then another, and another--and the men forming in the near-line heard it and took it up, and repeated it, and it ran and rang miles away; and all knew that the lost one was found, and safe.
No man who has not felt the lifting up of such an awful pressure, can estimate the rush of escaped feeling and emotion that follows it; and none who have not witnessed its sudden effect upon a crowd of eager, joyous men, shouting, cheering, crying, weeping, scrambling and laughing, can comprehend it, and none can describe it. All hurried eagerly back to the Judge's, gathered about the happy, wondering Wilder, and patted and caressed his smoking horse.
Mrs. Markham knew it, and with radiant face and eyes came out with her grateful husband, when the bright sky again rang with the cheers of the assembled multitude. After quiet came, the Judge read to them the paper he had received from Wilder: "JUDGE MARKHAM: "Your daughter was found this morning, on the banks of the creek, a mile from Wilder's, overcome and much exhausted. She rallied, got into Wilder's, and appears strong and well. Wilder will take you to her."
"Whose name is to it, Judge?"
"There is none--who gave it to you?"
"The young man who found the young lady, and he didn't give his name, said the Judge would hear it as soon as he would want to," was the answer; "he didn't talk much."
"It was Barton Ridgeley," said Jonah. And the name of Barton went up with new cheers, and louder than any.
Soon away went the Judge, on a splendid chestnut, with the Doctor, and two or three others, on horseback, followed by Mrs. Markham and Nell Roberts in a carriage. The sun mounted up, the snow melted away, and so did the crowd. Some returned home, and many gathered in little knots to talk up the exciting event. The absurdest speculations were indulged in, as to how Bart found Julia, and what would come out of it. There was an obvious element of romance in the affair that appealed to the sensibilities of the rudest. And then, would Bart come back with Julia?
As the day advanced, the neighboring women and children gathered at Judge Markham's, all glad and happy, and a little teary over the exciting incidents, and all impatient for the return of Julia.
At a little past two the party returned--the Judge, Mrs. Markham, Julia, and Nell, in the carriage--Julia on the front seat with her father, a little pale, but with sparkling eyes, radiant, and never so lovely. As the carriage drove up, a noisy welcome saluted her. As she arose to alight, and again as she was about to enter the house, her mother observed her cast her eyes eagerly over the crowd, as if in search of some face, and she knew by her look that she did not find it. What a gathering about her, and kissing and clinging and crying of women and girls! Then followed, "ohs!" and "ahs!" and "wonders!" and "did you evers!" and "never in my born days!" "and did Barton really find you?" and "where is he?" etc.
Every one noticed that he did not come with them, and wondered, and demanded to know where he was, and doubted if he had had anything to do with it, after all.
The Judge told them, that by some means not yet explained, Barton had found her, overcome, chilled, exhausted and in a swoon, and had carried and conducted her out to Wilder's; that when she was restored, he sent Wilder off with the news, and then went home, and that the Doctor and Roberts had gone around to his mother's to see him. Beyond doubt he had saved his daughter's life. He spoke with an honest, manly warmth, and the people were satisfied, and lingeringly and reluctantly dispersed to talk and wonder over the affair, and especially the part Barton had performed.
Toward sunset, Julia, in her luxurious chamber and night-robes, seemed anxious and restless. Her mother was with her, and tried to soothe her. Her father entered with a cheery face.
"Roberts has just returned," he said. "Barton got home in the morning, very much exhausted, of course. He seems not to have told his mother much, and went to his room, and had not been out. His mother would not permit him to be disturbed, and said he would be out all right in the morning."
"Did the Doctor see him?" asked Julia.
"I suppose not; I will go and bring him around in the morning myself," said the Judge.
"Thank you, Papa; I would so like to see him, and I want to know how he found me," said Julia.
"I wonder he did not tell you," said the Judge.
"He hardly spoke," said Julia, "unless compelled to, and told me I was too broken down to say anything. I tried to thank him, and he said I was not myself, and stopped me."
|
{
"id": "12249"
}
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29
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AFTER.
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Toward noon of the next day, the Judge drove up to his own gate, alone, and not a little troubled. His wife and daughter were evidently expecting him. They seemed disappointed.
"Wouldn't he come?" asked his wife.
"He was not there to come."
"Not there!" from both.
"No; he went off in the stage last night to Jefferson."
"Went off! Why, father!"
"Well, it seems that he had arranged to leave on Tuesday, and sent his trunk out to Hiccox's, but didn't go; and all day Wednesday he wandered about, his mother said, seeming reluctant to start. At evening she said he appeared much depressed, and said he would not go until the next evening."
"Thank God!" said the ladies.
"George," continued the Judge, "who had been down to the Post-office, heard that you were lost, and hurried home, and told him all he had heard. His mother said when he heard it he asked a good many questions, and said, 'I know now why I stayed,' and that in five minutes he was off to the woods."
"Father, there was a special Providence in it all."
"And did Providence send him off last night?"
"Perhaps so."
"Did his mother tell how he came to think Julia had crossed the old road?"
"He didn't tell his mother much about it. She said he was more cheerful and lighter hearted than he had been for a year, but did not seem inclined to talk much; ate a very little breakfast, and went to bed, saying that he hoped she would not let anybody disturb him. He did not come down again until five, and then told her he should leave that evening. She tried to dissuade him, but he said he must go--that he was not wanted here any more--that he felt it was better for him to go at once. She said that she spoke to him of us, of Julia, saying that she thought he ought to remain and let us see him, if we wished. He answered that he had better go then, and that they would understand it. He said they might perhaps call and say some things to her; if they did, she should say to them that he could understand what their feelings might be, and appreciated them; that it was not necessary to say anything to him; that he wished all the past to be forgotten, and that nothing might be said or done to recall it; he had left Newbury forever as a home.
"I told her that I wanted to provide for his studies, and to start him in business--of course in as delicate a way as possible. She rather started up at that, and said she hoped I would never in any way make any offer of help to him. I asked who went with him to meet the stage, and his mother replied that he went alone--walked down just at dark, and wouldn't permit either of the boys to go with him."
"Why Edward! how strange this is!"
"It isn't strange to me at all," remarked Julia, in a low, depressed voice.
"Father, I've a little story to tell you. I should have told it last night, and then you would have better understood some things that have occurred. It was nothing that happened between us yesterday morning. I have told you every word and thing of that."
Then she recited to the astonished Judge the incidents of her adventure in the woods with Bart and the wolverine.
"And I," said the Judge, "have also a little incident to relate," and he told of the occurrence on the river with which this tale began.
"Oh, father!" exclaimed Julia, "could you leave him, away there, weary and alone?"
"I did not mean to do that; I stopped, and lingered and looked back, and waited and thought he would ask or call to me," said the humiliated Judge: "and now he has repaid me by saving your life."
"Father! father, dear!" going and laying her arm around his neck, and her cheek against his, "You are my own dear papa, and could never purposely harm a living thing. It was all to be, I suppose. Mamma, do you remember the night of Snow's ball, when you playfully complained of his inattention to you? and he said he would atone for all offences,-- 'In that blissful never, When the Sundays come together, And the sun and glorious weather, Wrapped the earth in spring forever?'
and he has."
"I remember, but I could not recall the words."
"I can repeat the very words of the beautiful prayer that he made in the woods," said the young girl.
"And which I seemed to hear," said her mother.
"And that 'blissful never' came, mother, and all its good was for me--for us."
"Not wholly, I trust. This young man's mind and nature are their own law. His mother said he was lighter-hearted and more like himself than for a long time. He has suffered much. He mourned more for his brother than most could. He had lost his own self-respect somehow, and now he has regained it, and will come to take right views of things, and a blissful ever may come for him."
"And he wanted all the past forgotten," said the girl.
"Of all that happened between you before he has only remembered what you said to him," said her mother. "And you possibly remember what he said to you."
"I remember his generosity and bravery, mother," replied Julia.
The Judge remained thoughtful. Turning to his wife, "Would you have me follow him to Jefferson?"
"No. He went away in part to avoid us; he will be sensitive, and I would not go to him at present. Write to him; write what you really feel, a warm and manly letter like your own true self. I am not certain, though, how he will receive it."
A silence followed which was broken by Julia.
"Father, do you know this Mr. Wade with whom Barton has gone to study?"
"Yes; I have met him several times and like him very much. He was our senator, and made that awful speech against slavery last winter. He is a frank, manly, straightforward man."
"How old is he?"
"Thirty-five, perhaps; why?"
"Nothing. Is he married?"
"He is an old bachelor; but I heard some one joking him about a young lady, to whom it is said he is engaged. Why do you inquire about him?"
"Oh! I wanted to know something of the man with whom he is. I met Mr. Ranney a year ago, you know."
That night the fair girl remained long in a serious and thoughtful attitude.
* * * * * In the afternoon of the next day, the ladies drove to Mrs. Ridgeley's. The elders embraced cordially. One was thinking of the boy who had died, and of him who had gone so sadly away; the other of her agony at a supposed loss, and her great joy at the recovery. Julia took one of Mrs. Ridgeley's thin, toil-hardened hands in her two, rosy and dimpled, and kissed it, and shed tears over it. Then they sat down, and Mrs. Markham, in her woman's direct natural way, poured out the gratitude they both felt; Julia, with simple frankness, told the happenings of the night, and both were surprised to learn that Bart had told her so little.
Mrs. Ridgeley described his going out, and coming back next morning, and going again at evening. It was his way, his mother said. She was proud of Barton, and wondered that this sweet girl should not love him, and actually pitied her that she did not. She would not betray his weakness; but when she came to speak of his final going, the forlorn figure of the depressed boy walking out into the darkness, alone, came before her, and she wept. Then Julia knelt by her, and again taking her hand, said "Let me love you, while he is gone; I want to care for all that are dear to him;" and the poor mother thought that it was in part as a recompense for not loving Barton. There was another thing that Julia came to say, and opening her satchel, she pointed to something red and coarse, and putting her hand on it, she said, "This was Bart's. He took it off himself, and put it on me; and went cold and exposed. I did not think to restore it, and I want very much to keep it--may I?" The poor mother raised her eyes to the warm face of the girl, yet saw nothing. "Yes." And the pleased child replaced it and closed her satchel.
Then Mrs. Markham said their friends and neighbors were coming in on the Tuesday evening following, to congratulate them, and would Mrs. Ridgeley let them send for her? The gathering would be informal and neighborly. But Mrs. Ridgeley begged to be excused. Julia wanted to see the boys, and they came in from the garden--Ed shy, quiet and reserved; George, dashing, sparkling and bashful. Julia went up and shook them by their brown hands, and acted as if she would kiss George if he did look very much like Bart. She talked with them in her frank girl's way, and took them captive, and then mother and daughter drove away.
* * * * * The gathering at the Judge's was spontaneous almost, and cordial. The whole family were popular individually, and the young girls especially gathered about Julia, who was a real heroine and had been rescued by a brave, handsome young man;--the affair was so romantic!
They wondered why Bart should go away; and wouldn't he be there that night? They seemed to assume that everything would be a matter of course, only he behaved very badly in going off when he must know he was most wanted. Of course he would come back, and Julia would forgive him; and something they hinted of this. Kate and Ann, and sweet Pearly Burnett, who had just come home from school, and was entitled to rank next after Julia, with Nell and Kate, were very gushing on the subject.
Others took Bart to account. His sudden and mysterious flight was very much against him, and his reputation was at a sudden ebb. Why did he go? Then Greer's name was mentioned, and Brown, and New Orleans; and it was talked over that night at Markham's with ominous mystery, and one wouldn't wonder if Bart had not gone to Jefferson, at all--that was a dodge; and another said that at Painesville he stopped and went west to Cleveland; or to Fairport, and took a steamer; and Greer went off about the same time.
Julia caught these whispers and pondered them, and the Judge looked grave over them.
In the morning Julia asked him what it all meant. She remembered that he had spoken of Bart in connection with Greer, when he came home from the Cole trial, which made her uneasy; she now wanted to know what it meant.
The Judge replied that there was a rumor that Bart was an associate of Greer, and engaged with him. "In what?" He didn't know; he was a supposed agent of Brown's, and a company. "What were they doing?" Nobody knew; but it was grossly unlawful and immoral. "Did anybody believe this of Bart?" He didn't know; things looked suspicious. "Do you suspect Bart of anything wrong?" He did not; but people talked and men must be prudent. "Be prudent, when his name is assailed, and he absent, and no brother to defend him?" "Why did he go?" asked the Judge, "and where did he go?"
"Father!"
"I don't suspect anything wrong of him, and yet the temptation to this thing might be great."
Julia asked no more.
The next morning she said that she had long promised Sarah King to pay her a visit, and she thought she would go for two or three days. Sarah had just been to Pittsburg, and had seen Miss Walters, and she wanted so much to hear from her. This announcement quite settled it. She had recently taken the possession of herself, in a certain sweet determined way, and was inclined to act on her own judgment, or caprice. She would go down in the stage; she could go alone--and she went.
The morning after, the elegant and leisurely Mr. Greer, at the Prentiss House, Ravenna, received a dainty little note, saying that Miss Markham was at Mr. King's, and would be glad to see him at his early leisure. He pulled his whiskers down, and his collar up, and called. He found Miss Markham in the parlor, who received him graciously.
What commands had she for him?
"Mr. Greer, I want to ask you a question, if you will permit me."
Anything he would answer cheerfully.
"You know Barton Ridgeley?"
"Yes, without being much acquainted with him. I like him."
"Have you now, or have you ever had any business connection with him?"
"I have not, and I never had."
"Will you say this in writing?"
"Cheerfully, if you wish it."
"I do."
Greer sat down to the desk in the library adjoining.
"Address my father, please."
He wrote and handed her the following: "Hon. E. MARKHAM: "_Dear Sir_,--I am asked if I have now, or have ever had any business relations of any kind with Barton Ridgeley. I have not, and never had, directly or indirectly, on my own, or on account of others.
"Very respectfully, "THOS. J. GREER.
"RAVENNA, April 1838."
"May I know why you wish this?" a little gravely; "you've heard something said about something and somebody, by other somebodys or nobodys, perhaps."
"I have. Mr. Ridgeley is away. You have heard of our obligations to him, and I have taken it upon myself to ask you."
"You are a noble girl, Miss Markham. A man might go through fire for you;" enthusiastically.
"Thank you."
"And now I hope your little heart is at rest."
"It was quite at rest before. I am much obliged, Mr. Greer; and it may not be in my power to make other returns."
"Good morning, Miss Markham."
"Good morning, Mr. Greer."
In the afternoon, as the Judge was in his office, a little springy step came clipping in. "Good afternoon! Papa Judge," and two wonderful arms went about his neck, and two lips to his own.
"Why Julia! you back! How is Sarah?"
"Splendid!"
"Your friend Miss Walters?"
"Oh, she is well. See here, Papa Judge," holding out the Greer note.
The Judge looked at and read it over in amazement.
"Where under the heavens did you get this?"
"Mr. Greer wrote it for me."
"Mr. Greer wrote it for you? I am amazed! no man could have dared to ask him for it! What put this into your head?"
"You almost suspected Bart"--with decidedly damp eyes--"and others did quite, and while in Ravenna I wrote a note to Mr. Greer, who called, and I asked the direct question, and he answered. I asked him to write it and he did, and paid me a handsome compliment besides. Papa Judge, when you want a thing done send me."
"Well, my noble girl, you deserve a compliment. A girl that can do that can, of course, have a man go through night and storm and flood for her," said the Judge with enthusiasm.
"Mr. Greer said a man should go through fire," said Julia, as if a little hurt.
"And so he may," said the Judge, improving.
"That is for you," said Julia, more gravely, and gave him the note.
|
{
"id": "12249"
}
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30
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JEFFERSON.
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Bart has come well nigh breaking down on my hands two or three times. I find him unmanageable. He is pitched too high and tuned too nicely for common life; and I am only too glad to get him off out of Newbury, to care much how he went. To say, however, that he went off cheerful and happy, would do the poor fellow injustice. He did his best to show himself that it was all right. But something arose and whispered that it was all wrong. Of course Julia and her love were not for him, and yet in his heart a cry for her would make itself heard.
Didn't he go voluntarily, because he would? Who was to blame? Yet he despised himself as a huge baby, because there was a half conscious feeling of self-pity, a consciousness of injustice, of being beaten. Then he was lame from, over-exertion, and his heart was sore, and he had to leave his mother and Ed and George. Would it have been better to remain a day or two and meet Julia? He felt that he would certainly break down in her presence, and he had started, and shut her forever out. If she did not stay shut out it would be her own fault. And that was logical.
He got into the stage, and had the front seat, with wide soft cushions, to himself, and drawing his large camlet cloak about him, he would rest and sleep.
Not a bit of it. On the back seat was an old lady and a young one with her; and a man on the middle seat. At Parkers, where they changed horses, they had heard all about it, and had it all delightfully jumbled up. Barton Markham had rescued Miss Ridgeley from a gang of wolves, which had driven her into the Chagrin River, which froze over, etc., but it had all ended happily, and the wedding-day was fixed.
Miss Ridgeley was a lovely girl, but poor; and Bart was a hero, whom the ladies would be glad to see.
The old lady asked Bart if he knew the parties.
"Yes." And he straightened out the tangle of names.
"Was Julia a beauty?"
"Decidedly."
"And Bart?"
Well, he didn't think much of Bart and didn't want to speak of him. He thought the performance no great shakes, etc. The ladies were offended.
"No matter, Julia would marry him?"
"She would never think of it."
At Hiccox's somebody recognized Bart and told the old lady who he was.
"Oh, dear!" He wished he had walked to Jefferson and had a good mind to get out.
A few years ago, when Jefferson had become famous throughout the United States as the residence of two men, a stranger, who met Senator Wade, "old Ben," somewhere East, asked him what were the special advantages of Jefferson. "Political," was the dry response.
Those privileges were not apparent to Bart, as he looked over the little mud-beleaguered town of two or three hundred inhabitants, with its two taverns, Court House, two or three churches, and half a dozen stores and shops, and the high, narrow wooden sidewalks, mere foot bridges, rising high above the quaggy, tenacious mud, that would otherwise have forbidden all communication. The town was built on a low level plain, every part of which, to Bart's eye, seemed a foot or two lower and more depressed than every other.
In fact, his two days and two nights wallow in the mud, from Newbury to Jefferson, had a rather depressing effect on a mind a little below par when he started; and he was inclined to depressing views.
Bart was not one to be easily beaten, or stay beaten, unless when he abandoned the field; and the battle at Jefferson was to be fought out. Lord! how far away were Newbury and all the events of three days ago. There was one that was not inclined to vacate, but Bart was resolute. It was dark, and he would shut his eyes and push straight forward till light came.
This, then, was the place where Henry had lived, and which he had learned to like. He would like it too. He inquired the way, and soon stood in front of a one-story wooden building, painted white, lettered "Wade & Ranney, Attorneys at Law." The door was a little ajar and Bart pushed it open and entered a largeish, dingy, soiled room, filled with book-cases, tables and chairs, with a generally crumpled and disarranged appearance; in the rear of which was its counterpart. A slender, white-haired, very young looking man, and another of large and heavy mould occupied the front room, while in the rear sat a third, with his feet on the table. Bart looked around and bowing to each: "I see Mr. Ranney is not in;" and with another glance around, "I presume Mr. Wade is not?"
"No. Both would be in during the evening."
"I am Bart Ridgeley," he said. "You may remember my brother Henry?"
"How are you, Bart? We know you, but did not at first recognize you," said white-hair frankly. "My name is Case,--this is Ransom, and there is Kennedy. We all knew your brother and liked him."
Bart shook hands with, and looked at, each. Case had small but marked features--was too light, but his eyes redeemed his face; and his features improved on acquaintance. Ransom was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, of heavy build, dark, and with a quick, sharp eye, and jerky positive way. Kennedy was sandy--hair, face, eyebrows and skin, with good eyes.
"I think we shall like you, Bart," said Case, who had examined him.
"I hope you will; it must be very pleasant to be liked," said Bart vivaciously. "I've never tried it much."
"There is one thing I observe," continued Case, "that won't suit Ransom--that way of taking off your hat when you came in."
"Oh!" said Bart, laughing, "I'm imitative, with a tendency to improve; and shall doubtless find good models."
"Don't mind Case," said Ransom; "he's of no account. Just come in?"
"Yes."
"How do you like our town?"
"Very well. There seems to be a little confusion of dry land and sea."
"You see, Mr. Ridgeley," said Case, "that the dry land and sea never were separated here. The man that had the job failed, and nobody else would ever undertake it. I think, Mr. Ridgeley," after a pause, "I had better tell who and what we are, as we shall be together for some time. This is Ransom--B. Ransom. His temperament is intellectual--I may say, brainy. That B. stands for brains emphatically, being the whole of them. He is rather a matter of fact than a conclusion of law, and were you to apply a rule of law to him, although matter of fact, he would be found to be immaterial, and might be wholly rejected as surplusage. He's rather scriptural, also, and takes mostly to the prophets, Jonadab, Meshac, and those revered worthies. He's highly moral, and goes for light reading to the elder Scriptures, drawing largely upon Tamar and Rachel and Leah, and the pure young daughters of Lot. Ruth is too tame for him. He was the inventor of our 'moral reform' sidewalks, on which, as you see, no young man can walk beside a maiden. The effect on morals is salubrious."
"Case! Case!" protested Ransom.
"As for law, he goes into a law book as a mite goes through a cheese, head on, and with about--" "Case! Case! Case!" broke in Ransom again, "hold up your infernal gabble."
"I know the importance of first impressions," said Case, with gravity, "and I want you should start favorably; and if you don't come up to my eulogium, something will be pardoned to the partiality of friendship."
"Yes, yes! partiality of friendship!" said Ransom, excitedly; and turning to Bart, "he is a Case, as you see; but if a man should go into Court with such a Case, he would be non-suited; he isn't even _prima facie_."
"Good!" exclaimed Kennedy.
"Ransom, you are inspired; flattery does you good."
"Go on!" said Case; "don't interrupt him, he'll never get such another start."
"He's a poetic cuss," continued Ransom, "and writes verses for the Painesville papers, and signs them "C.," though I've never been able to see anything in them. He's strong on Byron, and though he's--he's--" and he stopped in excessive excitement.
"There you're out, Ransom," said Case, "and that is by far the ablest as well as the longest speech you ever made. If you had let me go on and fully open out your excellencies, you might have completed the last sentence. Now, Kennedy here--" resumed Case.
"Spare me!" said Kennedy, laughing; "give Ridgeley a chance to find out my strong points, if you please."
"Now, Case," said Ransom, reflectively, "Case is not a bad fellow, considering that he is good for nothing, and a smart fellow for one who knows nothing, and you will like him. He's a little stiffish, and devotes himself mostly to young ladies."
"Thank you," said Case.
Bart was amused at these free sketches, especially as none but good feeling prevailed, and remarked, "that it was fortunate for him that no acquaintance of his was present, who could do him justice."
He walked up to the large and well-filled book-cases, and mused about. "My brother wrote and told me so much of all this that I thought I was familiar with it," he said at last.
"He used to sit in that corner, by the table, with his back to the window," said Kennedy, pointing to a place in the back room, which Bart approached. "He was usually the first here in the morning and the last to go at night, and then often took a book with him."
"We liked him very much," said Ransom, "and we forwarded to you a set of resolutions on hearing of his death."
"I received them," replied Bart, "and if I did not acknowledge it, I owe you an apology."
"You did, to Ranney," said Case.
The memory of his brother, who had read and worked, talked and laughed, mused and hoped in that little nook, came up very fresh to Barton.
Case proposed that they take a stroll, or a "string" as he called it, about the village, and as they walked in single file on the narrow sidewalks, the idea of "string" seemed to be realized. They went into the Court House and up into the court-room, and down into the Recorder's office, filled with books, and introduced Bart to Ben Graylord, the Recorder, who showed him a record-book written by his brother, every page of which sparkled with the beauty of the writing. Then they went to the clerk's office of Col. Hendry, with its stuffed pigeon-holes, and books, and into the sheriff's office, and to divers other places.
Jefferson was about eleven or twelve miles from the lake, south of Ashtabula. It was selected as the county seat, and at once became the residence of the county officers, and of many wealthy and influential citizens, but never became a place of much business, while Ashtabula and Conneaut were already busy towns. Each lay at the mouth of a considerable creek, whose names they respectively bore, and which formed harbors for the lake commerce, and were both visited daily by the steamers that run up and down Lake Erie. These facts were communicated to Bart, as they walked about, and the residences of Mr. Giddings, Judge Warren, Colonel Hendry, Mr. St. John, and others, were pointed out to him.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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31
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OLD BEN.
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That evening, Case and Bart went in rather late to supper at the Jefferson House, and Case pointed out B.P. Wade sitting at the head of one of the tables. Bart studied him closely.
He was then about thirty-five or thirty-six years of age; of a fine, athletic, compact and vigorous frame, straight, round, and of full average height, with an upward cast of the head and face that made him look taller than he was. He had a remarkably fine head and a striking face--a high, narrow, retreating forehead, a little compressed at the temples, aquiline nose, firm, goodish mouth, and prominent chin, with a deep dark eye, and strongly marked brow, not handsome, but a strong, firm, noticeable face, which, with his frank, manly, decided manner and carriage, would at once arrest the eye of a stranger, as it did that of Bart, who knew that he saw a remarkable man. The head was turned, so that the light fell upon the face, giving it strong light and shadow in the Rembrandt style; and Bart studied and contemplated it at great advantage.
He tried to reproduce the recent scene in the Ohio Senate, in which Wade performed so conspicuous a part. It was in the worst of the bad days of Northern subserviency to slavery, which now seem almost phantasmagorical; when, at the command of the Kentucky State Commissioners, the grovelling majority of the Ohio Legislature prostrated the State abjectly in the dust beneath its feet, it was demanded that no man of African blood should be permitted to remain in the State unless some responsible white man should become bail for his good conduct, and that he should never become a public charge.
The bill was about to be put on its final passage in the Senate, by a majority made up of men so revoltingly servile, that even such infamy failed to preserve their names. "Tin Pan" had decreed that a vote should be taken before adjournment for the night, and the debate ran into the deep hours. Gregg Powers, a tall, dark-haired, black-eyed, black-browed young senator, from Akron, had just pronounced a fervent, indignant, sarcastic and bitter phillipic against it, when, after midnight, Wade arose, with angry brow and flashing eye. Argument and logic were out of place; appeals to honor could not be comprehended by men shameless by nature, abject by instinct, and infamous by habit, and who cared nothing for the fame of their common State. Wade, at white heat, turned on them a mingled torrent of sarcasm, scorn, contempt, irony, scoffing, and derision, hot, seething, hissing, blistering, and consuming. He then turned to the haughty and insolent Commissioners of slavery, who were present, that the abasement of the State might lack no mark or brand, and with an air haughtier and prouder than their own, defied them. He declared himself their mortal foe, and cast the gauntlet contemptuously into their faces. He told them they would meet him again in the coming bitter days, and with prodigious force, predicted the extirpation of slavery. Nobody called him to order; nobody interrupted him; and when he closed his awful phillipic, nobody tried to reply. The vote was taken, and the bill passed into a law. And as Bart called up the scene, and looked at the man taking his tea, and conversing carelessly, he thought that a life would be a cheap price for such an opportunity and effort.
Nature had been generous to Wade, and given him a fine, well-balanced, strong, clear intellect, of a manly, direct, and bold cast, as well of mind as temperament. He was not destitute of learning in his profession, but rather despised culture, and had a certain indolence of intellect, that arose in part from undervaluing books, and although later a great reader, he was never a learned man. His manners were rude though kind; he had wonderful personal popularity, and was the freest possible from cant, pretence, or any sort of demagogueism. He was as incapable of a mean thought as of uttering the slightest approach to an untruth, or practising a possible insincerity. He was a favorite with the young lawyers and students, who imitated his rude manner and strong language; was a dangerous advocate, and had much influence with courts. In all these early years he was known as Frank Wade; "Ben" and "old Ben" came to him years after at Washington.
When he left the supper room Case found an opportunity to introduce Bart to him. Wade received him very cordially, and spoke with great kindness of his brother Henry, and remarked that Bart did not much resemble him.
"So I am generally told," said Bart; "and I fear that I am less like him in intellect than in person."
"You may possibly not lose by that. Most persons would think you better looking, and you may have as good a mind--that we will find out for ourselves."
Bart felt that this was kind. Wade then remarked that they would find time on Monday to overhaul his law. Later, Bart met Ranney, who, he thought, received him coolly.
The next day the young men went to church. Nothing in the way of heresy found foothold at Jefferson. It was wholly orthodox; although it was suspected that Wade and Ranney had notions of their own in religion; or rather the impression was that they had no religion of any kind. Not to have the one and true, was to have none according to the Jefferson platform.
Monday was an anxious day for Bart. He would now be put to a real test. He knew he had studied hard, but he remembered the air with which Henry and Ranney waived him off. Then he was so poor, and was so anxious to get through, and be admitted in September, that he was a little nervous when the lawyers found leisure in the afternoon to "overhaul his law," as Wade had expressed it.
Ranney had no idea of letting him off on definitions and general rules, and he plunged at once into special pleading, as presented by Chitty, in his chapter on Replications. No severer test could have been applied, and the young men thought it a little rough. Bart answered the questions with some care, and gave the reason of the rules clearly. Ranney then proposed a case of a certain special plea, and asked Bart how he would reply. Bart enumerated all the various replies that might be made, and the method of setting each forth. Ranney then asked him to state an instance of new assignment, in a replication; and when Bart had stated its purpose and given an instance, he said he thought that a good pleader would always so state his case in his declaration as to render a new assignment unnecessary, perhaps impossible. He was then asked what defects in pleading would be cured by a general verdict? and gave the rules quite luminously.
Ranney then asked him what books he had read; and Bart named several. "What others?" and he named as many more. "Is that all?" laughing.
"Oh!" said Bart, "I remember what you and Henry said about my reading, and really I have dipped into a good many besides."
"Well, Ranney," said Wade, "what can we do for this young man? I think he will pass now, better than one in a hundred."
"I think so too; still, I think we can help him, or help him to help himself." And he finally named a work on commercial law, a book on medical jurisprudence, and a review of Kent. At leisure moments, he would have him practise in drawing bills in Chancery, declarations, pleas, etc.
Bart certainly might be pleased with this result, and it evidently advanced him very much in the estimation of all who had listened to his examination, although he felt that the work imposed upon him was rather slender, and just what he should do with the spare time this labor would leave him he would not then determine.
He liked his new position with these ambitious young men, engaged in intellectual pursuits, with whom he was to associate and live, and upon whom he felt that he had made a favorable impression. It did not occur to him that there might be society, save with these and his books; nor would it have occurred to him to enquire, or to seek entrance into it, if it existed; with a sort of intellectual hunger he rushed upon his books with a feeling that he had recently been dissipated, and misapplied his time and energies.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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32
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THE LETTERS.
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Tuesday evening's mail brought him two letters, post-marked Newbury. The sight of them came with a sort of a heart-blow. They were not wholly expected, and he felt that there might still be a little struggle for him, although he was certain that this must be the last.
The well-known hand of Judge Markham addressed one of them. The writing of the other he did not recognize; only after he had lost its envelope, he remembered that it very much resembled the hand that wrote the Greer warning. He put the letters into an inside pocket, and tried to go on with his book; like a very young man he fancied that he was observed. So he took his hat and went to the room he occupied with Case. He pulled open the unknown, knew the hand, ran down and turned over to the second page, and found "Julia" at the bottom, and below, the words "with the profoundest gratitude." It ran: "NEWBURY, April 8, 1838.
"BARTON RIDGELEY: "_Dear Sir_,--Is it characteristic of a brave and generous man to confer the greatest obligations upon another, and not permit that other the common privilege of expressing gratitude? Were I a man, I would follow and weary you with a vain effort to utter the thanks I owe you. But I can only say a few cold words on paper at the risk of being misunderstood." ("Um-m, I don't see what danger she could apprehend on that score," said Bart quite sharply.) "When I had wandered beyond the help of my father and friends, into danger, and, I think, to certain death, you were inspired with the heart, skill and strength, to find and save me. Next to God, who led you, I owe my life to you. When this is said, I cannot say more. I know of no earthly good that you do not deserve; I can think of no gift of Heaven, that I do not ask of It for you.
"You will not be offended that I should most anxiously insist that some little benefit should in some way come to you, from my father; and you will certainly, when you first return to Newbury, give me an opportunity to say to you how much I owe you, and how heavy the obligation rests upon me. You promised me this and will fulfil it. My mother, who sees this note, wants you to realize her profound sense of your service to us, enhanced if possible by the noble and manly way in which you rendered it. She was always your discerning and discriminating friend."
"Discriminating,"--Bart did not like that, but no matter. That was all.
"A very pretty letter, my lady Julia," said Bart with a long breath. "Quite warm. I confess I don't care much for your gratitude--but very pretty and condescending. And it is kind to advise me that whatever may have been your estimate of me, your sweet lady mother 'discerned' differently. What you mean by discriminating is a very pretty little woman mystery, that I shall never know."
"And now for my Lord Judge:" "NEWBURY, April 8, 1838.
"BARTON RIDGELEY, ESQ.: "_My Dear Sir_,--I was disappointed at not finding you at Wilder's, where your noble exertions had placed my daughter. I was more disappointed on calling at your mother's the following morning, hoping to carry you to my house. If anything in my conduct in the past contributed to these disappointments, I regret it." ("Very manly, Judge Markham," remarked Bart. "Don't feel uneasy, I should have acted all the same.") "You saved to us, and to herself, our daughter, and can better understand our feelings for this great benefit than I can express them." ("All right Judge, I would not try it further, if I were you.") "Whoever confers such a benefaction, also confers the right upon the receiver, not only to express gratitude by words, but by acts, which shall avail in some substantial way." ("Rather logical, Judge!") "I shall insist that you permit me to place at your disposal means to launch you in your profession in a way commensurate with your talents and deservings." ("Um-m-m.") "I trust you will soon return to Newbury, or permit me to see you in Jefferson, and when the past may" ("I don't care about wading the Chagrin, Judge, and helping your daughter out of the woods was no more than leading out any other man's daughter, and I don't want to hear more of either. Just let me alone.") "be atoned for. I need not say that my wife unites with me in gratitude, and a hearty wish to be permitted to aid you; nor how anxious we are to learn the details of your finding our daughter, all of which is a profound mystery to us.
"Sincerely yours, "EDWARD MARKHAM."
There was a postscript to the Judge's, instead of Julia's, and Bart looked at it two or three times with indifference, and walked up and down the room with a sore, angry feeling that he did not care to understand the source of, nor yet to control. "Very pretty letters! very well said! Why did they care to say anything to me? When I came away they might have known--but then, who and what am I? Why the devil shouldn't they snub me one day and pat me on the head the next? And I ought to be glad to be kicked, and glad to be thanked for being kicked--only I'm not---though I don't know why! Well, this is the last of it; in my own good time--or somebody's time, good or bad--I will walk in upon my Lord Judge, my discriminating Lady the Mother, and the Lady Julia, and hear them say their pieces without danger of misapprehension." And his eye fell again on the Judge's postscript. Reads: "Before I called at your mother's on that morning, I set apart the chestnut 'Silver-tail,' well caparisoned, as your property. I thought it a fitting way in which one gentleman might indicate his appreciation of another. I knew you would appreciate him; I hoped he would be useful to you. He is your property, whether you will or no, and will be held subject to your order, and the fact that he is yours will not diminish the care he will receive. May I know your pleasure in reference to him?
"E.M." This found the weak place, or one of the weak places, in Bart's nature. The harshness and bitterness of his feelings melted out of his heart, and left him to answer his letters in a spirit quite changed from that which had just possessed him.
To Julia he wrote: "JEFFERSON, April 11, 1838.
"Miss JULIA MARKHAM: "Yours has just reached me. I am so little used to expressions of kindness that yours seem to mock me like irony. You did not choose to become involved in discomfort and danger, nor were you left to elect who should aid you, and I can endure the reflection that you might prefer to thank some other.
"If your sense of obligation is unpleasant, there is one consideration that may diminish it. A man of spirit, whose folly had placed him in the position I occupied towards you, would have eagerly sought an opportunity to render you any service, and would have done his poor best in your behalf. When it was accomplished he would not have been covetous of thanks, and might hope that it would be taken as some recompense for the past, and only ask to forget and be forgotten. No matter; so little that is pleasant has happened to me, that you surely can permit me to enjoy the full luxury of having saved you without having that diminished by the receipt of anything, in any form, from anybody, by reason of it. It is in your power to explain one thing to your father; by which he will see that I must be left to my own exertions so far as he is concerned. I do believe that your gracious mother was my one friend, who looked kindly upon my many faults, and who will rejoice if I ever escape from them.
"When in Newbury hereafter I shall feel at liberty to call at your father's house.
"With the sincerest wishes for your welfare, I remain "Your obedient servant, "A.B.E." To the Judge: "Hon. EDWARD MARKHAM: "_Dear Sir_,--I am in receipt of yours. It was, perhaps, necessary for you to say some words to me. I may not judge of what would be fitting; I feel that you have said more than was required. I had a boy's sincere liking for you; but when I failed to secure the good-will of anybody, it is certain that there were radical defects in my character, and you but entertained the common feeling towards me. It was an honest, hearty dislike, which I have accepted--as I accept other things--without complaint or appeal. There is one near you who can explain how impossible it is that I can become an object of your interest or care. I am poor; let me remain so; I like it. Let me alone to buffet and be buffetted. The atmosphere in which I live is cold and thin, and exercise is needful for me. I have not deserved well of the world, and the world has not been over kind to forget it. Leave me to wage the war with it in my own way. It was God's pleasure to remove from me those upon whom I had natural claims, and I do not murmur, nor do I allude to it only as an indication that I am to go on alone.
"I am aware that I do not meet you in the spirit which prompts your generous and manly kindness--no matter. Think that it proceeds from something ignoble in my nature, and be glad that you may in no way be involved in any failure that awaits me.
"I am sure Mrs. Markham has always been most kind to me, and if on the miserable night when I left my own mother I could have stolen to her somewhere, and have touched her robe with my lips, it would have been most grateful to me. We shall meet probably again, and I am sure our intercourse may be that at least of pleasant acquaintances.
"With the sincerest respect, "A.B.E. "P.S.--Your postscript takes me at disadvantage. What can I say? Its kindness is most unkind. The horse is a mount fit for a Prince. I wish he might be found useful to Miss Markham; if she will accept him, I would be glad that he might be devoted to her service. More than this I cannot say.
"B." I am inclined to follow these letters back to Newbury. It took a round week for a letter and its answer to pass between Newbury and Jefferson both ways. Somehow, it so happened that Julia, on the third day after mailing hers to Bart, was at the Post-office every day, on the arrival of the Northern mail, with the air of an unconcerned young woman who did not expect anything. On the seventh, two letters in a hand she knew were handed her by the clerk, who looked at the time as if he thought these were the letters, but said nothing.
On her way home she opened one of them and read it, and paused, and read, and studied as if the hand was illegible, and looked grave and hurt, and as if tears would start, and then calm and proud. "When she got home she silently handed the other to her father, and her own to her mother; then she went to her room. An hour later she came back, took her letter, and going into her father's office, laid it open before him, receiving his in return. This she read with a sad face; once or twice a moisture came into her eyes in spite of her, and then she sat and said nothing; and her mother came in and read her husband's letter also.
"Mother," said Julia, "are all young men really like this proud, haughty, sensitive fellow? and yet he is so unhappy! Was father at all like him?"
"I don't know. You must remember that few at his age have been placed in such trying positions, and had he been less, or more, or different, we might have been without cause for gratitude to him."
"Well, he graciously permits us to know that he may at least once again approach 'Your father's house!'"
"Julia! Could he have done it before?"
"Could he not, mother, when he saved my life?"
"Julia, was this poor youth more than human?"
"Mother, I have sometimes felt that he was, and that somehow more was to be required of him than of common men."
The Judge sat in silence, with an expression that indicated that his reflections were not wholly cheerful. The frank words that this youth had always liked him, and that the Judge had cause for dislike, so generous, were like so many stabs.
"Papa Judge," said Julia, suddenly springing to her father's side, "may I have him?"
"Have him! Who?"
"Why, Silver-tail, of course," laughing. "There is nobody else I can have;" rather gravely.
"Will you accept him?"
"Of course I will, and ride him too. I've always coveted him. My old 'Twilight' has almost subsided into night, and is just fit for Nell and Pearly. They may ride her; and when this prince wants his charger, as he will, he must come to me for him--don't you see?"
An hour later a splendid dark chestnut, with silver mane and tail, round-limbed, with a high dainty head, small ears, and big nostrils, with a human eye, spirited and docile, was brought round, caparisoned for a lady, and Julia stood by him with his bridle in her hand, caressing and petting him, while waiting for something ere she mounted. "Your name shall not be 'Silver-tail' any longer; you are 'Prince'"--whispering something in his ear. "Do you hear, Prince? You shall be my good friend, and serve me until your own true lord and master comes for you. Do you hope it will be soon?" Prince slightly shook his head, as if the wish was not his, at any rate. "Well, soon or late, you naughty Prince, he alone shall take you from my hand. Do you hear?" and being mounted, she galloped away.
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{
"id": "12249"
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33
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AT WILDER'S.
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April brightened out into May, and over all the beautiful fields, and woods, and hills of Newbury, came bright warm tints of the deepening season; and under the urgency of Julia, her mother and herself made their contemplated visit of thanks to the Wilders, who could at least be benefitted by their kindness to Julia, bearing a good many nice new things for Mrs. Wilder and Rose, and the two younger children. Julia, in her warmth, found everything about the neat log house and its surroundings quite attractive. The fields were new, but grass was fresh about the house, and shrubs and plants had been put out.
She had taken a strong liking to Rose, a tall, sweet, shy girl of seventeen, who had received her into her bed, and who now, in her bashful way, was more glad to see her than she could express. The house, in a lovely place, was sheltered by the near forest, and everything about it was as unlike what Julia remembered as could well be. It seemed to have changed its locality, and the one outside door opened on the opposite side. She went all about and around it; and out to the margin of the woods, gray and purple, and tenderest green, with bursting buds and foliage.
Her mother found Mrs. Wilder a comely, intelligent woman, who was immensely obliged by her visit, and thankful for her generous presents of dresses for herself, and Rose, and the children.
After dinner, Julia went with Rose out by the road into the woods, through which, a month ago, Bart had conducted her. She recognized nothing in the surroundings. How bright and sweet, with sun and flowers, the woods were, with great maple trees opening out their swollen buds into little points of leaves, like baby-fists into chubby fingers and thumbs. On they went down to the creek which flowed the other way. Julia remembered that they came up it to find the road, and they now turned down its bank. How sweet, and soft, and bright it looked, flecked with sunbeams, and giving out little gurgles of water-laughs, as if it recognized her--"Oh! it is you, is it, this bright day? Where is the handsome youth you clung to, on a winter morning, we know of? I know you!" --with its little ripples.
They soon came to where the rock cropped out from the sloping ground and formed a ledge along the margin of the diminished stream, and soon reached the little cove; there was the rude shelter which had covered Julia, and under it the couch of shavings on which she had rested, a little scattered and just as she had left it; and, near its foot, the still fresh brands that almost seemed to smoke. How strong and real it all came to the sensibilities of the girl! Nothing had been there but the tender silent fingers of nature. Yes, as she sat down on her old bed, and glanced up, she saw a bright-eyed Phoebe-bird who had built just over her head, and now was on her nest, while her mate poured out the cheery clang of his love song, on a limb near by. The little half circle of ground, walled in by the high mossy rocks, opened southerly, and received the full glow of the afternoon sun, while in front of it ran the laughing, gleeful creek. It was very bright, but to Julia very, very lonely. In a few words she pointed out to the sympathizing Bose the few localities, and mentioned the incidents of that awful morning, and then she turned very gravely and thoughtfully back.
Rose very, very much wanted to ask about Barton; her woman's instincts told her that here was a something sweet and yet mysterious, that made everything so dear to this beautiful and now pensive girl by her side. His name had not been mentioned, and Julia had only referred to him, as "he did this;" "he sat by that tree." At last Rose ventured: "Where is he--this Mr. Ridgeley? Mother said he went away."
"Yes; I never saw him after you took me into your bed, Rose," said Julia.
"He saw you after that, Miss Markham."
"What do you mean, Rose?"
"I am sure you would like to know," said Rose. "I know I would. Mother said that after father had gone, and after we were asleep, he asked her if he might just look upon you for a moment; and she opened the door, and he stood in it, looked towards you for a second, and then turned and went out without a single word, seeming very much agitated." Rose's voice was a little agitated too. Though she felt the arm that was twined tenderly about her waist, she did not dare to look in the face so near her own. "Mother says," she continued, "that he was very handsome and very pale. I suppose he is very poor, but--" "But what, Rose?"
"I am sure," she said, hesitatingly, "that will make no difference."
Julia only answered with a little caress.
"When he comes back," said simple Rose, who was certain that it would all come right, "he will want to come and see that lovely little place, and you will want to come with him; I would like to see him."
"When he comes back," said Julia, brightly, "you shall see him, little Rose; you are a dear, good girl, and if you are ever in peril, I am sure some brave, handsome man will come to you."
Rose hoped he would.
The older women had talked matters over also in their grave, prudent woman's way, and both learned from the brightness in Julia's face and eyes, that the ramble in the woods had been pleasant. On their way home Julia described it all to her mother.
They drove around by way of Mrs. Ridgeley's, and found her busy and cheerful. She had a letter from Bart full of cheerful encouragement, and the Colonel had returned, and would remain in Newbury for the present.
Julia caught George and this time actually kissed the blushing, half-angry, yet really pleased boy.
The next day Mrs. Ridgeley visited the graves of her husband and son, on her way from her friend Mrs. Punderson's, and was touched by the evidences of a watchful care that marked them. At the head of Henry's grave was planted a beautiful rose tree, full of buds, and a few wild flowers lay withered among the green grass springing so freshly over him. The mother wondered what hand performed this pious act. Like Bart, she supposed that some gentle maiden thus evinced her tenderness for his memory, and was very anxious to know who she was.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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34
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ROUGH SKETCHES.
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The sun drank up the waters out of Jefferson, and the almanac brought the day for the May term of the Court for Ashtabula county; came the Judge, the juries and unfortunate parties; came also some twenty lawyers, from the various points of North-eastern Ohio. It was to be a great time for our young students. Bart had seen the Court once or twice at Chardon, and had heard the advocates in the famous case of Ohio _vs._ Joe Smith, the Mormon Prophet, for conspiring to murder Newell, and came to know some of them by name and sight. The same judge presided on that trial as in the present court--Judge Humphrey. Bart was much interested of course in the proceedings, and observed them attentively from the opening proclamation, the calling and swearing of the grand jury, calling of the calendar of cases, etc. Much more interested was he in Case's graphic sketches of the members of the bar, who hit them off, well or ill, with a few words.
"That elderly man, shortish, with the soft, autumn-like face, is Elisha Whittlesey, sixteen years in Congress; where he never made a speech, but where he ranks with the most useful members: sober colors that wear. He was a good lawyer, and comes back to practice. The old men will employ him, and wonder why they get beaten."
"That brisk, cheery, neat man by his side is Norton--lively, smirky and smiling--you see the hair leaves the top of his head, to lay the fact bare that there is not much there; and just why that snubby little nose should perk itself up, I can't tell, unless to find out whether there really is anything above it. He has quite a reputation with juries, and a tendency to bore, sometimes in very dry places, for water, and usually furnishes his own moisture. When he isn't damp he is funny. They both live in Canfield."
"Who is that fine-looking, fine-featured, florid man?"
"That is Crowell, from Warren. Mark him and see how studied are all his motions. He tears up that paper with an air and grace only reached by long and intense practice and study. He is a little unpopular, but is a man of ability, and is often effective with a jury. The trouble is, his shadow is immense, and falls all about him on every thing, and he sees every thing through it."
"That young, dark-eyed handsome man is Labe Sherman, admitted last year. He and Ranney are the two young men of the democracy; but there is enough of Ranney to make two of him. He is a fine advocate."
"Look at that tall, rather over-dressed, youngish man."
"The one with weak, washed-out gray eyes?"
"Yes."
"Does he know anything?"
"Not a devilish thing. His strong point, where he concentrates in force, is his collar and stock; from that he radiates into shirt bosom, and fades off into coat and pants. Law! He don't know the difference between a bill in Chancery and the Pope's Bull. Here's another knowledge-cuss. He's from Warren--McKnight. His great effort is to keep himself in--to hold himself from mischief, and working general ruin. He knows perfectly well that if he should let himself loose in a case, in open court, the other side would stand no chance at all; and his sense of right prevents his putting forth his real power. It would be equal to a denial of justice to the other side."
"An instance where the severity of the law is tempered and modified by equity," remarked Bart.
"Exactly."
"Who is that man on the left of Bowen, and beyond, with that splendid head and face, and eyes like Juno, if a man can have such eyes?"
"That is Dave Tod, son of old Judge Tod, of Warren. Two things are in his way: he is a democrat, and lazy as thunder; otherwise he would be among the first--and it will do to keep him in mind anyway. There is some sort of a future for him."
"Here's another minister of the law in the temple of justice--that man with the cape on. He always wears it, and the boys irreverently call him Cape Cod--Ward of Connaught. He puts a paper into the clerk's office and calls it commencing a suit. He puts in another and calls it a declaration. If anybody makes himself a party, and offers to go to trial with him, and nobody objects, he has a trial of something, at some time, and if he gets a verdict or gets licked it is equally incomprehensible to him, and to everybody else.
"There are Hitchcock and Perkins, of Painesville, whom you know. What great wide staring eyes Hitchcock has: but they look into things. And see how elegantly Perkins is dressed. I'd like to hear Frank Wade on that costume--but Perkins is a good lawyer, for all that. Look at that stout, broad, club-faced man--that's old Dick Matoon. You see the lower part of his face was made for larger upper works; and after puckering and drawing the under lip in all he can, he speaks in a grain whistle through an opening still left, around under one ear. He knows no more law than does necessity; but is cunning, and acts upon his one rule, 'that it is always safe to continue.'
"Here is a man you must get acquainted with; this dark swarthy man with the black eyes, black curling hair, and cast-iron face, sour and austere. That is Ned Wade, Frank's younger brother, and one of the pleasantest and best-hearted men alive. He has more book than Frank, and quite as much talent, and will hammer his way towards the front."
"Who is that little, old, hump-backed, wry-necked chap hoisting his face up as if trying to look into a basket on his shoulder?"
"That? That is the immortal Brainard, of Unionville. He is the Atlas who has sustained the whole world of the law-on his back until he has grown hump-backed; and that attitude is the only way in which he can look into the law on his back, as you remark.
"And there is Steve Mathews, mostly legs. His face begins with his chin, and runs right up over the top of his head; that head has no more brains inside than hair out. You see that little knob there in front? Well, that was originally intended for a bump, and, as you see, just succeeded in becoming a wart. Ranney suggested to him at the last term that the books were all against his straddling about the bar, as he always does."
"That smallish man with the prominent chin and retreating forehead, is Horace Wilder, one of the best men at the bar. You see he is pleasant and amiable. He is a good lawyer, and give him a case which involves a question of morals and he develops immense power."
"Who is that dark, singular-looking young man, with full beard and open throat? Is he a lawyer?"
"That," said Case, sadly, "is Sartliff, the most brilliant intellect our region has produced; full of learning, full of genius and strange new thoughts! He is a lawyer, and should equal Daniel Webster."
"What is the matter with him?"
"God only knows! men call him crazy. If he is, the rest of us never had intellect enough to become crazy. Look at his dress; he wears a kind of frock, tied with a hay rope, and is barefoot, I presume. Some strange new or old idea has taken possession of him to get back to nature. If he keeps on he will become crazy. I must introduce you; he and you will like one another."
"Because I am crazy, too?" laughing.
"Because you have some out-of-the-way notions, Bart, and I want you should hear him. He will make you feel as if you were in the visible presence of the forces of nature. He knew your brother well and liked him."
"Where does he live?"
"Nowhere! He remains in the open air when he can, day and night; drinks water and eats roots and herbs; sometimes a little plain bread--never meat. He was formerly vigorous, as you see, he is now thin and drooping."
"Has he had any unusual history, any heart agony?"
"None that I ever heard of; nor was he particularly poetic or imaginative. He does not attempt any business now; but goes and comes with lawyers, the most of whom now avoid him. He has brothers, able and accomplished men, and whom he usually avoids. He commenced business with Giddings, with a brilliant opening, ten years ago."
The calendar was finished, a jury sworn in a case, and the court adjourned.
How closely the young men watched the proceedings of the court, all the trials and points made, and the rulings, and how stripped of mystery seemed the mere practice, as at that time in Ohio it really was. Wise men had taken the best of the old common law practice, and with the aid of judicious legislation and intelligent courts, had got about the best it was capable of.
Bart managed to make himself useful and do himself some good on one occasion. Ranney had taken a position in a case, on a trial of some importance, on which the court was apparently against him. Bart had just gone over with it, in a text-book, and in a moment brought it in, with the case referred to, and received, as men often do, more credit than he was entitled to, Ranney carried his point, and could afford to be generous.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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35
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SARTLIFF.
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Bart had been introduced to Sartliff, who was an object of universal curiosity, even where he was best known, and coming out of the court-room one delicious afternoon, he asked the young students to walk away from the squabbles of men to more quiet and cleaner scenes. They took their way out of the town towards a beech forest, whose tender, orange-tinted, green young leaves were just shaping out, and relieving the hard skeleton lines of trunks and naked limbs. Passing the rude and rotting fences, by which rank herbage, young elders and briars were springing up: "See," said Sartliff, "how kindly nature comes to cover over the faults and failures of men. These rotting unsightly 'improvements,' as we call them, will soon be covered over and hidden with beautiful foliage."
"With weeds, and nettles, and elders," said Case, contemptuously.
"Weeds and nettles!" repeated Sartliff; "and why weeds and nettles? Was there ever such arrogance! Man in his boundless conceit and ignorance, after having ruined his powers, snuffs and picks about, and finds the use of a few insignificant things, which he pronounces good; all the rest he pushes off in a mass as weeds and nettles. Thus the great bulk of the universe is to him useless or hurtful, because he will not, or cannot, learn its secrets. These unknown things are standing reproaches to his ignorance and sloth."
"Poisons, for instance, might become sanitary," said Case.
"If man lived in accord with nature," said Sartliff, "she would not harm him. It is a baby's notion that everything is made to eat, and that all must go into the mouth. Men should have got beyond this universal alimentiveness, ere this. Find the uses of things, and poisons and nettles fall into their places in harmony, and are no longer poisons and nettles."
"And accidents would help us on, instead of off," suggested Case.
"They help as often one way as the other now," replied Sartliff. "But there are really no accidents; everything is produced by law."
"There must be two or three systems then," suggested Case. "Things collide, while each obeys its law. Your systems clash."
"Not a bit. This is apparent only; man acts abnormally under evil influences; he will not observe law; he turns upon nature and says he will subvert her laws, and compel her to obey his. Of course confusion, disorder, and death are the consequences, and always will be, till he puts himself in harmony with her."
"It seems to me, Mr. Sartliff, that in your effort to get back individually, you have encountered more difficulties, collisions, and ills, than the most of us do, who keep on the old orthodox civilized way to the devil."
"That may be; I am one, looking alone; nobody helps me."
"And like the younger Mr. Weller, you find it a pursuit of knowledge under difficulties."
"Precisely; I inherited an artificial constitution, and tastes, and needs. I began perverted and corrupted, and when I go back to Nature, she teaches me less than she does the beasts and birds. Before I can understand, or even hear her voice, I must recover the original purity and strength of organs and faculties which I might have had. I may perish in the attempt to reach a point at which I can learn. The earth chills and hurts my feet, the sun burns my skin, the winds shrivel me, and the snows and frosts would kill me, while many of the fruits good for food are indigestible to me. See to what the perversions of civilization have reduced me."
"Do you propose in thus getting back to nature, to go back to what we call savagery?" asked Bart.
"Not a bit of it. It was the wants and needs of the race that whipped it into what we call civilization. When once men got a start they went, and went in one direction alone, and completely away from Nature, instead of keeping with her and with an unvarying result; an endless series of common catastrophes has overtaken all civilized nations alike, while the savage tribes have alone been perpetual. I don't say that savage life is at all preferable, only that it alone has been capable of perpetuating races. In going back to Nature, I propose to take what of good we have derived from civilization."
"As historic verity," said Bart, "I am not quite prepared to admit that savage races are perpetual. We know little of them, and what little we do know is that tribes appear and disappear. General savagery may reign, like perpetual night, over a given region, but who can say how many races of savages have destroyed and devoured each other in its darkness?"
They had reached the forest, and Sartliff placed himself in an easy position at the foot of an old beech, extending his limbs and bare feet over the dry leaves, in such a way as not to injure any springing herb. "Mr. Ridgeley," said he, "I would like to know more of you. You young men are fresher, see, and what is better, feel quicker and clearer than the older and more hackneyed. Are you already shelled over with accepted dogmas, and without the power of receiving new ideas?"
"I hardly know; I fear I am not very reverent. I was born of a question-asking time, like that Galilean boy, whose, mother, after long search, found him in the Temple, disputing with the doctors, and asking them questions."
"Good! good! that is it; my great mother will find me in her Temple, asking questions of her doctors and ministers!" exclaimed Sartliff.
"And what do you ask, and what response do you get?" asked Bart.
"I lay myself on the earth's bosom in holy solitudes, with fasting and great prayer, and send my soul forth in one great mute, hungry demand for light. I, a man, with some of the Father God stirring the awful mysteries of my nature, go yearningly naked, empty, and alone, and clamor to know the way. And sometimes deep, sweet, hollow voices answer in murmurs, which I feel rather than hear; but I cannot interpret them, I cannot compass their sounds. And sometimes gigantic formless shadows overcloud me. I know they have forms of wondrous symmetry and beauty, but they are so grand that my vision does not reach their outline, and I cannot comprehend them. I know that I am dominant of the physical creation on this earth, but at those times I feel that these great and mighty essences, whose world in which they live and move, envelopes ours and us, and to whom our matter is as impalpable air--I know that they and we, theirs and ours, are involved in higher and yet higher conditions and elements, that in some mysterious way we mutually and blindly contribute and minister to each other."
"And what profit do you find in such communication?" asked Bart.
"It is but preparatory to try the powers, clear the vision and senses, train and discipline the essential faculties for a communion with this essence that may be fully revealed, and aid in the workings and immediate government of our gross material world, and the spirits that pertain to it more immediately, if such there are."
"And you are in doubt about that?"
"Somewhat; and yet through some such agencies came the givings forth of the Prophets."
"You believe in the Prophets?" asked Case.
"Assuredly. The many generations which inherited from each other the seer faculty, developed and improved, living the secluded, severe, and simple lives of the anchorite, amid the grand and solemn silence of mountain and desert, were enabled, by wondrous and protracted effort, to wear through the filament--impenetrable as adamant to common men--that screened from them the invisible future, and they told What they saw."
"Yet they never told it so that any mortal ever understood what they said, or could apply their visions to any passing events, and the same givings out of these half-crazed old bards, for such they were, have been applied to fifty different things by as many different generations of men," said Case.
"That may have arisen, in part," said Bart, "from the dim sight of the seer, and the difficulty of clothing extraordinary visions in the garb of ordinary things. It is not easy, however, for the common mind to see why, if God had a special message for His children of such importance that He would provide a special messenger to communicate it, and had a choice of messengers, it should reach them finally, in a form that nobody could interpret. With God every thing is in the present, all that has happened, and all that will, is as the now is to us. If a man can reach the power or faculty of getting a glimpse of things as God sees them, he would make some utterance, if he survived, and it would be very incoherent. Besides, human events repeat themselves, and a good general description of great human calamities would truthfully apply to several, and so might be fulfilled your half hundred times, Mr. Case."
"That isn't a bad theory of prophecy," said Case approvingly; "but all these marvels were in the old time; how came the faculty to be lost?"
"Is it?" asked Bart. "Don't you hear of it in barbarous and savage conditions of men, now? Our friend Sartliff would say that the faculty was lost, through the corruptions and clogs of civilization; and he proposes to restore it."
"No, I don't propose to restore that exactly. I want to find a way back to Nature for myself, and then teach it to others, when the power of prophecy will be restored. I want to see man restored to his rightful position, as the head of this lower universe. There are ills and powers of mischief now at large, and operative, that would find their master in a perfect man. One such, under favorable auspices, was once born into this world; and we know that it is possible. He took His natural place at the head; and all minor powers and agencies acknowledged Him at once. I have never been quite able to understand why He, with His power of clear discernment, should have precipitated Himself upon the Jewish and Roman power, and so perished, and at so early a day in His life."
"So that the prophets might be fulfilled," said Case.
"It may have been," resumed Sartliff.
"Upon the merely human theory of the thing," said Bart, "He could foresee that this was the only logical conclusion of his teachings, and best, perhaps only means of fixing his messages and doctrines in the hearts of men. I may not venture a suggestion, Mr. Sartliff," Bart continued; "but it seems to me, that your search back will necessarily fail. In searching back, as you call it, for the happy point when the strength and purity and the inspiration of nature can be united with all that is good in Christian civilization, if your theory is correct, your civilized eyes will never discern the place. You will have passed it before you have re-acquired the power to find it, and your life will be spent in a vain running to and fro, in search of it. Miracles have ceased to be wonders, for we work them by ordinary means now-a-days, and we don't know them when we meet them."
Sartliff arose; he had been for sometime silent. His face was sad.
"It may be. I like you, Barton; you have a good deal of your brother's common sense, uncommon as that is, and I shall come and see you often."
And without another word he strode off deeper into the woods, and was lost to the eyes of the young men.
"Is it possible," said Bart, "that this was an educated, strong, and brilliant mind, capable of dealing with difficult questions of law? I fear that he has worn or torn through the filament that divides the workings of the healthy mind from the visions of the dreamer--wrecked on the everlasting old rocks that jut out all about our shores, and always challenging us to dash upon them. Shall we know when we die? Shall we die when we know? After all, are not these things to be known? Why place them under our eyes so that a child of five years will ask questions that no mortal, or immortal, has yet solved? Have we lost the clue to this knowledge? Do we overlook it? Do we stumble over it, perish, wanting it, with it in our hands without the power to see or feel it? Has some rift opened to a hidden store of truth, and has a gleam of it come to the eyes of this man, filling him with a hunger of which he is to die? When the man arises to whom these mysteries shall reveal themselves, as he assuredly will, the old gospels will be supplemented."
"Or superseded," said Case. "And is it not about time? Have not the old done for us about all they can? Do we not need, as well as wish for, a new?"
"A man may doubtless so abuse and deprave his powers, that old healthy food ceases to be endurable, and yields to him no nutrition; of course he must perish," answered Bart. "He will demand new food."
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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36
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OLD GID.
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Towards the close of the term, there came into the court-room, one day, a man of giant mould: standing head and shoulders above his fellows, broad shouldered, deep chested, with a short neck and large flat face, a regal brow, and large, roomy head in which to work out great problems. He had light grayish blue, or blueish gray eyes, and a scarlet mark disfiguring one side of his face. The proceedings paused, and men gathered about him. His manner was bland, his smile, that took up his whole face, very pleasant. Bart knew that this was J.R. Giddings, just home from Washington, where he had already overhauled the Seminole war, and begun that mining into the foundation of things that finally overthrew slavery.
During the term Bart heard him before the court and jury, and found him a dullish, heavy speaker, a little as he thought the indifferently good English parliamentary speaker might be. He often hesitated for a word, and usually waited for it; sometimes he would persist in having it at once, when he would close his eyes very tight, and compel it. His manner and gesture could not be called good, and yet Bart felt that he was in the presence of a formidable man.
His mind was one of a high order, without a scintilla of genius or any of its elements. He had a powerful grasp, and elude, as it might, he finally clutched the idea or principle sought it never escaped him: and he never rested until its soul and blood were his, or rejected as useless, after the application of every test. It was a bad day for slavery when Giddings determined to enter Congress. Cool, shrewd, adroit, wary and wily, never baffled, never off his guard and never bluffed; with a reserve of power and expedients always sufficient, with a courage that knew no blenching, he moved forward. He had more industry and patience, and was a better lawyer than Wade, but was his inferior as an advocate. They were opposed in the case in which Giddings appeared, and Bart already felt that in the atmosphere of the contest was the element of dislike on the part of Wade, and of cool, watchful care on the part of Giddings. Wade made two or three headlong onsets, which were received and parried with bland, smiling coolness. From his manner no one could tell what Giddings thought of his case or opponent.
Two or three evenings after, an informal "reception," as it would now be called, was held at the Giddings residence, to which the students and nearly everybody else went. It was a pleasant greeting between friends and neighbors, and a valued citizen, just home after a half year's absence. Nothing could be more kind and natural than the manner of Mr. Giddings, supported by motherly Mrs. Giddings, and the accomplished Miss Giddings, who had spent the winter with her father at Washington. She was like her father, in mind and person, softened and sweetened and much more gracious by sex; tall, graceful, and with the easy presence and manner of society and cultivation.
Bart was taken to her, and taken by her at once. She seemed like an old acquaintance, and spoke in the kindest terms of his brother, told him of Washington, its society and customs, and called him Barton at once, as if they were to be on the best of terms. Bart could see that she was plain, but he forgot that in a moment, and it never occurred to him again.
In the course of the evening she returned to him, and said she wished to introduce him to a young lady friend, whom she was sure he would like on her own account, and on that of his brother, to whom she was to have been all that woman might be. It took Bart's breath away. He was unaware that his brother had ever been engaged, or wished to be, to any lady.
"She knows you are in Jefferson," said Miss Giddings, "and has wanted very much to see you."
She conducted him into a small sitting-room, and leading: him up to a young lady in black, introduced him to Miss Aikens--Ida Aikens. The young lady came forward, gave him her little hand, and looked him full and sadly in the face. "You are like him," she said, "and I have much wanted to see you."
"I received a letter from you," said Bart, "and fear my answer was a poor one. Had I known you better, I could have written differently. My brother was more to me than most brothers can be, and all who were dear to him come at once into my tenderest regard."
"You could not answer my letter better than you did. I never had a brother, and nothing can be more grateful to me than to meet you as we now meet."
They sat, and he held the hand that belonged to his dead brother, and that the hand of lover was never again to clasp. Gentle in deeds of charity and tenderness, it would linger in its widowed whiteness until it signalled back to the hand that already beckoned over the dark waters.
Strangers who saw them would have taken them for lovers. They were of nearly the same age. She, with dark, luminous eyes, and hair colored like Haidee's, matched well with the dark gray and light brown. What a world of tender and mournful sweetness this interview opened up to the hungry heart of Bart--the love of a sweet, thoughtful, considerate, intellectual and cultivated sister, unselfish and pure, to which no touch or color of earth or passion could come. How fully and tenderly he wrote of her to his mother, and how the unbidden wish came to his heart to tell another of her, and as if he had the right to do so.
Miss Aikens was a young lady of high mental endowments, and great force of character, cultivated in the true sense of culture, and very accomplished. How sad and bitter seemed the untimely fate of his brother; and the meeting of this sweet and mourning girl lent another anguish to his heart, that was so slow in its recovery from that blow.
The court ran on, grew irksome, and passed. Bart saw something more of Sartliff, and felt a melancholy interest in him. He also saw much of Ida, whom he could not help liking, and something of Miss Giddings, whom he admired.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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37
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THE OLD STORY.
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On the morning after Wade's return from the Geauga Court, upon entering the office, where Bart found him and Ranney and Case, and one or two others, there was the sudden hush that advises a new arrival that he has been a subject of remark.
"Good morning, Mr. Wade."
"Good morning, Ridgeley."
"You returned earlier than you anticipated?"
"Yes. How do you come on?"
"About the old way. Did you see my old client, Cole," the King?"
"Old King Cole? Yes, I saw that worthy, and they say on the other side that they can't try the case under a year, perhaps."
"Well, we defend, and our defence will be as good then as ever," said Bart.
"The suit was commenced to save the statute of limitations," said Wade; "and if any defence exists I fear it will be in chancery."
"My dear sir, we will make a defence at law," was the decided answer.
"I saw some of your friends over there," said Wade, "who made many enquiries about you."
"They are kind." said Bart.
"Of course you know Judge Markham?" said Wade.
Bart bowed. "He is a very honorable and high minded man!" Bart bowed again. "He spoke of you in the very highest terms, and I was very glad to hear him."
"You are very kind," said Bart.
"And by the way." pursued Mr. Wade, "I heard a little story: the Judge has a very beautiful daughter," looking directly at Bart, who bowed to this also. "It seems that the girl in going home from somewhere, got lost in the woods, and wandered off into a devil of a big forest there is down there, covering two or three townships. It was in the night of that awful storm in April, and she went miles away, and finally overcome, lay down to die, and was covered with the snow, when a young chap found her--God knows how--took her up, carried her across the Chagrin River, or one of its branches, in under some rocks, built a fire, and brought her to, and finally got her to a man's house in the woods, sent word to her father, and went off. Do you know anything about it? The story is, that you are the chap who did it."
All eyes were on Bart.
"I heard something of it," said he, smiling. "I came off the evening after this marvel; and in the stage two ladies were full of it. They made it a little stronger than your version. I think there were several wild animals in theirs. We stopped at a tavern two or three miles on, when somebody told the old lady that I was 'the chap that did it;' but as I had told her that this Bart wasn't much of a fellow, she was inclined to doubt her informant. The old lady stopped in Chardon, and you must have heard her story."
"The young lady herself said that you saved her," said Wade, with his usual directness. "What do you say to that?"
"If the young lady was in a condition to know," replied Bart, "I should take her word for it." And passing into the back room he closed the door.
"What the devil is there in it?" said Wade. "It is just as I say. Has he ever said a word about it?"
"Not a word," said the young men.
"I met Miss Markham a year ago, when I was in Newbury, at a sugar party," said Ranney. "She is one of the most beautiful girls I ever saw, and superior in every way. Bart was not there--he wouldn't go; and I remember her talking about him, with Henry. When we got back we undertook to tell him what she said, and he wouldn't hear a word."
"The fact is," said Case, decidedly, "her father is rich, and she is proud and ambitious. Bart wasn't good enough for her, and he has taken his revenge by saving her life, and now he won't yield an inch."
"They say he came off and won't have anything to do with them," said Wade.
"That's it," said Case, "and I glory in his spunk. They have just found out their mistake."
During the day Bart was asked by Wade if he had yet seen Mr. Windsor; and replied that he had not, but that he was anxious to do so, as his brother always spoke of him with gratitude, as one who had been very kind to him. Mr. Wade said that the day before he had seen Windsor, who expressed a wish to meet Henry's brother, and thought he would come to Jefferson in a day or two, when he would call on him. Bart was much gratified, and remarked that he was doing quite a business on his brother's popularity.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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38
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THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN.
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"Mr. Ridgeley," asked Miss Giddings, "what is this delightful little romance about the rich Judge's beautiful daughter, and the chivalrous young law student? I declare, if it does not bring back the days of knight-errantry, and makes me believe in love and heroism." It was one evening at her father's where Bart had called with his newly found sister Ida, to whom he was quite attentive.
The young man looked annoyed in spite of his good breeding. "Has he told you the story?" --to Miss Aikens.
"Not a word of it," said the latter. "You know," she then said to Miss Giddings, "that some things so pleasant to hear may not be pleasant for a party concerned to tell about."
"Forgive me, Mr. Ridgeley. It never occurred to me that this could be of that sort, but as it was so delightful as told to me, I wanted to know if it was an actual occurrence, in this humdrum world."
"I suppose," said Ida, "that a great many beautiful and heroic events are very prosy and painful to the actors therein, and they never dream the world will give them the gloss of romance."
"Ladies," said the young man, with a gay and mocking air, "hear the romance of the Judge's daughter, and the poor student--certainly a _very_ poor student. There was a rich, powerful and proud Judge; he had an only daughter, more beautiful than a painter's dream, and proud as a princess born. In the neighborhood was a poor and idle youth, who had been the Judge's secretary, and had been dismissed, and who loved the proud and beautiful maiden, as idle and foolish youths sometimes do. The beautiful maiden scorned him with a scorn that banished him from her sight, for he was prouder than Judge and daughter, both. While disporting with her damsels among the spring flowers in the forest, one day, the beautiful maiden wandered away and became lost in the heart of an interminable wood, more wild and lonely than that which swallowed up the babes of the old ballad. Day passed and night came, and in its bosom was hidden a fierce tempest of wind and hail and snow. The poor maiden wandered on, and on, and on, until she came upon the banks of a dart, cold river; wild and lost amid tempest and storm, she wandered down its banks, until, in despair, chilled and benumbed without heart or hope, she laid her down to die, and the pure snow covered her. Her father, the proud Judge, and his friends, were searching for her miles away.
"A little boy told the story to the poor student, who hurried into the forest, and under the inspiration of his scorned love, ran and ran until he found the swooning maiden under the snow, took her up in his arms, placed his garments upon her, and bore her through the cold and rapid stream, found a shelter under the rocks on the other side, kindled a fire, gave the maiden, proud no longer, a cordial, warmed and restored her, made her a couch of moss and dried leaves, and while she slept he watched over her until the day dawned. Then he conducted her to a wood-chopper's cabin in the forest, where she was tenderly cared for. The poor, proud youth would hear no thanks from the maiden. He sent a note, without his name, to the proud Judge, telling him where his daughter could be found; and never saw the beautiful maiden, or proud rich Judge afterwards. This, ladies," with the same gay banter, "is the romance of the Judge's daughter and the poor student."
"And I suspect," said Miss Giddings, seriously, "that it is about the literal truth of the affair, and it is more romantic than I had thought."
* * * * * "Barton has made the acquaintance of poor Sartliff," said Ida, willing to introduce a new subject, "and was much struck by him."
"Do you think he is actually shattered?" asked Miss Giddings.
"I really have no opinion. His mind moves in such unaccustomed channels: we find it in such unusual haunts, that nobody can tell whether it remains healthy or not. It works logically enough, granting his premises. Of course he is under delusions--we should call them mistakes merely, if they occurred in ordinary speculations; but with him, in his abnormal pursuits, they are to be expressed under the vapory forms of delusions."
"Oh, it is the saddest sight to see this young man, with a nature so richly endowed, asking only for light, and the right way; to see him turning so blindly from the true given light, and searching with simple earnestness along sterile, rocky byways and thorny hedges, to find the path or opening that conducts back to a true starting place. He opens his bosom to sun and air, and bares his feet to the earth, thinking that inspiration will, through some avenue, reach his senses, and so inform him. It is the most pitiful spectacle that the eye can see," said Ida, pathetically.
"Like a kind spirit sent from heaven to earth," said Bart, "who, having forgotten his message, can never find his way back; but is doomed to wander up and down the uncongenial region, searching in vain for the star-beam by which he descended."
"My father has quite given him up," said Miss Giddings; "he says he passed long since the verge of healthy thought and speculation. I used to think that possibly some new and powerful stimulus, such as might spring from some new cause--" "Love, for instance," suggested Bart.
"Yes, love, for instance. I declare, Mr. Ridgeley, you think as a woman."
"Do women really think? I thought their minds were so clear and strong that thought was unnecessary, and they were always blest with intuitions."
"Well, sir, some of them are obliged to think--when they want to be understood by men, who don't have intuitions, and can't go at all without something to hold up by--and a woman would think, perhaps, that if Sartliff could fall in love--" "And if he can't he isn't worth the saving," interjected Bart.
"Exactly; and if he could, that through its medium he might be brought back to a healthy frame of mind, or a healthy walk of mind. There, Mr. Ridgeley, I have got out with that, though rather limpingly, after all."
"And a forcible case you have made. Here is a man crazy about Nature; you propose as a cure for that, to make him mad about a woman. And what next?"
"Well, love is human--or inhuman," said Miss Giddings; "if the former, marriage is the specific; if the latter, his lady-love might get lost in a wood, you know."
"Yes, I see. Poor Sartliff had better remain where he is, winking and blinking for the lights of Nature," said Bart.
"I remember," interposed Ida, "that he and your brother, among the matters they used to discuss, disagreed in their estimate of authors. Sartliff could never endure N.P. Willis, for instance."
"A sign," said Miss Giddings, "that he was sane then, at least. Willis, in Europe, is called the poet's lap-dog, with his ringlets and Lady Blessingtons."
"I believe he had the pluck to meet Captain Marryatt," said Bart.
"Was that particularly creditable?" asked Miss Giddings.
"Well, poets' lap-dogs don't fight duels, much; and Miss Giddings, do you think a lap-dog could have written this?" And taking up a volume of Willis, he turned from them and read "Hagar." As he read, he seemed possessed with the power and pathos of the piece, and his deep voice trembled under its burthen. At the end, he laid the book down, and walked to a window while his emotion subsided. His voice always had a strange power of exciting him. After a moment's silence, Miss Giddings said, with feeling: "I never knew before that there was half that force and strength in Willis. As you render it, it is almost sublime. Will you read another?"
Taking up the book, he read "Jepthah's Daughter:" reading it with less feeling, perhaps, but in a better manner.
"I give it up," said Miss Giddings, "though I am not certain whether it is not in you, rather than in Willis, after all."
"Six or seven years ago, when my brother Henry came home and gathered us up, and rekindled the home fires on the old hearth," said Bart, "he commenced taking the _New York Mirror_, just established by George P. Morris, assisted by Fay and Willis. Fay, you know, has recently published his novel, 'Norman Leslie,' the second volume of which flats out so awfully. At that time these younger men were in Europe; and we took wonderfully to them, and particularly to Willis's 'First Impressions,' and 'Pencillings by the Way.' To me they were authentic, and opened the inside of English literary society and life, and I came to like him. The language has a wonderful flexile power and grace in his hands; and I think he has real poetry in his veins, much more than John Neal, or Dr. Drake, though certainly less than Bryant. Yet there is a kind of puppyism about the man that will probably prevent his ever achieving the highest place in our literature."
"You are a poet yourself, Mr. Ridgeley, I understand," said Miss Giddings.
"I like poetry, which is a totally different thing from the power to produce it; this I am sure I have not," was the candid answer.
"You have tried?"
"Most young men with a lively fancy and fervid feelings, write verses, I believe. Here is Mr. Case, quite a verse writer, and some of his lines have a tone or tinge of poetry."
"Would you like literature for a pursuit?"
"I like books, as I like art and music, but I somehow feel that our state of society at the West, and indeed our civilization, is not ripe enough to reach a first excellence in any of these high branches of achievement. Our hands are thick and hard from grappling with the rough savagery of our new rude continent. We can construct the strong works of utility, and shall meet the demands for the higher and better work when that demand actually exists."
"But does not that demand exist? Hasn't there been a clamor for the American novel? A standing advertisement--'Wanted, the American Novel'--has been placarded ever since I can remember; and I must forget how long that is," said Miss Giddings.
"Yes, I've heard of that; but that is not the demand that will compel what it asks for. It will be the craving of millions, stimulating millions of brains, and some man will arise superior to the herd, and his achievement will challenge every other man of conscious powers, and they will educate and ripen each other till the best, who is never the first, will appear and supply the need. No great man ever appeared alone. He is the greatest of a group of great men, many of whom preceded him, and without whom he would have been impossible. Homer, alone of his group, has reached us; Shakespeare will live alone of his age, four thousand years hence."
"But, Mr. Ridgeley, our continent and our life, with our fresh, young, intense natures, seem to me to contain all the elements of poetry, and the highest drama," said Miss Giddings.
"So they seem to us, and yet how much of that is due to our egotism--because it is ours--who can tell? Of course there is any amount of poetry in the raw, and so it will remain until somebody comes to work it up. There are plenty of things to inspire, but the man to be inspired is the thing most needed."
"So that, Mr. Ridgeley," said Ida, "we may not in our time hope for the American novel, the great American epic, or the great American drama?"
"Well, I don't know that these will ever be. That will depend upon our luck in acquiring a mode and style, and habit of thought, and power of expression of our own, which for many reasons we may never have. An American new writes as much like an Englishman as he can--and the more servile the imitation, the better we like him--as a woman writes like a man as nearly as she possibly can, for he is the standard. What is there in Irving, that is not wholly and purely English? And so of Cooper; his sturdiness and vigor are those of a genuine Englishman, and when they write of American subjects, they write as an Englishman would; and if better, it is because they are better informed."
"Mr. Ridgeley," said Miss Giddings, "can't you give us an American book?" " 'When the little fishes fly Like swallows in the sky,' An American will write an American book," said Bart, laughing. "But your question is a good answer to my solemn twaddle on literature."
"No, I don't quite rate it as twaddle," said Ida.
"Don't you though?" asked Bart.
"No," seriously. "Now what is the effect of our American literature upon the general character of English literature? We certainly add to its bulk."
"And much to its value, I've no doubt," said Bart. "Well, with increased strength and vigor, we shall begin by imperceptible degrees, to modify and change the whole, and the whole will ultimately become Americanized, till the English of this continent, partaking of its color and character, imparts its tone and flavor finally to the whole everywhere. I have not much faith in a purely American literature, notwithstanding Miss Giddings' advertisement."
"Mr. Ridgeley," said Miss Giddings, "your notions are depressing. I don't believe in them, and will oppose my woman's intuitions to your man's argument."
"My dear Miss Giddings," said Bart, laughing, "you value my notions quite as highly as I do; and I wouldn't take the criticisms of a young man who ran away from the only college he ever saw, and who has only heard the names of a few authors."
"I wont. They are not American; and yet there seems to be force in them."
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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39
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ABOUT LAWYERS, AND DULL.
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Mr. Giddings was always much interested in all young men, and put himself in their way and society, and while he affected nothing juvenile, no man could make himself more winning and attractive to them. It was said by his enemies, who were of his political household, that in this, as in all else, he was politic; that he sought out and cultivated every young man in the circle of his acquaintance; made himself familiar with his make-up; flattered and encouraged him with little attentions; sent him speeches and books, and occasional letters, and thus attached nearly all the rising young men of Northeastern Ohio to himself personally. This may have been one source of his great and long continued popularity and strength; he thoroughly educated at least one generation of voters.
However that may be, he was much in the old office where he had done so much effective work, and laid the foundations of his position at the bar, which was with those of the first in the State.
He associated on terms of the pleasantest intimacy with the young men, and early evinced a liking for Bart, who, poor fellow, was ready to like anybody who would permit him.
Mr. Giddings was at pains to impress them with the absolute impossibility of even moderate success at the bar, without industry, while with it, mediocrity of talents would insure that. "Of the whole number who were admitted," he said, "about ten or fifteen per cent. succeeded; and one in a hundred became eminent. Undoubtedly the greatest lawyer in the world did not possess the greatest intellect; but he must have been among the most industrious. Brilliant parts may be useful; they are always dangerous. The man who trusts to the inspiration of genius, or his capacity to get advantage by ingenious management in court, will find himself passed by a patient dullard. The admiring world who witness some of the really fine intellectual performances that sometimes occur in court, haven't the faintest conception as to when the real work was done, nor at all what it consisted in; nor when and how the raw material was gathered and worked up. The soldier in war is enlisted to fight, but really a small part of his time is spent in battle; almost the whole of it is in preparation, training, gathering material, manoeuvring, gaining strategic advantages, and once in a while producing a field day, which tests the thoroughness of the preparation. This illustrates the value of absolute thoroughness in the preparation of cases. A good case is often lost, and a bad one gained, wholly by the care or negligence in their preparation. You really try your cases out of court."
Barton asked why it was that, while the world generally admired and respected the bar, there was a distrust of its honesty? --at which there was a general smile.
"Because," said Mr. Giddings, "there really are unworthy members of it; and the bar, like the ministry and the medical faculty, being comparatively a small body, is tried by its failures. The whole is condemned in the person of a few; while a majority--the bulk of men--estimate themselves by their successes. One great man sheds glory on his race, while one villain is condemned alone. The popular judgment, that lawyers are insincere and dishonest, because they appear on both sides of a case, with equal zeal, when there can be but one right side, is not peculiar to the bar. It should be remembered that learned and pious divines take opposite sides of all doctrinal points of Scripture, and yet nobody thinks of questioning their honesty."
"When both are wrong," put in Wade.
"Now there are, nominally at least, two sides in a law suit--certainly two parties. One party goes to Frank, here, and tells his side, most favorably to himself, and gets an opinion in his favor, and a suit is commenced. The other tells his side to me, for instance, and on his statement I think he has a good defence. From that moment each looks for evidence and law to sustain his side, and to meet the case made by the other; and invariably we come to the final trial, each honestly thinking he is right. We try the case zealously and sincerely, and the one who is finally beaten, feels that injustice has been done. It is the first task of an advocate to convince himself, and unless he has already done that, he may not expect to convince court and jury; and a man must be a poor advocate, or have a very bad case, who fails to convince himself, however he may fare with a jury. You need never expect to convince your opponent; he is under a retainer not to agree with you."
"There is another thing about it," said Wade. "The bar and writers talk about the ethics of the bar, and legal morality, and all that nonsense, until there is an impression, both among lawyers and the public, that there is one rule for lawyers and another for the rest of mankind--that we are remitted to a lower standard of honesty. This is all bosh; there can be but one standard of right and wrong; and that which is wrong out of court, cannot be right in it. I'll have but one rule. A man who will lie to a court or a jury, will lie anywhere--he is a liar."
"Will you submit to that rule?" asked Giddings, laughing.
"I always have," said Wade, "and I wont have any other. Now of all men, a lawyer can the least afford to be dishonest; for a taint, a doubt of his honor, ruins him; and there cannot be a more honorable body of men in the world, and never was, than the fair majority of the bar. The habit of contesting in open court, in the face of the world, engenders an honorable, manly highmindedness, free from the underhanded jealousy and petty wars of the doctors. If a man lies, or is mean, he is pretty certain to be detected and exposed at once. A lawyer cannot afford to lie and be mean. And besides, I have observed that there is really no healthy, manly development of intellect, without a healthy, manly development of the moral nature."
"Now, Frank," said Mr. Giddings, "why not go a step further, and perfect the man, and say that religion should add its strength and grace, as a crown?"
"Well, Gid, I've no objection to your religion--that is, I have no objection to religion--I don't know about yours--but I have known a good many religious men who were very bad men, and I have known a good many bad men to get religion, who did not mend their morals. If a man is a good man, it don't hurt him to join a church, as far as I know; and a bad man usually remains bad."
"Well, Frank, leave these young men to form their own opinions."
"Certainly; I did not broach the subject."
"They ought to become better lawyers than we are," said Mr. Giddings. "Their means of education are far in advance; the increase of new and valuable text-books, the great progress in the learning and competency of the courts, as well as the general rapid improvement of the people in intelligence, are all in their favor; they ought to be better lawyers and better Christians."
"They couldn't well be worse," was the bluff response of Wade.
The young men remained pondering the remarks of their seniors.
"Well, boys," said Ranney, "you've heard the ideas of two observing men. They give you the result of their experience on two or three very important practical points; what do you think of it?"
"Ransom," said the ready Case, "is thinking who and what must be the one hundred, of whom he is to be the one. They would be a sad sight."
"And Case," rejoined the ever irate Ransom, "that if John Doe and Richard Roe, with a declaration in ejectment, could only be turned into doggerel, he would be an eminent land lawyer."
"What has happened to Ransom?" asked Kennedy.
"I don't know," replied Case; "he has sparkled up in this same way, two or three times. Can it be that an idea has been committed to his skull, lately? If one has, a _habeas corpus_ must be sued out for its delivery. Solitary confinement is forbidden by the statutes of Ohio."
"Never you mind the idea," said Ransom. "I mean to find a lawyer in good practice, and go into partnership with him at once."
"Now, Ransom," said Case, still gravely, "you are a very clever fellow, and devilish near half witted; and you would allow such a man, whom you thus permitted to take himself in with you, one third or one fourth of the proceeds of the first year."
"I would have no trouble about that," said Ransom, not quite feeling the force of Case's compliment.
"Well," said Ranney, "I suspect that generally lawyers, desirable as partners, if they wish them, will be already supplied, and then, when one could secure an eligible connection of this kind, the danger is, that he would be overshadowed and dwarfed, and always relying on his senior, would never come to a robust maturity. Well, Kennedy, what do you say?"
"Not much; I hope to be able to work when admitted. I mean to find some good point further West, where there is an opening, and stop and wait. I don't mean to be a failure."
"Ridgeley, what are your views?"
"Modest, as becomes me; I don't think I am to be counted in any hundred, and so I avoid unpleasant comparisons. I don't mean to look long for an opening, or an opportunity; I would prefer to make both. I would begin with the first thing, however small, and do my best with it, and so of every other thing that came, leaving the eminence and places to adjust themselves. I intend to practice law, and, like Kennedy, I don't mean to fail."
"Mr. Ranney," continued Bart, "what is the reason of this universal failure of law students?"
"I think the estimate of Giddings is large," said Ranney. "but of all the young men who study law, about one half do it with no settled purpose of ever practising, and, of course, don't. Of those who do intend to practice, one half never really establish themselves in it. That leaves one fourth of the whole number, who make a serious and determined effort at the bar, and one half of these--one eighth of the whole--succeed; and that brings out about as Giddings estimated."
"Well, on the whole, that is not a discouraging view," said Bart, "and for one, I am obliged to you."
Nevertheless, he pondered the whole matter, and turned to face calmly as he had before, the time when his novitiate should end, and he should actually enter upon his experiment.
"Now, Case, this is a serious matter. A young and utterly unknown man, without money, friends, acquaintances or books, and doubtful whether he has brains, learning and capacity, in some small or large town, attacks the world, throws down his gage--or rather nails it up, in the shape of a tin card, four by twelve inches, with his perfectly obscure name on it. Think of it! Just suppose you have a little back room, up stairs, with a table, two chairs, half a quire of paper, an inkstand, two steel pens, Swan's Treatise, and the twenty-ninth volume of Ohio Statutes. You would be very busy arranging all this array of things, and would whistle cheerfully till that was accomplished, and then you would grow sad, and sit down to wait and think--" "Of the rich Judge's beautiful daughter," broke in Case.
"And wait," continued Bart.
"Oh, Bart! I glory in your pluck and spunk," said Case, "and I think of your performance as Major Noah said of Adam and Eve: 'As touching that first kiss,' said he, 'I have often thought I would like to have been the man who did it; but the chance was Adam's.'"
"Ridgeley seems to be taken in hand by Miss Giddings," said Kennedy; "that would not be a bad opening for an ambitious man."
"Of the ripe years of twenty-three," put in Case. "The average age would be about right. She has led out one or two of each crop of law students since she was sixteen."
"What has been the trouble?" asked Kennedy.
"I don't know. They came, and went-- 'Their hold was frail, their stay was brief, Restless, and quick to pass away'-- while she remains," replied Case. "Bart seems to be a new inspiration, and she is as gay and lively as a spring butterfly."
"And worth forty young flirts," observed Ransom.
"Oh, come, boys!" cried Bart, "hold up. Miss Giddings is an attractive woman, full of accomplishment and goodness--" "And experience," put in Case.
"Who permits me to enjoy her society sometimes," continued Bart. "The benefit and pleasure are wholly mine, and I can't consent to hear her spoken of so lightly."
"Bart is right, as usual," said Case, gravely; "and I don't know of anything more unmanly than the way we young men habitually talk of women."
"Except the way they talk of us," said Kennedy.
"You would expect a lady to speak in an _un_manly way," remarked Bart. "Of course, if we are ever spoken of by them, it is in our absence; but I'll venture that they seldom speak of us at all, and then in ignorance of our worst faults. We are not likely to receive injustice at their hands."
"Bart, you must always have been lucky," said Ransom.
"I am doing my best not to be conceited and vain, and find it confounded hard work," was the frank, good-natured reply.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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40
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THE DISGUISE.
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Mrs. Ridgeley received the following: "JEFFERSON, June 8, 1838. " _Dear Mother_:--A strange thing has happened to me, for which I am indebted to Henry; indeed, I am destined to trade upon his capital. You remember how kind he said a Mr. Windsor was to him, employing him to transact small business matters for him, and paying him largely, besides making him useful and valuable presents? He seems to have been dissatisfied with himself for not doing more, and I am to be the recipient of his bounty in full.
"He called to see me about a week ago; and then two or three days after, he sent a carriage for me, and I have just returned. He is very wealthy, an old bachelor, lives elegantly, is a thoroughly educated man, and not eccentric, except in his liking to Henry, which he transfers to me. He is without near relations, and has had a history. Now he insists on advancing to me enough to carry me through, clothing me, and starting me with a fine library. He says I must go East to a law school at least a year, and so start from a most favorable and advanced position.
"It took my breath away. It seems fairly wrong that I should permit myself to take this man's money, for whom I have done nothing, and to whom I can make no return, and whose money I might never repay. He laughed, and said I was very simple and romantic. Wasn't the money his? and couldn't he do what he pleased with it? and if he invested it in me, nobody was harmed by it. I told him I might be; I am not sure that I should be safe with the pressure and stimulus of poverty removed from me.
"Moreover he had purchased an elegant watch, to be given to Henry, on his marriage with poor Miss Aikens, of whom I told you; and this he insists on my taking and wearing, with a chain big and long enough to hang me in. I told him if he wanted to give it away, that it should, I thought, properly go to Miss A.--to whom, by the way, I gave that beautiful pin. I cannot wear anything that was Henry's, and this would be one objection to wearing this watch. Mr. Windsor said it certainly was never intended for Ida; that it had never been Henry's, that it was mine, and I had to bring it away. I feel guilty, and as if I had swindled or stolen, or committed some mean act; and as I hold it to my ear, its strong beat reproaches me like the throb of a guilty heart.
"What can I do? Your feelings are right, and your judgment is good. I can't afford to be killed with a weight of obligation, nor must I remit or relax a single effort. This may stimulate me more. If I were to relax and lie down now, and let another carry me, I should deserve the scorn and contempt I have received.
"Write me upon this, and don't mention it to the Colonel.
"I have made the acquaintance of Miss Giddings, who is very kind to me; and she and Ida furnish that essential element of ladies' society which you desired I should have. I confess I don't care much for men; but I have so little to give in return for the kindness of these noble, refined and intellectual ladies, that here again I am a receiver of alms. No matter; women never receive any proper return from men, any way.
"Ask Ed and George to write, and tell me all the little pleasant details of the farm life and home. How tender and sweet and dear it all is to me; and what a gulf seems to have opened between me and all the past!
"Ever with love, dear mother, BART."
Mrs. Ridgeley received and read the letter in the store. While she was absorbed in it. Mrs. Markham came in, and was struck by the expression of her face. As she finished the perusal, she discovered Mrs. Markham, and her look of recognition induced the latter to approach her. The incidents of the last few weeks had silently ripened the liking of the two women into a very warm and cordial feeling. As Mrs. Markham approached, the other gave her her hand, and held out Bart's letter. Mrs. Markham received it, and as her eye ran over it, Mrs. Ridgeley could easily see the look of pleasure and warmth that lit up her face.
"Oh, by all means," she said, "tell him not hesitate a moment. Providence has sent him a friend, and means, and his pride should not be in the way of this offer."
"He is proud," said Mrs. Ridgeley, gravely; "but it is not wholly pride that makes him hesitate."
"Pardon me," said Mrs. Markham, "I don't mean to blame him; I sympathize with even his pride, and admire him for the very qualities that prevented his allowing us to aid him, and I hope those high qualities will never lose a proper influence over him."
The mother was a little more than appeased.
"Am I to read the rest?"
"Certainly."
And she resumed. A little graver she looked at one or two lines, and then the sweet smile and light came back to her face; and she handed back the letter.
"What a treasure to you this son must be," she said; and she again urged her to write to Bart at once, and induce him to accept the kind offer made to him.
Mrs. Ridgeley explained who Miss Aikens was, and her relations to Henry; that Miss Giddings was the daughter of the member of Congress, &c. Mrs. Markham had noticed that Bart spoke of them as "ladies," and not as young ladies, though what mental comment she made upon it was never known.
People in the country go by the almanac, instead of by events, as in cities; and May quickened into June, June warmed into July, and ran on to fervid August. Quiet ruled in the Ridgeley cottage, rarely broken, save when Julia galloped up and made a pleasant little call, had a game of romps with George, a few quick words with Edward; an enquiry, or adroit circumlocution, would bring out Bart's name, which the young lady would hear with the most innocent air in the world. She always had some excuse; she was going, returning to, or from some sick person, or on some kind errand. Once or twice later, young King, of Ravenna, accompanied her; and still later, Mr. Thorndyke was riding with her frequently.
It was observed that while her beauty had perfected, if possible, the character of her face had deepened, and a tenderer light was in her eyes. As the time came for Bart's examination, she carelessly remarked that he would be home soon, and was told that he had decided to take a short course in the Albany law-school, and would go directly from Jefferson; that when he left in the spring, he had determined not to return to Newbury until the end of a year; but that his mother might expect him certainly at that time. Julia was turning over a bound volume of the _New York Mirror_, and came upon a Bristol board, on which was a fine pen-and-ink outline head of Bart. She took it up and asked Mrs. Ridgeley if she might have it. "Certainly," was the answer, "if you wish it," and she carried it away. After leaving the house she discovered on the other side, a better finished and more artistic likeness of herself in crayon, with her hair falling about her neck and shoulders; and surrounding it, two or three outlines of her features in profile, which she recognized by the hair--one of poor Bart's "ships" that had escaped the general burning.
* * * * * Barton decided to avail himself of the kindness of Mr. Windsor, and quietly made his arrangements accordingly. The summer was very pleasant to him. He devoted himself with his usual ardor to his books, but gave much of his leisure to Ida, who began to feel the approach of a calamity that gradually extinguished the light in her eyes. She was already suffering--although not anticipating a serious result--a pressure in the forehead, and a gradual impairing of vision, without pain. Under its shadow, that no medical art could dissipate, she found a wonderful solace in the tender devotion of her newly found brother, who read to her, walked with her, and occasionally rode with her, in all tender, manly ways surrounding her with an atmosphere of kind and loving observances, which she more than repaid, with the strong, healthy and pure womanly influence, which she exercised over him.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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41
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THE INVITATION.
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Late one wondrously beautiful August night, as Bart was returning from a solitary stroll, he was suddenly joined by Sartliff, bare-headed and bare-footed, who placed his hand within his arm, and turning him about, walked him back towards the wood. Bart had not seen him for weeks, and he thought his face was thinner and more haggard, and his eyes more cavernous than he had ever seen them.
"What progress are you making?" asked Bart, quietly.
"I am getting increase of power. I don't know that I need light; I think I want strength. I hear the voices oftener, and they are wonderfully sweeter; I find that they consist of marvelous musical sounds, and I can distinguish some notes; meanings are conveyed by them. If I could only comprehend and interpret them. I shall in time if I can hold out. I find as the flesh becomes more spirit-like, that this power increases. If I only had some fine-fibred soul who could take this up where I must leave it! Barton, you believe God communicates with men through other than his ordinary works?"
"I don't know; I see and hear God in the wondrous symbols of nature; when they say that he speaks directly, I don't feel so certain. I am so made up, that the very nature, the character and quality of the evidence, is unequal to the facts to be proven, and so to produce conviction. If a score of you were to say to me, that in the forest to-day, you saw a fallen and decayed tree arise and strike down new roots, and shoot out new branches, and unfold new foliage and flowers, I would not believe it: Nor, though five hundred men should swear that they saw a grave heave up, and its tenant come forth to life and beauty, would I believe. The quality of the evidence is not equal to sustain the burthen of the fact to be established, and it does not help the matter, that alleged proofs come to me through uncertain historical media. Yet I can't say that I disbelieve. Who can say that there is not within us a religious spiritual faculty, or a set of faculties, that take impressions, and receive communications, not through the ordinary perceptions and convictions of the mere mind--that sees and hears, retains and transmits, loves, hopes and worships, in a spiritual or religious atmosphere of its own; whose memories are superstitions, whose realizations are extatic visions, and whose hopes are the future of blessedness; and that it is through these faculties that religious sentiments are received, transmitted and propagated, and to which God speaks and acts, spirit to spirit, as matter to matter? Who can tell how many sets of faculties are possible to us? We may have developed only a few of the lowest. I sometimes fancy that I feel the rudiments of a higher and finer set within me. Who shall say that I have them not?"
"Go on, Barton; I like to hear you unfold yourself," said Sartliff.
"I can't," said Bart, "I can only vaguely talk about what I so vaguely feel."
"Barton," said Sartliff, "go with me; let me impart to you what I know; perhaps you have a finer and subtler sense than I had. At any rate I can help you. You can be warned by my failures and blunders, and possess yourself of my small gains. I know I have taken some steps. I shall last long enough to place you well on the road. You are silent. Do you think me crazy--mad?"
"No, not that, nor do I think that we have occupied all the fields of human knowledge. We are constantly acquiring a faculty to see new things and to take new meanings from the common and old. Nature has not yet delivered her full speech to man. She can communicate only as he acquires the power to receive. This idea of finding new pathways, and new regions and realms, with new powers, of finding an opening from our day into the more effulgent, with new strange and glorious creatures, with new voices and forms, with whom we may communicate, is alluring, and may all lay within the realm of possibility. I don't say that to dream of it, is to be mad."
"It is possible," said Sartliff with fervor. "I have seen the forms and heard the voices."
"And to what purpose do you pursue these mystical studies and researches."
"Partly for the extacy and glory of the present, mainly for the ultimate good to the races of men, when the new and powerful agencies that come of the wisdom and strength which will be thus acquired, the powers within and about us, are developed and employed for the common good; and man is emancipated from his sordid slavery to the gross and physical of his worst and lowest nature, and when woman through this emancipation takes her real position, glorified, by the side of her glorified companion; when she seeks to be wife and mother, with free choice to be other--what a race will spring from them! Strong, brave, beautiful men, great, radiant, beautiful women, like the first mothers of the race, bringing forth their young, with the same joy and gladness, as that with which they receive their young bridegrooms."
"Go and help me find the way for our common race."
He had turned, and stood with intent eyes burning into the soul of the young man. "I have faith in you. Of all the young men I have met, you have exhibited more capacity to comprehend me than any other, and I am beginning to feel the need of help," said Sartliff, plaintively.
"God alone can help you," said Bart, "I cannot. You believe in this; to me it is a dream, with which my fancy, when idle, willingly toys. I like to talk with you. I sympathise with you; I cannot go with you. I will not enter upon your speculations. Don't think me unkind."
"I don't," said Sartliff, "nor do I blame you. You are young and gifted, and opportunities will come to you; and distinction and fame, and some beautiful woman's love await you, and God bless you." And he walked away.
There was always something about Sartliff that stimulated, but at the same time excited an apprehension in Bart, who regarded him as past recall to healthy life, and he felt a sense of relief when he was alone; but the old, melancholy chords continued to vibrate, and Bart returned to the village under a depression that lingered about him for days.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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42
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ADMITTED.
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At the September term of the Supreme Court, Mr. Ranney presented the certificates and applications for the admission of Case, Ransom, and Bart on the first day, and they were, as usual, referred to a Committee of the whole bar, for examination and report.
The Committee met that evening in the Court room, the Supreme Judges, Wood and Lane, being present.
Old Webb, of Warren, whom Case ought to have sketched in his rough outlines as the senior of the bar, turned suddenly to Bart, the youngest of the applicants, and asked him if a certain "estate could exist in Ohio?"
After a moment's reflection, Bart answered that it could not.
"Why?"
Bart explained the nature and conditions of the estate, and said that one of them was rendered impossible by a statute; and explained how. A good deal of surprise was expressed at this; the statute was called for, and on its being placed in his hands, Bart turned to it, read the law, and showed its application.
Wood said, "Judge Lane, I think this young man has decided your Hamilton Co. case for you."
Some general conversation ensued, and when it subsided, old Webb said, "Well! well! young man, we may as well go home, when we get such things from a law student." And they did not ask him another question.
The examination was over at last. Case had acquitted himself well, and Ransom tolerably. Bart was mortified and disgusted. This was the extent then of the ordeal; all his labor, hard study, and anxiety, ended in this!
The next morning, on the assembling of the Court, the three young men were admitted, sworn in, and became attorneys and counsellors at law, and solicitors in chancery, authorized to practise in all the courts of Ohio. All this was made to appear by the clerk's certificate, under the great seal of the Supreme Court of the State, tied with a blue ribbon, and presented to each of them.
It tended not much to relieve Bart, to know that the question he had so summarily disposed of had much excited and disturbed the legal world of Middle and Southern Ohio; that the best legal minds had been divided on it; and that a case had just been reserved for the court in bane, which turned on this very point.
It was over; he had his diploma, but he felt that in some way it was a swindle.
What a longing came to him to go to Newbury; and he was half mad and wholly sad to think that one face would come to him with the sweet, submissive, reproachful, arch expression, it wore when he forbid its owner to speak, one memorable morning, in the woods and snow; and he found himself wondering if what Ida told him might by any possibility be true; he knew it could not be, and so put it all away.
He took Ida over to Mr. Windsor's for a long day's visit, made a few calls, packed his trunk, bade Miss Giddings, who did not hesitate to express her sorrow at his departure, a regretful good-bye, and the next morning rode to Ashtabula, and there took a steamer down the lake.
I am glad to have him off my hands for six months; and when he falls under them next time, seriously, I will dispose of him.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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43
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JULIA.
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It will be remembered that Greer was a somewhat ambiguous character, about whom and whose movements some suspicions were at times afloat; but these did not much disturb him or interrupt his pleasant relations with the pleasant part of the world.
He was at Jefferson during the first term of the Court while Bart was there, and it so happened that there was a prosecution pending against a party for passing counterfeit money; who finally gave bail and never returned to take his trial; but nobody connected Greer with that matter. He was also there after Bart was admitted, and had an interview with the young lawyer, professionally, which was followed by some consequences to both, hereafter to be mentioned.
Just before this last visit, a man by the name of Myers--Dr. Myers--a young man of fine address and of fair position, was arrested in Geauga for stealing a pair of valuable horses. The arrest created great astonishment, which was increased when it was known that in default of the heavy bail demanded he had been committed to the jail at Chardon. This was followed by the rumor of his confession, in which it was said that he implicated Jim Brown, of Akron, and various parties in other places, and also Greer, and, as some said, Bart Ridgeley, all of whom belonged to an association, many members of which had been arrested. The rumors produced much excitement everywhere, and especially in the south part of Geauga; and the impression was deepened and confirmed by an article in the _Geauga Gazette_, issued soon after Myers was committed. With staring head-lines and exclamation points, it stated that Dr. Myers, since his imprisonment, had made a full confession, which it gave in substance, as above. Bart was referred to as a young law student at Jefferson, and a resident of the south part of the county, who, as was said, had escaped, and it was supposed that he had gone East, where the officers had gone in pursuit. Most of the others had been arrested.
Mrs. Ridgeley had caught something of the first rumor in her far off quiet home; but nobody had told her of Barton's connection with it, nor did her neighbors seem inclined to talk with her about the general subject. As usual, one of the boys went to the Post Office on the day of the arrival of the Chardon paper; and brought in not only that journal, but the rumor in reference to Barton. His mother read and took it all in, and was standing in blank amazement and indignation, when Julia came flashing in, and found her still mutely staring at the article.
"Oh, Mrs. Ridgeley! Mrs. Ridgeley!" exclaimed the aroused girl, seizing her hands; "it is all false--every word of it--about Barton! Every single word is a lie!"
"I know it is; but how can that be made to appear? Men will believe it, if it is false!"
"Never! No one will ever believe evil of him. He is now surrounded by the best and truest of men; and when this wretched Myers is tried, everything will be made clear. I knew you would see this paper, and I came at once to tell you what I know of Barton's connection with Greer. Please listen;" and she told her of the old rumor about them, and of her journey to Ravenna, to see the latter, and showed her his note, addressed to her father.
The quick mind of the elder lady appreciated it as it was stated to her; and another thing, new and sudden as a revelation, came to her; and with tears in her eyes, and a softened and illuminated face, she turned to Julia, a moment since so proud and defiant, and now so humble and subdued, with averted eyes and crimsoned face: "Oh, Julia!" and passed one arm around the slender girl.
"Please! please!" cried her pleading voice, with her face still away. "This is my secret--you will not tell--let him find it out for himself--please!"
"Certainly; I will leave to him the joy of hearing it from you," said the elder, in her inmost soul sympathizing with the younger.
What a deep and tranquil joy possessed the heart of the mother, and with what wonder she contemplated the now conscious maiden! and how she wondered at her own blindness! And so the threatening cloud broke for her: broke into not only a serene peace, but a heartfelt joy and gratitude; and she parted with Julia with the first kiss she had ever bestowed upon her.
At the ensuing fall term of the Geauga Common Pleas, Myers was indicted for horse-stealing. The prosecuting officer refused to make terms with him, and permit him to escape, on condition of furnishing evidence against others, as he had hoped when he made his confession; and when arraigned, he plead not guilty, and upon proper showing, his case was continued to the next term, in January.
A great crowd from all parts of the adjacent country, and many from a distance, had assembled to witness the trial of Myers. The region of Eastern Ohio had, like many new and exposed communities, suffered for years from the occasional depredations of horse thieves. It was supposed that an organization existed, extending into Pennsylvania. The horses taken were traced to the mountain region in that State, where they disappeared; and although Greer and Brown were never before connected with this branch of industry, it was thought that the horses in question, which had been intercepted, were in the regular channels of the trade, which it was hoped, would now be broken up. One noticeable thing at the court was the presence of Greer, who apparently came and went at pleasure. He was cool and elegant as usual, and seemingly unconcerned and a little more exclusive. His being at large was much at variance with the understood programme, and necessitated its reconstruction. Little was said about Bart, and it was apparent that the public mind had returned to a more favorable tone towards him.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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44
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FINDING THE WAY.
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On an early December evening, in a bright, quiet room, at the Delavan House, in Albany, sat Bart Ridgeley alone, thoughtfully and sadly contemplating a manuscript, that lay before him, which ran as follows: "UNIONVILLE, Nov. 27, 1838. " _My Dear Bart_:--Poor Sartliff has, it seems, finally found the way. It was that short, direct, everlasting old way, so crowded, which everybody finds, and nobody loses or mistakes. You told me of your last interview with him, as did he, not long after you left. It seemed to have depressed him. He spoke of you as one who could have greatly aided him, but did not blame you.
"The next time I saw him, I found him much changed for the worse. He was thin and haggard--more so than I had ever seen him. His old hopefulness and buoyancy were gone, and he was given to very gloomy and depressing views of things. He thought he had made great progress, in fact had reached a new discovery, and it was not in the least encouraging.
"He finally concluded that the grand and wondrously beautiful spirits that he seemed to get glimpses of, and whose voices he used to hear, were really convict spirits, or angels, imprisoned on or banished to this earth, for a period of years, or for eternity, for crimes committed in the sun, or some less luminous abode; and I presume are cutting up here, much after their old way. Though it must be conceded that this world is a place of severe punishment.
"He went on to a more depressing view of us mortals, and said he had concluded that our souls were also the souls of beings who had inhabited some more favored region of the universe, also sent here for punishment; and that each was compelled to enter and inhabit a human body, for the lifetime of that body; and to suffer by partaking of all of its wretched, sensual, and degrading vicissitudes; and that whenever the soul is sufficiently punished, the body dies and permits it to escape.
"I suggested that it made no difference where the soul came from, if there was one, nor how many bodies it had inhabited; and that it made against his idea, that the soul was older than the body; for if it was, it would be conscious of that pre-existence. He said that every soul did at times have a consciousness of existence in another and older form, which was very dark from its transgressions. But he took the part of the native body against this alien soul, and felt hurt and grieved that our world was a mere penal colony--a penitentiary for all the scabbed and leprous souls and spirits of the rest of God's creation. It was bad economy; and he grieved over it as a deep and irreparable personal injury.
"This was a month ago; and I never saw him again. He wandered off down into the neighborhood of Erie, where he had many acquaintances, took less care of himself, went more scantily clad, was more abstemious in diet, and more and more disregarded the conditions of human existence. Finally, his mind became as wandering as his body.
"He wanted nothing, asked for nothing, rejected food, and refused shelter, and as often as taken in and cared for, he managed to escape, and wander away, feebly and helplessly, from human association and ministration. He complained to himself that his great mother, Nature, had deserted him, a helpless child, to wander and perish in the wilderness. He said he had gone after her, until weary, starving, and worn, he must lie down and die. He had called after her until his voice had sunk to a wail; and he finally died of a child's heart-broken sense of abandonment and desertion.
"He was found one day, nearly unconscious, with the tears frozen in his eyes, and on being cared for, wailed his life out in broken sobs.
"Let us not grieve that he has found rest.
"I am too sad to write of other things, and you will be melancholy over this for a month.
"CASE."
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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45
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SOME THINGS PUT AT REST.
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At the January term of the Court, the case of Ohio _vs._ Myers, came up; and the defendant failing on his motion to continue, the case was brought on for trial, and a jury was sworn. His principal counsel was Bissell, of Painesville, a man of great native force and talent, and who in a desperate stand-up fight, had no superior at that time in Northern Ohio. He expected to exclude the confession, on the ground that Myers had been induced to make it upon representations that it would be for his advantage to do so; and if this could be got out of the way, he was not without the hope of finding the other evidence of the State too weak to work a conviction.
The interest in the case had not abated, and a great throng of people were in attendance.
Hitchcock, with whom Henry Ridgeley was in company at the time of his death, then an able lawyer, was the prosecuting officer, aided by the younger Wilder, who had succeeded Henry as his partner.
Wilder was a young lawyer of great promise, and was the active man in the criminal cases.
He stated the case to the court and jury, saying among other things, that he would not only prove the larceny by ordinary evidence, but by the confession of the prisoner himself. Bissell dropped his heavy brows, and remarked in his seat, "that he would have a good time doing that."
Wilder called one of the officers who made the arrest, proved that fact, and then asked him the plump question, in a way to avoid a leading form, whether the prisoner made a confession? Bissell objected, on the ground that before he could answer, the defendant had a right to know whether he was induced to make it, by any representations from the witness or others.
Wilder answered, that it did not yet appear that a confession had been made. If it should be shown that one had, it would be then time to discuss its admissibility; and so the court ruled; and the witness answered that Myers did make a full confession. Wilder directed him to state it, Bissell again objected, and although Wilder urged that he had a right to go through with his witness, and leave the other side to call out the inducement, if any, on cross-examination, the court ruled that the circumstances under which the confession was made was a preliminary matter that the defendant had a right to show. When the witness answered to Bissell, that he told Myers after his arrest that they knew all about the larceny, but did not know who his accomplices were, and that if he would tell all about them he would undoubtedly be favored; and that then the defendant told his story. Upon this statement, Wilder cross-examined the witness, and managed to extract several items of the confession, when the court held that the confession was inadmissible.
Myers drew a breath of relief, but Bissell's brow did not clear. He knew that the State had gained all it expected to; it had proved that a confession was made, which was about as bad as the confession itself. Under this cloud, Wilder called his other evidence, which of itself, was very inconclusive, and which, with the added weight that a confession had been made, left much uncertainty as to the result, and Bissell was girding himself for the final struggle. Wilder then called the name of John T. Greer--when the head of Myers dropped, and midnight fell upon the brow of Bissell.
Placidly and serenely, that gentleman answered the call, and took the stand--seemingly the only unconcerned gentleman present. He said that he knew Myers well--had known him for years; that on the morning after the larceny, he saw him and another man, at McMillan's, near Youngstown; that they brought with them a pair of horses, which he described exactly as the stolen horses, and that Myers told him they got them the night before, at Conant's barn in Troy; that he denounced Myers to his face as a horse thief, and threatened to expose him.
This evidence produced a prodigious sensation. Bissell put the witness through a savage cross-examination. In answer to the questions, he said that Myers and himself, and others, belonged to an association, of which Jim Brown was the head, for manufacturing paper currency and coin, and supplying it at various points; had never passed a dollar himself; that he broke with Myers because he was a thief, and no gentleman; that the association had never had any connection with running off horses, &c. "To whom did you first disclose this act of Myers?"
"To a young lawyer at Jefferson, in his private room."
"Who was he?"
"Barton Ridgeley." Great sensation, and men looked at one another.
"Did he belong to your financial association?"
"Never!" Sensation.
"Why did you go to him?"
"I had a little acquaintance with him, and had great confidence in him. I wanted to consult somebody, and I went to him." He went on to say that he consulted him as a lawyer and not as a friend; that when he told Ridgeley of the association, which was drawn out of him by a cross-examination, Ridgeley told him at once, that while he would not use this against the witness, he certainly would against his associates. That soon after Mr. Wade came in, and he found out that Ridgeley had managed to send for him. That Ridgeley then insisted that he should tell the whole story to Mr. Wade, and he did. That Wade called in a United States Deputy Marshal, and induced the witness to make an affidavit, when the Marshal went to Columbus, got warrants, and arrested Brown and others.
He was asked what fee he paid young Ridgeley, and he answered, nothing. He offered him a liberal fee, and he refused it. He understood Ridgeley had gone East, but did not know; nor who furnished him with money.
The prosecution rested.
Wade was present, and Bissell called him; and in answer to Wilder, said he proposed to contradict Greer. Wilder replied, that although he was not entitled to such a privilege, yet he had no objection; and Wade, in the most emphatic way, corroborated Greer throughout. He said that Ridgeley was at that time at the Albany law-school, and would soon be back to answer for himself; and when asked if he was not poor, answered, that friends always came to such young men, with a glance at the bench, where Markham sat with Humphrey. The perfect desperation of his case alone warranted Bissell in calling Wade, with whose testimony the trial closed; and on the verdict of guilty, Myers was sentenced to the Penitentiary for ten years. And for the third or fourth time Barton's acquaintances were disposed to regard him as a hero.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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46
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PRINCE ARTHUR.
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It was not in nature, particularly in young man-nature, that such a creature as Julia should ripen into womanhood without lovers. In her little circle of Newbury, boys and girls loved her much alike, and with few shades of difference on account of sex. No youth of them dreamed of becoming her suitor; not even Barton, whom I have sketched in vain, if it is not apparent that it would not have been over presumption in him, to dream of anything.
Of the numerous, and more or less accomplished young men from other places, who had met and admired her, two had somewhat singled themselves out, as her admirers, both of whom, I fear, had a good way passed the pleasant, though dangerous, line of admiration.
Young King, of Ravenna, a frank, handsome, high-spirited youth, had for a long time been at no pains to conceal his partiality; so far from that, he had sought many occasions to evince in a modest, manly way, his devotion. His observing sister, Julia's warm and admiring friend, had in vain looked wise, lifted her finger, and shaken her warning head at him. He would inevitably have committed himself, had not the high-souled and generous Julia, by her frank, ingenuous woman's way with him, made him see and feel in time the uselessness of a more ardent pursuit; and so content himself with the real luxury of her friendship. The peril to him was great, and if for a time he was not unhappy, he had a grave and serious mood, that lasted many months. She had a real woman's warm, unselfish friendship for him, which has much of the sweetness and all the purity and unselfishness of a sister's love; and all unconscious as she seemed, that he could wish for more or other, she succeeded in placing him in the position of a devoted and trusted friend.
Thorndyke, the fourth or fifth of aristocratic generations, of a good old colonial strain, elegant to a fault, and refined to uselessness, of tastes and pursuits that took him out of the ordinary atmosphere; languid more for the want of a spur, than from lack of nerve and ability; and unambitious for want of an object, rather than from want of power to climb, was really smothered by the softness and luxury of his surroundings, rather than reduced by the poverty and feebleness of his nature; had really the elements of manly strength and elevation, and had misfortune or poverty fallen upon him, early, he would undoubtedly have developed into a man of the higher type, like the first generations of his family.
Like every man he was struck as much as he could be, with Julia, and when he saw her in the rudeness of pioneer surroundings, he began by pitying her, and finally ended by pitying himself. When it first occurred to him to carry her out of the woods, to the actual world, and real human life, he was not a little surprised. She was not born in Boston, nor did her father's family date back to the flood, but her mother's did. Indeed, that came over with it.
In revolving this grave matter, the only factors to be considered, were Mr. Thorndyke's own judgment, taste and inclinations, and Julia has matured in these pages, to a small purpose, or Mr. T. was much less a man than I have supposed, if these parties should not finally unite in consenting to the alliance. Of course, Miss Julia could be had, both of herself and parents, for the asking. But his fastidious notions could alone be satisfied with a gentlemanly course of gradually warming and more devoted attentions, with all the forms and observances, so far as the disadvantages of her surroundings would permit. It was some time in the last summer, that he had made up a definite judgment in the premises under which he commenced his lambent action. During the autumn he often met King at her father's, and the young men occasionally made up small parties with Julia and Nell or some other young ladies for rides and excursions. Towards winter, King was less at Newbury; and as winter approached, Mr. Thorndyke seemed left to monopolize the time and society of Julia. So gracious, frank and open was her invariable manner to him, that he could not for a moment doubt that after a gentlemanly lapse of time, and a course of rides, calls, walks and teas, he might in his own way dispose of the matter.
His splendid gray, "West Wind," was no mean companion for Prince, and many a gallop they had together, and Thorndyke was a gentlemanly rider and drove well, and during the winter he often drove Julia out in a single sleigh.
In a moment of weakness it occurred to him that West Wind and Prince would go well in double harness, and he proposed to Julia to match them for a drive.
"What!" exclaimed that young lady, "put Prince in harness? make a draught horse of him?"
"With West Wind--certainly. Why not?"
"Because I don't choose it. There is but one man in the world who shall drive Prince, and I am sure he will not want to."
"I presume Judge Markham don't care to drive him?"
"I presume he don't;" laughing and blushing.
That was the end of that, and not overly pleasing to the gentleman. It was apparent, that she was disinclined to match the horses.
And March was coming, and Julia was sweet and arch and gracious, and at times as he came to know her better, he thought a little grave and pensive. This was certainly a good sign; and somehow, he found himself now often watching and calculating the signs, and somehow again they did not seem to deepen or change, or indicate much. He could not on the whole convince himself that he had made much progress, except that he should ask her at some time and she would accept him, and he was certainly approaching that time. The matter in hand had become absorbing--very: and he knew he was very much interested in it; and the laugh of the beautiful girl was as rich, musical and gay as ever, though he some how fancied, that it was a little less frequent; and once or twice something had been dropped about some day early in April, at which there was a little flutter in Julia. What could it be? did she think he was slow? He would speak, and put an end to it. But he didn't, and somehow he could not. He might do it any day; but did not. At any event, before that April, something should be asked and answered--but how answered?
The sleigh was left under cover, the roads hardened in the March sun and wind, and several horseback excursions had been made. Toward the close of the month, on their return one day, Thorndyke, who had been unusually silent, suddenly asked Julia if she would be at leisure that evening, at about eight; and might he call? She answered that she would be at home, and as he knew, he was quite at liberty to call. He said that he had something quite particular which he wished to say to her, and that of course she must know what it was.
"Indeed! If I must know what it is, you must, by the same rule, know what I will say in reply. Let us consider the thing said and answered, and then your business call can be one of pleasure."
"I had hoped that it might possibly be one of pleasure."
The girl, looked grave for a moment, and then turning in her best manner to her escort-- "Mr. Thorndyke, I think I had better tell you the little story of my horse. If we ride slow, I will have time before we reach the gate." With a little increase of color, "It is not much of a story, but you may see a little moral in it."
"Certainly, I shall be glad to hear it. No doubt it will interest me."
"You see his name is Prince."
"I hear that is his name."
"You will see presently that is not his whole name."
"Silvertail?"
"Silver-sticks! Please attend, sir. His name is Prince Arthur."
"Named after a gentleman who lived a few years ago; who dined off 'a table round,' and who was thought to be unfortunate in his lady."
"No, sir. He was named for a man who may have been called after that personage; and whose life shows that the old legend may have been true, and this Arthur is not unfortunate in his lady," with a softening voice, and deepening blush on her averted face.
"Have you never heard the story of the lost girl? who less than a year ago, bewildered and distracted, wandered away into the endless woods, in the night, mid darkness and storm; and who, o'ercome with fright and weariness and cold, lay down to die, and was covered over with snow; and that a young man with strength and courage, was conducted by God to her rescue, and carried her over an icy stream, and revived and restored her to her father and mother. Did you ever hear of that?" Her voice was low, deep, and earnest. He bowed.
"My father gave him this horse, and he gave him to me, and I gave him that young man's name. Prince is a prince among horses, and that youth is a prince among men," proudly, and with increasing color.
"I thought that young man's name was Bart Ridgeley," very much disgusted.
"Arthur Barton Ridgeley. Prince bears his first name, and he bears me;" lowering her voice and turning away.
"A very pleasant arrangement, no doubt," querulously.
"Very pleasant to me," very sweetly.
"It seems to me I have heard something else about this Arthur Barton Ridgeley, Esq.; and not quite so much to his credit." Oh dear! But then he was hardly responsible.
"I presume you have. And you heard it with the same ears with which you hear everything disconnected with your precious self. Were their acuteness equal to their length, you would also have heard, that in this, as in everything else, he was true and noble." The voice was shaken a little by two or three emotions, and tears sprang to her eyes and dried there.
When Thorndyke recovered, they had reached Judge Markham's gate; and springing unaided from her saddle, Julia turned to him with all her grace and graciousness fully restored.
"Many thanks for your escort, Mr. Thorndyke. I shall expect you at eight."
At about that hour, a boy from Parker's brought her the following note: "THURSDAY EVENING. " _Miss Markham_:--Pardon, if you can, my rudeness of this afternoon. Kindly remember the severity of my punishment. Believe me capable of appreciating a heroic act; and the womanly devotion that can alone reward it. From my heart, I congratulate you.
"With the profoundest respect.
"W. THORNDYKE."
As she read, a softer light, almost a mist, came into the eyes of the young girl.
"I fear I have done this man a real injustice."
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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47
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THE TRIAL
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The March term of the Court at Chardon was at the beginning of its third and last week. The important case in ejectment of Fisk _vs_. Cole, was reached at the commencement of the second, and laid over for the absence of defendant's counsel. This directly involved the title of Cole to his land; a title that had been loosely talked about, and generally supposed to be bad.
In the fall of 1837, a stranger by the name of Fisk appeared in the country, placed a deed of the land in question on record; gave Cole notice to quit, commenced his suit, and leisurely proceeded to take his evidence in Conn, and Mass., and get ready for the trial. Bart's trial of Coles's first case had rendered the latter an object of interest; and it was generally felt that the new case was one of great oppression and hardship; and popular opinion and sympathy were wholly with Cole, and all the more so, as the impression was that he would lose his land.
The people of Newbury, however, really believed that if Bart would return and take the case in hand, in some way, he would win it; but the Court had commenced, the case was called, and he still lingered in the East. In the spring before he left Newbury, he had spent much time in examining the case, looking up the witnesses, and with such aid as his brother, the Colonel, could give, their names had been obtained and they were all subpoenaed to attend. Among them were two or three old hunters and soldiers, on the Western frontier.
Ford was in the case, and had made up the issue, and at the trial, Bart had intended to secure the aid of Wade or Hitchcock. Except himself, no one knew much of the case, and none had confidence that Cole would prevail in the trial, and a general feeling of despondency prevailed as to his prospect. On the afternoon of the third Monday, Bart reached Chardon, from Albany, secured a room, assembled his witnesses, talked up the matter with the old hunters, and by his quiet, modest confidence, and quick, ready knowledge of all the details, he at once put a new aspect upon the defence. Wade was also in Chardon, and on that evening, Bart laid his programme before him and Ford, who were not more than half convinced, and it was arranged that Bart should go forward with the case, to be backed and sustained by his seniors.
On the next morning he made his first appearance in Court, and in person, air and manner, he had become one to arrest attention, in a crowd, such as thronged the court room; and when his name transpired, he was at once identified as a prominent person in the detection and arrest of Brown & Co., whose name had become widely known; and men scanned him with unusual interest. Some noticed and commented upon the brown moustache, that shaded the rather too soft and bland mouth; and observed the elegant tone of his dress, which, when it was examined, resolved itself rather into the way his clothes were worn. Ford introduced him to the lawyers present, with whom his quiet, modest manner deepened the impression made by his person. As he took his seat, his eye fully met the eager gaze of Judge Markham, from the bench. Bart felt the earnest, anxious look of the Judge, and the Judge thought he saw a shadow of sadness in the frank eyes of Bart.
A case on trial ran until late in the afternoon, when Fisk _vs_. Cole was called, was ready, and a jury sworn. Mr. Kelly, of Cleveland, appeared for the plaintiff, a very accomplished lawyer and a courteous gentleman. He produced the record of the old Conn. Land Co., an allotment and map of the lands showing that the tract in dispute was originally the property of one John Williams. He then made proof of the death of Williams, and that certain parties were his heirs-at-law; and produced and proved a deed from these to the plaintiff. This made what lawyers call a paper title, when the plaintiff rested his case.
For the defendant, Barton said he would produce and prove a deed from John Williams, junior, only child of Williams, mentioned by the plaintiff, to the defendant, directly, dated January, 1816, under which he took possession of the land in January, 1817; and that he also found a man in possession of the premises, who had possessed and claimed the land for years, and whose right he purchased. It would thus appear, whatever might be said of his written title, that he had complete right by possession, adverse to the plaintiff, for twenty years.
"You will do well if you sustain that claim," said Kelly, incredulously.
"I shall labor for your commendation," was Bart's pleasant reply.
The deed was proven, as well as the relationship of John and John, Jr. Bart also produced a book of the Probate records of Geauga County, which he said contained a record of the administration of one Hiram Fowler, which he might want to refer to, for a date, thereafter, and if the Court would permit, he would refer to, if it became necessary. He wished the record to be considered in evidence, for what it was competent to prove.
"Certainly," from the Court, who made a note of it.
He then proved that Cole left Massachusetts early in the spring of 1817, but failed to show when he reached Ohio, whether in 1817, or 1818. One man remembered to have seen Hiram Fowler at work for him on a tree fence, along the back line of it, during the summer of his arrival on the land. He also made proof, that at a very early day, tree fences were about at least three sides of the land, thus forming a cattle range, and evidencing possession and occupancy. He then called McConough, of Bainbridge, and men bent eagerly forward to gaze at the old Indian hunter, who had been a sharp-shooter on the ill-fated "Lawrence," in Perry's sea fight, off Put-in-Bay, and who was also with Gen. Harrison at the Thames; a quiet, compact, athletic, swarthy man, a little dull and taciturn. He said he was first on the ground in 1810 or 1811, and found a man by the name of Basil Windsor, who lived in a small cabin by the spring, near which he had then two small apple trees. He was there again, with John Harrington, in 1816. They drove a herd of elk through an opening, into and through Basil's yard, at the south side, and back into the woods north, until they came to a tree fence, when they turned east, and were headed off by another hedge, and the elk were too tired to get over; and there in the angle they killed two or three, when it came on dark. That Harrington lit a fire, staid by the slaughtered elk through the night, to keep the wolves from devouring them, and that he, McConough, went and staid with Basil. That Basil was a sort of hermit, who lived in the woods and kept two or three cows. That on their way to Court a few days ago, he and Harrington went to the premises of Cole, and found his house near the old Basil spring, and that one of the apple trees was still standing there. The other had been recently cut down.
Harrington, a still more celebrated hunter and pioneer, and who furnished a good idea of old Leatherstocking, and who was with Winchester at the battle of River Raisin, from which he escaped, and was one of Harrison's scouts, had been often at Basil Windsor's. Hunters often found shelter there. He was there both before and after the war; and he fully corroborated McConough.
Old Bullock was then called, a heavy-framed, sluggish giant, of that strong, old-fashioned type of head and face, now nearly out of date. He, too, had served in the army, and was a famous hunter and trapper.
He knew Basil, a man who avoided others, and who had met with misfortunes "down country." "He had hunted and trapped all through the woods about him, and knew of his having had fences to confine his cows. Knew Cole; he came in in 1817, 18 or 19, couldn't tell which. Cole showed him his deed; went with him to find his land, and found it was the same on which Basil was living. Went with him to see Basil, who thought it was hard. He said that the land was his'n. He had a hundred and sixty acres; showed no deed or writin's. Cole finally bought him out--his right, and 'betterments;' and gave him a horse and harness, and we went down to Square Punderson's, to git writin's made, and he wa'n't to home, and none was made. Basil took the horse and left, and Cole moved into the old cabin. I knew about the slash fences, and ketched a spotted fawn once, hid in one on 'em. I used to cross over by the big maples, by the spring run, where Coles's two children were buried, to go to my traps."
Bullock was put under a sharp cross-examination, but his story was not shaken. He had a plenty of good-natured, lazy force, and took care of himself. A witness brought in a short section of one of the apple trees, which had twenty-nine rings showing its age, which made a sensation.
Several other witnesses swore that when they were boys, they used to hunt for cattle, on the bottoms, to the north of Cole's land, and often got on to the old tree fences, to listen for the cow-bells. And Bart rested his case.
One branch of this defence looked ugly. The defendant had not clearly proven that he in person took possession of the land in time to perfect his title by adverse possession. But he had shown another man in possession, of some of the property, at least, and claiming it, and he had purchased this right, whatever it was, had gone in under him, and so succeeded to his possession, and right, if he had any.
This took the plaintiff by surprise, and when the defendant rested, he and his counsel were on the alert to meet it. A note came in from the outside, and the plaintiff and his counsel retired under leave of the Court, for consultation. Meanwhile Judge Markham and the President, who had taken much interest in the case, engaged in an earnest conversation. Then Judge Markham came down from the bench, and calling Bart to him, shook him warmly by the hand, and introduced him to Judge Humphrey, and his associates. All of which the jury observed.
Upon resuming the case, the plaintiff produced his depositions, and proved that the defendant's grantor, John Williams, Junior, was the reputed natural son of Williams, of the Land Company, &c.; also called witnesses to show that Cole came into the county in 1818. An attempt was then made to impeach Bullock, which failed. Ward was then put on the stand, and swore that he met Basil Hall, on a certain time, who told him that he had no claim, right or title to the land whatever. He also swore that he saw Hiram Fowler at work, mending the tree fence, on the north, the summer that Cole came in.
Bart, who had evinced rare skill in the examination of his own witnesses--a more difficult thing, by the way, than to cross-examine those of an adversary--put him through a sharp and stinging cross-examination. Under pretence of testing his memory, and of showing bias, he took him over the whole course, and it appeared that if he ever had the conversation he claimed with Basil, it must have been after his sale to Cole; and got from him such damaging statements, that it could be fairly claimed to the jury that the whole case was prosecuted in the interest of Ward. If so, this would exclude his testimony wholly. This was in the dark legal days, when not only were parties excluded from giving evidence, but a pecuniary interest in the result of the suit to the value of one mill, would render a man incompetent as a witness.
Ward had not expected to appear as a witness at all, and though a shrewd man, he came upon the stand not well knowing the legal ground he was upon; and the questions came so thick upon each other, that they fairly took his breath. If plaintiff objected to a question, it was at once withdrawn, and another instantly put, so that he was rather confused, than aided, by his counsel's interference.
It was certainly a relief to both Kelly and Ward, when the latter, tattered and battered, was permitted, with the ironical thanks of Bart, to retire; and the plaintiff's rebutting evidence closed. Bart called two or three to sustain Bullock, and rested also. This was near the close of Wednesday.
Mr. Kelly then arose, and delivered the opening of the final argument to the jury, contenting himself with presenting his own case. He only glanced at the case of defense, and said he would reserve full argument on this, as he might, until he had heard from the other side. As Bart arose to commence, the Court said: "Mr. Ridgeley, we will hear you in the morning. Mr. Sheriff, adjourn the Court until to-morrow morning."
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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48
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THE ADVOCATE.
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At the opening of the Court on Thursday, the court room was crowded. The interest in the case was general, and the character of the facts, and principal witnesses for the defense, was such as appealed powerfully to the memories and early associations of the people, and there was an earnest desire to hear the speech of the young advocate, whose management of the case had so far, won for him the heartiest admiration.
When the jury had answered to their names, "Mr. Ridgeley, proceed with your argument," said Judge Humphrey. The young man rose, bowed to the Court and jury, and stood silent a moment, with his eyes cast down, and it was at first thought on his rising for his speech, that he was laboring under embarrassment. When he raised his eyes, however, embarrassed as he certainly was, and commenced with a low sweet voice, it was discovered that his faltering was due mainly to the emotions of sensibility. Nature had been liberal in bestowing many of the qualifications of a great advocate upon him. He had a strong compelling will, when he chose to exercise it, which in the conflicts of the bar often prevails, and courage of a chivalrous cast, which throws a man impetuously and audaciously upon strong points, and enables him to gain a footing by the boldness and force of his onset. Barton was one to lead a forlorn hope, or defend a pass single handed, against a host. Without something of this quality, a great advocate is impossible.
With a warm, poetic imagination, Nature had given him quick perceptive powers, and the faculty of expressing his thoughts without apparent effort, in simple, strong language, as well defined, and sharply cut as a cameo. Beyond this, and better than all, was a tender, sympathetic sensibility; which, if it sometimes overmastered him, made him the master of others. The commonest things in his hands took the motion and color of living things. It was not the mere sensuous magnetism of powerful physical nature; but it excited the higher intellectual sympathies, which in turn awoke and captivated the reasoning and reflective organs, that found themselves delightfully conducted along a natural and logical course, that led them unconsciously to inevitable conclusions and convictions, ere the danger was perceived, or an alarm was sounded.
On the present occasion, he had not been on his feet five minutes ere it was felt that a real power, of an unusual order, was manifesting itself.
The case was not one framed or arranged with any vulgar reference to a forensic display. Cases never will get themselves up for any such occasion; and if the lawyer waits for such a case, he will die unknown. Cases spring out of dry, hard contentions, with nothing but vulgar surroundings; and it is to these, that the real advocate applies himself, breathes upon them the breath of genius and creative power, and clothes them with life, and interest, and beauty, endows them with his own soul and imagination, and lifts them from the level of the common to the height of the remarkable, the unusual, and sometimes of the wonderful; and endeavors to establish between them, and a jury and himself, the bonds of intense sympathy, upon which their emotions and sensibilities will come and go, as did the angels on the dream-ladder of the patriarch.
In the advocate's hour of strength and glory, the formulas of the law burst their mouldy cerements and leap forth into life, tender and beautiful to protect, or awful to warn or punish. Mysteries are unfolded, secrets reveal themselves, hidden things are proclaimed, and courts and juries, awed and abashed, yet elevated and inspired, accept and act upon his conclusions as infallible. For one hour he touches the pinnacle of human achievement.
After all, the effectiveness of the advocate is not so much in what he says, as in the way he says it. One man with real strength arises outside, and batters and bangs with real power, deals forcible blows, and yet does not carry his point; while another, with less intellect, gets up within the charmed circle of the sympathies, by the warm, human side of a jury, whom they don't think of resisting, and could not if they tried.
The speaker usually rises a little outside of the subject, on a sort of neutral ground, and Bart made the transit of this, naturally and simply. He graphically explained to the jury those legal phantoms, John Doe and Richard Roe; how Richard was always maltreating and dispossessing John, and how John was always going to law with Dick, and was hence an immense favorite with lawyers; and how, when Dick is sued, he always, having got up a muss, notifies the actual party in possession, and who ought to have been sued; tells him he must look out for himself, and hurries off to find where John has squat himself into other property; and thereupon he thrusts him out again, and so on. It was a fiction invented by the English lawyers to try the right of two parties to the possession of real estate; because they could do it in no other way, and the 4th of July had not freed us from this relic of antiquity. The issue here was, whether Fisk had a better right to the possession of this land, than had Cole; and whatever did not in some way help to enlighten them on that issue, had no business to be said at all.
In a few happy strokes, he sketched the defendant buying this land, packing up, bidding adieu to the dear down-country home, and his toilsome journey into the woods, arrival, and purchase, and poor, hard life of toil and deprivation: here was his all. He sketched the plaintiff as a well or ill-to-do gentleman, of a speculative turn of mind, whose eye coveted the rich bottom-lands of the defendant; and finding him helpless and poor, searched out the weak place in his title, hunted up obscure relatives, and procured for a song sung by themselves, their signatures to a deed of property of which they had never heard; he had proven that John Williams, Junior, son of John Williams, Senior, was born out of wedlock, had gone grubbing back into forgotten burying-places, and disinterred the dead, searched out the weakness of their lives; had raked out a forgotten scandal, carefully gathered it up in its rottenness, and had poured it out, before the jury; and the frailty and infamy of an unhappy woman, and the crime of one wretched man, were the sole virtue and strength of his case--sole source of his title to the land in dispute. And the plaintiff demanded that the law in its honor should now rob poor Cole of his homestead, and of the graves of his children, that John Fisk--or rather, Sam Ward--might possess that to which he had just the same moral right, that Dr. Myers had to the horses he stole. And this learned Court, and gentlemen of the jury, pioneers in these receding woods, are to be the instruments of this transfer.
The language was simple and plain, the imagery bold and striking, and the closing sentences were pronounced with great fervor. The jury shrank from the issue, which might have a possible conclusion, and looked eagerly for any escape, as jurors will.
The young advocate clearly opened out the nature of the defence of adverse possession, and the philosophy upon which it rested; and explained that the defendant, to meet the plaintiff's paper case, must show that he and those under whom he claimed, had been in the open, continued, and notorious possession of the property for twenty years, before suit was brought, claiming to be the owners. This the defendant was to show, at the peril of destruction; and in a few happy sentences he brought the jury to feel an intense anxiety that he should succeed.
Then he turned back the years, blotted out the highways, re-planted the forests, till the court house dissolved, and a wondrous maple wood crowned the hill on which it stood. And so back, till the Indians returned, and elk and panthers roamed at will. Then he pointed out a sorrow-stricken, moody, brooding man, seeking a "lodge in the vast wilderness," hunting the spring, and building his shanty, making his clearing, and planting a few apple seeds, brought from his old home; and picking up the section of the tree trunk, he read off from its end, "twenty-nine years ago!"
He sketched in rapid, natural lines, the life of the recluse, the necessities of his situation, his keeping cows, and the means of restricting their range; dwelt upon the evidence of the tree fences, and argued that the fact that two of them were used for that purpose, was conclusive that the other sides were also fenced, for without them no enclosure could exist. And he referred to the well known universal custom of that early day.
Lord! how those old and somewhat mythical tree fences grew, and came out under his hands! The hunters had herded elk in their angles; bears had been trapped in their jungles; the doe hid her fawn in their recesses; wolves and foxes had found lairs in them; birds had built nests in them; men in search of strayed cattle had climbed upon them to listen for the tinkling bell; balm and thyme, wild sun-flowers and celandine had made them fragrant with perfume, and bright with color.
Basil Hall went to that spring, and built and occupied, because he owned it. His very settlement and occupancy was a proclamation of ownership--an assertion of right--the most satisfactory, and so the Court would say. Here he read from the Ohio Reports, to show that a parol claim, without any written color of title, was sufficient to make the claim. He then referred to the evidence of Bullock, that Hall did by word claim such right; that the claim was acknowledged by Cole, who bought and paid for it. If Hall had been without claim of right, Cole would have turned him out; but he acknowledged it, bought, got it, and held it. The word of Ward could not be taken; he was interested; if taken, it could not be believed; if believed, it proved nothing, for the admission of Hall to him, that he had no right, was made after Hall had sold out, and hence not evidence against the purchaser, all of which he forcibly illustrated; and the proposition was conceded to be law. He claimed that this defence under the purchase from Hall, was perfect in itself.
His defence of Bullock from the attack on him, was forcible and beautiful. The old man was a hunter, had been a soldier, etc., and the unforgotten Indian battles of the recent war flashed before the jury, and all the sylvan romance of a hunter's life was reproduced as by magic.
In the second place he contended that Cole made an absolute defense on his claim of title under his deed; no matter though John Williams, Junior, was the bastard of a bastard; his deed was good to make a claim of title under, by the common law of England, and that of every State of the United States; and he read authorities to the Court.
He then showed pretty conclusively that Cole left Connecticut in the spring of 1817, and was not a year and two months on the road; that he came in in 1817, and not in 1818; and this, he said he would demonstrate. John Fowler, Hiram Fowler's son, had sworn positively that his father worked for Cole, repairing the fence on the north. Ward swore to the same; he had told this one bit of truth by some unaccountable accident; so that the plaintiff had also proven that Hiram Fowler had worked for Cole on this land, and hence Cole was in possession of it in the lifetime of Fowler. When did Fowler die?
"Now," said Bart, "I will read from this probate record, already put in evidence, but not read," and he opened and read from the record of the Court, begun and held in the court house at Chardon, for the county of Geauga, commencing April 17, 1818, the appointment of an administrator on the estate of "Hiram Fowler, late deceased, of the township of Newbury, in said county," and closed the book with a clap. "Thus this record of absolute verity declares that Hiram Fowler had died before April, 1818, and the plaintiff and defendant both prove that he was alive, after Cole came into this State. Beyond the possibility of doubt then, Cole came to the possession of this land in 1817, and his title is perfect in law, equity and morality."
When he closed this part of his case, a murmur almost of open applause ran through the densely packed house. Here he rested the argument.
In a rapid _resume_ of the case, he seemed to have stumbled upon the two little grass-grown graves of Cole's children, up under the old maples. He paused, hesitated, faltered, and stopped, tears came to his eyes, and his lips quivered. No art could have produced this effect, and a sob broke from many in the court room. Suddenly resuming, he finished his grouping in a saddened voice, and paused for a moment, sending his eager glance through the court room, till it finally rested on the face of Sam Ward. Looking at him, in half a dozen sentences, he pilloried him for the scorn and derision of the jury; and then turning to them, in a voice of wonderful sweetness, half sad and regretful, he committed the case to them, and sat down.
A great hum like that of swarming bees, ran through the court house, and men who had looked often into each other's eyes, looked again, with a joyous sense of relief.
During some parts of his speech, which occupied an hour and a half, men at times leaned from all parts of the room towards him, open-eyed and open-mouthed. At others they swayed gently to and fro, like tree tops in a breeze; and when he sat down, the oldest at the bar--the President on the bench--felt that it was among the best speeches they had ever heard, if not the best. The youthfulness of the orator of course enhanced its effect. It had some faults of redundancy, both of words and imagery, but its tone and manner were admirable. At times his delivery was very rapid and vehement, but his voice, always rich and full, never broke, or seemed strained; while in the moments of excitement, every nerve and fibre of his form quivered with the intensity of his emotion. His form was lithe and elastic, and admitted of easy, rapid and forcible action, which was never more than was allowable to one of his passionate temperament.
When he closed, almost everybody supposed the case was ended. Wade arose with a radiant face, and said the defense rested the argument on that which had just been delivered.
Kelly was taken by surprise again, both by the quality and force of Bart's speech, and the submission of the case. The first carried him off his feet, and he hoped to recover during the delivery of another on the same side. He was a good chancery and real estate lawyer, but he was not the man to reply to Barton's argument. He followed him, however--that is, he spoke after him, and on the other side, for a half hour, and submitted the case.
The Court gave the case to the jury on the law, as the defense claimed it. Indeed there was no dispute about the law. He explained fully and clearly the case, which arose on the defense; and saying, in a very graceful and gracious way, that the merits of the case had been presented with a force and beauty rarely equalled, and which might tend to aid the jury in coming to their conclusion, he submitted it to them, and took a recess for dinner.
At the recess, the lawyers crowded about Bart to congratulate him for his defense, among whom Kelly was the foremost. Judge Markham came up, and with moisture in his eyes, took him by both hands and drew him away to Judge Humphrey, who complimented him in the highest terms, and insisted upon his dining with him, which invitation Bart accepted. The Judge was as much taken with his modest, quiet, gentlemanly manners, and quick, happy wit, as with his splendid speech in the court room. The fact was, his exertions had fully awakened his intellectual forces, and they were all in the field, armed and with blades drawn. He could not eat, and never drank, save water or milk; and now between the two Judges, and surrounded by lawyers, with a glass of milk and a plate of honey, petted and lionized for the moment, he gave himself up to sparkling and brilliant answers to the numerous questions and remarks addressed to him, and showed that, whatever draft had been made upon him, he had plenty of resources in reserve.
Upon a return to the court house, at half past one, the jury, who had made up and sealed their verdict, were called; it was opened and read, and as anticipated, was for the defendant. This announcement was received with scarcely suppressed applause. The verdict was recorded by the clerk, and in due time followed by the judgment of the Court, and so ended Fisk _vs_. Cole. Cole went out of the court room, with one exception, the most observed man in the crowd.
Very naturally Barton and his last performance was the common theme of conversation in the region round about for many days. All over Newbury, as witnesses and other spectators returned, the whole thing was talked over, with such various eulogies as suited the exaggerated estimate his various admirers put upon his merits.
"What do you say now?" said Uncle Jonah to Uncle Josh, as the two had just listened to an account of the trial, in Parker's bar room.
"It does beat hell amazingly!" answered that accomplished rhetorician.
"What did I tell you?" said Jo, at Jugville, to Uncle Cal, and that set.
"Oh, I was there," said Uncle Cal. "I always said, ever since the trial here, that he had the stuff in him. But he went beyond anything I ever hearn," and Uncle Cal relapsed into admiring silence.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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49
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WAITING.
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Julia sat alone that evening in an elegantly, and, for that day, luxuriously furnished room, around which she had many times glanced, and in which her own hands had several times arranged and re-arranged the various articles. There was a bed in the room, which was large and airy, a vase filled with wild and hot-house flowers; yet it was evidently not a lady's room, and unoccupied save at this moment by the fair Julia, who with an abundance of color in her cheeks and lips, and a liquid light in her eyes, was nevertheless pensive and seemingly not quite at ease. She held two letters in her hands, which she many times re-read. They ran as follows: "CHARDON, Wednesday P.M. "_My Dear Wife_:--Barton reached here on Monday P.M. I did not think it best to call upon him, and did not see him till yesterday morning in the court room, when, without looking me in the face save for a second, he bowed to me. He had so changed that I did not at first recognize him, and did not acknowledge his bow as I would. Later, when his case was called and he came to make a remark to the court, he looked me in the eye, calmly and steadily, and I thought I could see in his face regret, the shadow of suffering, and a very kindly, but sad expression, which seemed almost like a revelation.
"He is much changed and improved. The old boyish recklessness and dash is gone. His face is thinner, has much character, and is disfigured, as I think, with a moustache, which gives him the look of a foreigner. He is, of course, well dressed, and has the quiet, high-bred air of a thorough gentleman.
"Judge Humphrey is immensely taken with him, and he has so far managed his case admirably, and like an experienced lawyer. We cannot keep our eyes from him, but watch every word and movement with great interest. Though Wade and Ford are with him, he tries the case alone, thus far.
"I shall see him--if he will see me--as of course he will, the moment he is free from his case.
"Of course you will show this to Julia.
"Ever yours, EDWARD."
"CHARDON, Thursday P.M. "_My Dear Wife:_--I cannot in sober language express my astonishment and admiration for Barton's masterly speech this forenoon. As much as I expected from him, I was completely taken by surprise. Judge Humphrey is unbounded in his praises of him; but I will tell you about all this when I return.
"At the recess, among others I went to congratulate him, which was the second time I had been where I could give him my hand. He held out both of his, and seemed unable to speak. As soon as he could extricate himself from the ovation, he went with me to Judge Humphrey, who took him to dine with us. His conversation at the dinner table was more brilliant than his speech. He ate nothing but a little honey, and drank a glass of milk. I confess I was a little alarmed at some of his sallies.
"On our way back to court, I observed he began to grow serious, and I arranged to see him as soon as his case was at an end. The jury returned a verdict for Cole, on the coming in after dinner, and that case, thanks to Bart, is finally ended.
"After this, I left the bench and was joined by Bart. It was difficult for him to escape from the crowd who followed him out; when he did, he joined me, and we walked off down the hill toward Newbury. Bart was evidently depressed. The re-action had come; the great strain of the last three days was removed, and the poor boy was sad and melancholy.
"We went on in silence, I not knowing just how to commence. "' Judge Markham,' said he, turning frankly to me, 'you know I am a born fool, and just now I feel like breaking entirely down, and crying like a woman. For these last four years I have lived utterly alone, confiding nothing to any one, and I am too weak to go so, always.'
"Oh, how I wished you had been there, with your sweet woman's heart, and voice, and tact. " 'My dear boy,' said I, 'if there is anything in the wide world that I can say and do_ only let me know what it is. I am more anxious to help you, than you are to be helped, if I only may.' " 'I don't know how I ought to meet you, Judge Markham. You wrote me a manly letter, full of kindness, and I answered--God knows what--I was so wretched.' " 'I could not blame you,'I said, 'I am much in fault towards you, but it was from my not knowing you. I regret it very much.' " 'I don't know,' he answered, 'that you should say that to me. I feel sorry and hurt that anybody should make apologies to me. Why should you have known me"? I did not not know myself, and don't now. I know I can not hate or even dislike anybody, and I always liked you, and I do now.' " 'Barton,' said I, 'God bless you! you never can have cause of complaint against me or mine again: only give us your confidence, and trust us.' " 'I am sure you are very kind,' said he, 'and it is very pleasant to hear it said. I want to see Mrs. Markham, and in some way say how grateful I am for her kind expressions towards me, and she and--and you all, have been very kind to my poor dear mother for the past year.' " 'You would not let us be kind to you,' said I. "'No. How could I?' he answered. " 'I don't know,'said I. 'I only hope now that there may be no more misunderstandings; that you will now let us--will give Julia an opportunity, at least to express her gratitude to you, and that we may all unite in so doing.'
"He was silent a moment, and then went on as if thinking aloud: "'Julia! Good Heavens! how can I ever meet her! --Pardon me; I mean Miss Markham. I shall certainly call upon the ladies at a very early day,' he said, coldly. 'The fact is, Judge Markham,' continued he, 'I have been under a little strain, and I am not used to it. I come back here near home, and see so many old Newbury people, who make me forget how they used to dislike me, and all the old, and all the more recent things, come back upon me so strongly, and I find I am as weak and boyish and foolish as ever.'
"He did not say much more--he finally asked about you, and after much hesitation, about Julia. It is so easy to see that his heart is full of her, that I could not help feeling almost wretched for him. I then asked him when he was going to Newbury. He thought of going to-morrow in the stage, but said some parties wanted to see him Friday evening. He has finally consented to wait and ride down with us on Saturday, after the term closes.
"Now, my dear wife, come and bring Julia, if you think it best. I confess I wish that they might meet at an early day--but be governed by your better judgment in this--and you will show her this letter of course.
"Ever, with love and kisses to you both, EDWARD."
"Mother," she said afterwards, "let me suggest that you send up a carriage to-morrow evening, which Papa Judge may take as an invitation to come early on Saturday morning. If Mr. Ridgeley sees me, had he not better find me in my mother's and father's house?" " _If_ he sees you, Julia?"
"Of course if he wishes to, he will."
And she was not conversational, and wandered about, and if possible would have been a little pettish.
"Are you not glad, Julia, that he has acquitted himself so well? He seems to have carried the Court and jury and all by storm."
"Of course he did. Does that surprise you? But it is all so stupid, staying there to try that pokey old case."
"Julia, what under the sun is the matter?" looking at her in surprise.
The girl turned and knelt by her mother, and laid her face down in her lap, and burst into violent sobbings.
On the morrow Julia arose, sweet and composed, with the old light in her eyes, and her wonted color coming and going with the mysterious emotions within. She was almost gay and joyous at breakfast, and then grew fitful and restless, and then became pensive again.
The day was a marvel of the forward spring, and the sun filled the whole heavens with its wondrous light. The blue bird called down in his flight, with his trill of gladness, and the robins flooded the leafless trees and the lawn with gushes of purest melody. Julia could not remain in the house; she could not remain anywhere; and as the morning deepened, she took a sudden resolution and ordered Prince to be saddled at once.
"Mother," said she, "I have the whole of this long, long day. I must gallop off through the woods, around to Wilder's. I haven't been there since last fall; and then I will come around by Mrs. Ridgeley's and tell her, and so home. Don't gay a word, mother; I must go. I cannot stay here. I'll be back in good time."
So mounting Prince she bounded off. When she felt herself going with the springy, elastic leap of her splendid steed, she thought she had found what she most wanted--to go to that little blessed nook of shelter and repose under the rocks by the running stream, in the sun. Something seemed to call her, and the day, the rapid motion, the exhilaration of the atmosphere, as she dashed through it, softened her excitement, and a calm, elevated, half-religious extasy possessed her; and the sky and air, and brown, desolate earth, just warming with the April sun, all glowed with hope. How near to her seemed Heaven and all holy, sweet influences; and the centre of it all was one radiant, beautiful face, looking with sad, wistful eyes to her for love and life which she so wanted to give. She felt and knew that to this one in some way, she would be fully revealed, and misconception and absence and doubt would vanish. She should meet him, but just how he would look, or what he would say, or how she should or could answer him, she could not shadow out, and would not try. All that, she was sure, would take care of itself, and he would know and understand her finally.
Prince seemed fully to appreciate the day, and to be inspired with its subtle and exhilarating elixir; but after a mile or two of over-spirit, he sobered down into his long, easy, springy, untiring gallop. They passed the fields and went along the hard and dry highway, till she reached the diverging trail that struck off through the woods toward the settlement on the other side, the nearest house of which was Wilder's.
On she went among the trees, past recently deserted sugar camps, away from human habitations, into and through the heart of the forest, joyous and glad in her beauty and young life and hope, and happy thoughts; and finally she came to the creek; here she drew up her still fresh horse, and rode slowly through its clear, rapid waters, and turned down on its other bank. How glad it seemed, gurgling and rippling, and swirling, with liquid music and motion! Slowly she rode down and with a half timid feeling, as somehow doubting if she would not return. But it was all silent and quiet; the sunshine and the voice of the stream seemed to re-assure her, and the strange feeling passed away, as she entered the little nook so dear to her memory. How silent and empty it was, in the rich, bright light of the mid-forenoon! She dismounted, and taking her skirt upon her arm, was about to step under the rude shed, with the thought of the birds who had reared their young there the year before, when Prince lifted his head with a forward movement of his ears, and turning her eyes down the stream, they fell upon Barton, who had just passed around the lower angle of the rocks, and paused in speechless surprise, within a few feet of her.
With a little cry of joy, she threw out her hands and sprang towards him. Her forgotten skirt tripped her, and she would have fallen, but the quick arms of Barton were about her, and for an exquisite moment she abandoned herself fully to him.
"Oh, Arthur, you have come to me!"
Their lips found each other, the great mass of dark brown hair almost overflowed the light brown curls, and their glad tears mingled.
"Julia! I am alive--awake! and you are in my arms! Your kiss has been on my lips! You love me!"
"With my whole heart and soul!"
"Oh, how blessed to die at this moment!" murmured Bart.
"Would it not be more blessed to live, love?" she whispered.
"And you have always loved me?"
"Always--there--there!" with a touch of her lips at each word.
"I thought--" "I know you did. You shall never, never think again--there!"
She withdrew from his arms, and adjusted her skirt, and stood by him in her wondrous beauty, radiant with the great happiness that filled her heart.
Barton was still confused, and looked with eyes wide open with amazement, partly at seeing her at all, partly at her marvellous beauty, which to him was seraphic, and more and most of all, at the revelation of her great love.
"Oh Julia! How was this? how is this--this coming of Heaven to me; this marvel of your love?"
"Did you really think, Arthur, that I had no eyes; that I had no ears; that I had no woman's heart? How could you think so meanly of me, and so meanly of yourself?"
"But you so scorned me."
"Hush! that was your word: it was not true; you were even then in my foolish girl's heart. Don't speak of that to me now; surely you must have known that that was all a mistake."
"And you always loved me? How wonderful that we should meet here and to-day!" he said, unable to take his eyes from her.
"You know the place and remember the day? Is it more marvellous, than that we should have been here before? I never knew how you found me then, and I am as much puzzled about your being here now. Father wrote us that you would come down with him to-morrow."
"Tell me how _you_ come to be here, to-day, of all the things in the world?" said Bart.
"Am I to tell first? Well, you see, I wanted to see Mrs. Wilder and Rose; I have not been to their house since last fall, and so, having nothing else to do, I rode over, and just thought we would come down here--didn't we, Prince?"
"And so you call him Prince?" said Bart, who had recognized the horse.
"Yes, and I will sometime tell you why, if you will tell me how you came here to-day."
"I came on purpose, because I wanted to. Because you had hallowed the place, I knew that I should find your haunting presence in it. Oh, when that case was over, and I got out, all the old dreams, and visions, and memories, and voices came to me. And your face never absent, not with the old look of scorn that it seemed to wear, but sweet, and half reproachful, haunted me, and made me half believe what poor Henry's smitten love said to me of you, when I told her my story."
"Bless her," murmured Julia.
"And I walked, and mused, and dreamed all the night; and this morning I sent your kind, good father a note, and came off. I came as directly here as I could, and now indeed I believe God sent me."
His arm was about her, and he held both her hands. The frank confession, so sweet to her, had its immediate reward from her lips.
"Arthur," she said, "I, too, came to see this place, with its sweet and sacred memories. I have been here three times before. You may know every thought and feeling of my heart. I could not have got through the day without coming: and how blessed I am for coming. Do you remember, when you had done all you could for my rest and comfort, how, on that awful yet precious night, you asked me if I had said a prayer, and I asked you to pray? Do you know that my mother and I both believe that that prayer was answered, and that she was impressed with my safety in answer to it? Oh, how grateful to our Father for his goodness to us we should be. Arthur, can you thank Him for us, now?" And they knelt in the forest solitude, with God and his blessed sun and blue sky, and their two young, pure, loving hearts joined in a fervent outpouring of gratitude.
"Our Father, for the precious and blessed revelation of our hearts, each to the other, we thank Thee. Let this love be as pure, and sacred, and holy, and eternal, as we now feel it to be. Grant, dear Father, that it may be sanctified by holy marriage; and that through Thy gracious providence, this union of hearts and souls may ever be ours. Hear us, thy young, helpless, yet trusting, believing, and loving children."
And she: "Sweet and blessed Saviour; let Thy precious love and presence be also about us, to keep us, help us, and bless us; and Father, let the maiden's voice also join in the prayer that Thou wilt bless us, as one."
They arose, and turned to each other, with sweet, calm, restful, happy faces; with souls full of trust and confidence, that was to know no change or diminution.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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50
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THE GOSPEL OF LOVE.
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Julia pointed out the bird's nest under the roof, and to a faded garland of flowers, hung upon the rough bark of the old hemlock, against which Barton had reclined, and another upon the rock just over where she had rested. In some way these brought to Bart's mind the flowers on Henry's grave; and in a moment he felt that her hand had placed them there; the precious little hand that lay so willingly in his own. Raising it to his lips, he said: "Julia, this same blessed hand has strewn my poor dear brother's grave with flowers."
"Are you glad, Arthur?"
"Oh, so glad, and grateful! And the same hand wrote me the generous warning against that wretched Greer?"
"Yes, Arthur. Father came home from that first trial distressed about you, and I wrote it. I thought you would not know the hand."
"I did not--though when your letter came to me in Jefferson, the address reminded me of it. But I did not think you wrote it. And when rumors were abroad of my connection with these men, after I went to Albany, who was it who sent somebody to Ravenna, to get a contradiction from Greer, himself?"
"No one sent anybody: some one went," in the lowest little voice.
"Oh, Julia! did you go, yourself?"
"Yes."
"With the love of such a woman, what may not a man do?" cried Bart, with enthusiasm. "Julia, I suspect more--that I owe all and everything to you."
"You saved my life, Arthur, and will you not take little things from me?"
"I owe you for all the love and happiness of all my future, Julia, and for the stimulus that has made me work these three years. You love me; and love takes from love, and gives all it can and has, and is content."
"Bless you, Arthur!" and affecting to notice the passage of the sun towards the meridian--she turned to him a little anxiously--"What time is it, Arthur?" --as if she cared! He told her, and she extended her hand and took the watch, and toyed with it a moment; "it is a pretty watch, open it, please," which he did. Looking at it intently, with heightened color, she pointed with the rosy tip of a finger, to an almost hidden inscription, which Bart had never seen before, and which he saw were letters spelling "Julia." He started up amazed, and for the moment trembled.
"Oh, Julia! all that I have and am, the food I have eaten, the clothes I wear, all came from you! Old Windsor is a fraud--an instrument--and I have carried your blessed name these long months, not knowing it."
"Arthur, 'you love me, and love takes from love. It gives all it has and can, and is content.' It is a blessed gospel, Arthur. Think how much I owe you--gladly owe you;--the obligation was not a burthen; but you would not even let me express my gratitude. Think of your dreadful letter. When you knelt and prayed for me, I would have put my lips to yours, had you been near me. I let you see my very heart in every line I wrote you, and you turned from me so coldly, and proudly, and blindly, and I could see you were so unhappy. Oh, I would not have been worthy to be carried a step in your arms, if I had not done the last thing in my power. I went and saw Mr. Wade, and father promised me the money, and Mr. Wade arranged it all for me; and dear, blessed Mr. Windsor is not a fraud; he loves you himself, and loved your brother."
"Forgive me, forgive me, Julia," said Bart, who had sunk on the leaves at her feet, and was resting his head against her bosom, with one arm of hers about his neck; "and this watch?"
"That I purchased and had engraved, and perhaps--what would you have done had you seen my name?"
"Come straight to you at once."
"And you are content?"
"Perfectly; you love me, and I accept the gospel of love," and he looked up with his clear, open brow and honest, transparent eyes, and gazing down into them and into the depths of his soul, seeming to see great happiness, dimmed a little with regret, she bent her head and put her lips to his, and tears fell from her eyes once again upon his face.
"Arthur," again lifting her head, "how glad I am that this is all told you now, when you are tenderest to me, and I have no secret to carry and fear, nothing to do now but to make you happy, and be so happy. Sometime, soon, you will tell me all your precious heart history, keeping nothing from me."
"Everything, everything, Julia! and something I may say now--I don't want to leave this sweet, sacred place, without a word about my letter. It was written in utter hopelessness of your love. The occurrences of that strange night had replaced me within the reach of my own esteem."
"How had you ever lost that, Arthur?"
"By my own folly. I loved you when I came back--before I went away--always. It was a dream, a sweet, delicious dream--that inspired poetry, and kindled ambition, but was purely unselfish. I had not a thought or a hope of a return. This passion came to possess me, to occupy my mind, and absorb my whole being. I knew it could not in the nature of things be returned."
"Arthur!"
"And I rushed into your presence, and declared it, and received what I expected and needed--though it paralyzed me, but my pride came to my rescue, and what strength I had; I went away humiliated, and aroused myself and found places on which I could stand, and strength to work. So far as you were concerned, Julia, I only hoped that in the far future, if you ever recalled my mad words--" "That did not fall in the dust under my feet, and were not forgotten, sir," interrupted Julia.
"Thank you, dearest--but if they should come to you, you would feel that they had not insulted you. I avoided you, of course, and had to avoid your mother. I would not see you, but you were ever about me, and became an inspiring power. I burned all the sketches I had made of you, but one, and that I mislaid."
"I found it. I am glad you lost it, you naughty child."
"Did you? Well, I went through the winter and spring, and the awful calamity of Henry's death, and the next fall and winter, and you wore away, and although I might not see you, your absence made Newbury a desert. And I felt it, when you came back. And when I got ready to go I could not. I set the time, sent off my trunk, and lingered. I even went one night past your father's house, only to see where you were, and yet I lingered; I found flowers on my brother's grave, and thought that some maiden loved him."
"When she loved you."
"That Wednesday night I would go, but couldn't."
"Tell me all that happened to you that night; it is a mystery to us all; you did not even tell your mother."
"It is not much. I had abandoned my intention of going that night, and was restless and uneasy, when George rushed in and told me you were lost. He had learned all that was known, and told it very clearly. I knew of the chopping, and where the path led up to it, and I thought you would tarn back to the old road, and might enter the woods, on the other side. Everything seemed wonderfully clear to me. My great love kindled and aroused every faculty, and strung every nerve. I was ready in a moment. George brought me two immense hickory torches, that together would burn out a winter night; and with one of our sugar camp tapers. I lighted one, as I went. I must have reached the point where you left the old road, in ten minutes. I was never so strong, I seemed to know that I would find you, and felt that it was for this I had staid, and blamed myself for the selfish joy I felt, that I could serve and perhaps save you.
"I examined the old road, and in one wet place, I found your track going north, and a little further was the old path, that led to the slashing. At the entrance to it, the leaves had been disturbed, as if by footsteps; I saw many of them, and thought you had become lost, and would follow the path; so I went on. When I reached the slashing, I knew you would not enter that, but supposed you would skirt around on the east and south side, as the path led southwesterly to it. Of course I looked and searched the ground, and could occasionally see where a footfall had disturbed the leaves.
"I concluded that sooner or later, you would realize that you were lost; and then--for I knew you were strong and brave--would undertake to strike off toward home, without reference to anything; and I knew, of course, that you would then go exactly the wrong way, because you were lost. After skirting about the slashing, I could find no foot-marks in the leaves; and I struck out southerly, and in a little thicket of young beeches and prickly ash, hanging to a thorn, I found your hood. Oh, God! what joy and thankfulness were mine; and there in the deep leaves, going westerly, was your trail."
"I thought I saw that awful beast, just before I reached that place, and fled, not knowing where," said Julia.
"Did you call, Julia?"
"I had called before that, many times."
"You were too far to be heard by your father and friends; and I was too late to hear you. I called several times, when I found the hood. Of course no answer came, and following the trail where it could be seen, I went on. I missed it often, and circled about until I found it, or something like it, always bearing away deeper and deeper into the wood. Then the wind blew awfully, and the snow began to sift down. My first torch was well burned out, and I knew I had been out some hours. I lighted the other and went on; soon I struck this creek, and fancied that you, if you had reached it, would follow it down."
"I did."
"Soon after, at a soft place where a little branch came in, I found your tracks again, several of them; and I knew I was right, and was certain I should find you. In my great joy, I thanked God, with my whole heart. It was storming fearfully; and trees were cracking, and breaking, and falling, in the fury of the wind. I called, but I knew nobody could hear me a dozen rods away. It had become intensely cold, and I feared you would become exhausted and fall down, and perhaps perish ere I could reach you. I hurried on, looked by every tree and log, calling and searching. I don't know where I struck the creek, though I knew every rood of the woods: I am, as you know, a born woodsman, and know all wood craft. Although I was certain I would find you, I began to grow fearfully anxious, and almost to doubt. As I went I called your name, and listened. Finally a faint sound came back to me, and I sprang forward--when you rose partly up before me. Oh, God! oh, God!" and his voice was lost in emotion. "For one moment I was overcome, and did, I know not what, save that I knelt by you and kissed your hands. Their chilly touch recalled me. I felt that I had saved you not only for your father and mother, but for your pure self, and to be the bride of some unknown man; and I was resolved that no memory of yours, and no thought of his, should ever occasion a blush for what should occur between us."
"How noble and heroic you were--" "You know all that happened after."
"And in your anxiety to save me from myself, you would not even let me thank you. And when I slept, you stole away."
"What could I do. Julia? I had saved you, I had redeemed myself; and found a calm, cold peace and joy in which I could go. In view of what had happened between us before, how hard and embarrassing for you to meet and thank me, and I feared to meet you. It was better that I should go, and with one stolen look at your sweet, sleeping face, I went."
"Arthur, my poor best will I do to repay you for all your pain and anguish."
"Am I not more than repaid, proud and happy? It was for the best. I needed to suffer and work; and yet how blessed to have carried the knowledge of your love with me!"
"Oh, I wanted to whisper it to you, to have you know; and I was unhappy because I knew you were," she murmured.
"My poor letter in answer to yours I fear was rude and proud and unmanly. What could I say? The possibility that I could be more than a friend to you never occurred to me, and when Ida tried to persuade me that you did love me, her efforts were vain; I could hardly induce her to abandon the idea of writing you."
"There is a blessed Providence in it all, Arthur; and in nothing more blessed than in bringing us together here, where we could meet and speak, with only the sunshine and this bright stream for witnesses."
"And what a sweet little story of love and hope and joy it carries murmuring along!" said Bart, struck with the poetry of her figure.
"But we must not always stay here," said the practical woman. "We must go home, must not we, Prince?" addressing the horse, which had stood quietly watching the lovers, and occasionally looking about him.
"You have changed his name?" said Bart.
"Yes. You see he is your horse, and I called him Prince Arthur the very day I received him, which was the day your letter came. I call him Prince. He is a prince--and so is his namesake," she added, playfully pulling his moustache. "You don't like that?" said Bart; "the moustache? I can cut it away in a moment."
"I do like it, and you must not cut it away. Stand out there, and let me have a good look at you; please turn your eyes away from me--there so."
"You find me changed," he said, "and I find you more lovely than ever," rushing back to her.
"You spoilt my view, sir."
"You will see enough of me," he said, gaily.
"You are changed," she went on, "but I like you better. Now, sir, here is your horse. I deliver you, Prince, to your true lord and master; and you must love him, and serve him truly."
"And I have already dedicated you to your lady and mistress," said Bart, "and you must forever serve her."
"And the first thing you do, will be to carry Wilder down to my dear mother, with a letter--how blessed and happy she will be! --asking her to send up a carriage--unless you have one somewhere?"
"Me? I haven't anything anywhere, but you. A carriage brought me into this region, and I sent it back. Keep and ride the Prince, as you call him; I can walk. I've done it before."
"You shall never do it again; if you do I will walk with you. We will go to Wilder's, and see Mrs. Wilder, who is a blessed woman, and who knew your secret, and knows mine; and Rose, who took me into her bed; and we will have some dinner, unromantic ham and eggs; and when the carriage comes, I will drive you to your mother's, and then you shall drive me home--do you understand?"
"Perfectly; and shall implicitly obey. Do you know, I half suspect this is all a dream, and that I shall wake up in Albany, or Jefferson, or somewhere? I know I am not in Chardon, for I could not sleep long enough to dream there."
"Why?"
"I was too near Newbury, and under the spell of old feelings and memories; and I don't care to sleep again."
As they were about to leave the dear little nook, "Arthur," said Julia, "let us buy a bit of this land, and keep this little romantic spot from destruction." So they went out through the trees in the warm sun, Bart with Prince's bridle in his hand, and Julia with her skirt over one arm and the other in that of her lover.
"I hold tightly to your arm," said Bart, laughing, "so that if you vanish, I may vanish with you."
"And I will be careful and not go to sleep while we are at Wilder's, for fear you will steal away from me, you bad boy. If you knew how I felt when I woke and found you had gone--" "I should not have gone," interrupted Bart.
Thus all the little sweet nothings that would look merely silly on paper, and sound foolish to other ears, yet so precious to them, passed from one to the other as they went.
Wilder had eaten his dinner, and lounged out into the sun, with his pipe, as they walked up. He knew Julia, of course, and Prince, and looked hard at Bart, as they passed; when the comely wife came running out.
"Oh," she exclaimed, taking Julia's hand, "and this--this is Mr. Ridgeley."
"It is indeed," said Bart, brightly.
"And you are not--not--Oh! your two hearts are happy I see it in both your faces. I am so glad."
Julia bent and kissed her.
"Oh, I knew when he went off so heart-broken, that it wasn't your fault, and I always wished I had kept him."
Sweet, shy, blushing Rose came forward, and Bart took her hands and hoped she would look upon him as an older brother long absent, and just returned. And little lisping George, staring at him curiously, "Are you Plinth Arthur?"
"Prince Arthur?" cried Bart, catching him up, "do I look like a prince?"
"Yeth."
"Take that," said Bart, laughing, giving him a gold coin.
"He is a prince," said Julia, "and you see he gives like a prince."
"Exactly," answered Bart; "princes always give other peoples' gold for flattery."
"And now, Mr. Wilder, I want you to put your saddle on Prince, and gallop straight to my mother, and drive back a carriage. I found this unhappy youth wandering about in these same woods, and I am going to take him with me this time."
When Wilder was ready, she gave him the following note: "_Dear Mother_:--I am so blessed and happy. Arthur and I met this morning in the dear old nook under the rocks, and we are the happiest two in the world.
"JULIA.
"P.S. I forgot. Send a carriage by Wilder. I don't want a driver. We will go round by Arthur's mother's, and be with you this evening. J. "P.S. Send me a skirt."
And whether the sun stood still or journeyed on, they did not note, nor could they remember what Mrs. Wilder gave them for dinner, or whether they tasted it. At last Wilder appeared with a light carriage and pair. Julia's saddle was put on board, and the lovers, Julia holding the reins, drove away.
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{
"id": "12249"
}
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51
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THE RETURN.
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Spring came with its new life and promise, sweetly and serenely to the home and heart of Barton's mother, who was looking and hoping for his return, with a strong, intense, but silent yearning. For herself, for his brothers, and more for Julia, whom she now understood, and tenderly loved, and whose secret was sacred to her woman's heart; and most of all for Barton's own sake; for she knew that when these two met, the shadow that had surrounded them would disappear. Some pang she felt that there should be to him a dearer one; but she knew that Julia did not come between them, and that nothing would chill that side of his heart--the child side--that was next her own.
On Wednesday morning Julia had galloped up and given her Bart's letter of Tuesday, so that she knew he was in Chardon, well and hopeful, and would return to her as soon as he escaped from his trial.
Thursday evening Dr. Lyman came all aglow from Chardon. He had seen Bart and heard his argument, and all the enthusiasm of his nature was fully excited.
Now on this long, warm Friday--the anniversary of his departure--he was to come; and naturally enough she looked to see him come the way he went--from the east. Often, even before noon, she turned her eyes wistfully down the road, and until it met the rise the other side of the little valley, so on up past the red school house, and was lost over the summit; but the road was empty and lonely.
As the afternoon ran toward evening, she began to grow anxious. Suddenly the sound of wheels caught her ear, and she turned as Judge Markham's grays headed up to her gate. She recognized Julia, who, without waiting to be helped, sprang lightly from the carriage, with her face radiant, and bounding to her threw her arms about her neck.
"Oh, mother--my mother now--he is here. I met him in those blessed woods and brought him to you."
Then she made room for him, and for a moment the mother's arms encircled them both. How glad and happy she was, no man may know; as no man understands, and no woman can reveal, the depth and strength of mother love.
The three in happy tears--tears, that soon vanish, went into the dear old house, into whose every room Bart rushed in a moment, calling for the boys, and asking a thousand unanswered questions, and coming back, with a flood of words, half tears and half laughs.
"So, Bart," said the proud and happy mother, "it is all right," with a look towards Julia. "I knew it would be."
"And, mother, you knew it, too?"
"A woman sees where a man is blind, sometimes," she answered. "And boys must find these things out for themselves. Poor boy, I wanted somebody to whisper it to you."
"Somebody has done so, mother, and I am now so glad that it was left for that one to tell me."
The boys came in, and were a little overwhelmed, even George, with the warmth of their brother's reception. Julia went straight to George, saying, "Now, sir, you belong to me; you are to be my dear youngest brother! What a row of handsome brothers I shall have--there! --there!" --with a kiss for each word.
George at first did not quite comprehend: "Julia, are you going to be Bart's wife?"
"Yes," with a richer color.
"When?"
"Hush! That isn't a question for you to ask." And she bent over him with another low sweet "hush," that he understood.
Soon the Colonel and his sweet young wife came in, and they all came to know that Julia was one of them; and she knew what warm, true hearts had come so suddenly about her with their strong, steady tenderness.
Then, as the sun fell among the western tree tops, Julia said to Mrs. Ridgeley, "Now Arthur must drive me home; his other mother has not seen him; and to-morrow I will bring him to you. He is to remain with us, and we will come and go between our two homes for, I don't know how long; until he grows stout and strong, and has run through all the woods, and visited all the dear old places, and grows weary of us, and sighs for Blackstone, and all those horrid books."
She took her happy place by his side in the carriage, after kissing them all, including Ed, and they drove leisurely away.
As they went, he told her gaily of the lonely walk, in darkness, when he last went over this road. The sketch brought new tears to the tender eyes at his side.
"Oh, Arthur! if you could have only known! if you had come to me for one moment."
"Today could never have come," he interrupted. "I like it as it is. How could I ever have had the beautiful revelation of your high and heroic qualities, Julia? And we could not have met as we did this morning. The very memory of that meeting equals the hope and blessedness of Heaven."
Down past the quiet houses they rode; through bits of woods that still fringed parts of the road; down past the old saw mill; up over the hill, where they paused to look over the beautiful pond, full to its high banks; then to the State road, and south over the high hills, overlooking the little cemetery, towards which Bart looked tenderly.
"Not to-night, love," said Julia; "their beautiful spirits see and love, and go with us."
So in the twilight, and with a pensive and serene happiness, they passed up through the straggling village, Julia and her lover, to her own home.
It had somehow been made known that Bart would that evening arrive. His trunk had been received by the stage, at the stage house, and a group of curious persons were on the look out in front of Parker's, as they drove past. When Bart lifted his hat, they recognized and greeted him with a hearty cheer; which was repeated when the carriage passed the store. Bart was deeply touched.
"You see," said the happy Julia, "that everybody loves you."
"You see they greet us on your account," he answered.
A little group was also at her father's gate, and as Bart sprang out, Julia's mother took him by both hands.
"So you have come at last, and will be one of us."
Just how he answered, or how Julia alighted, he could never tell. This was the final touch and test, and if the whole did not vanish, he should certainly accept it all as real.
"What a sweet and wonderful little romance it all is," said the happy mother; "and to happen to us here, in this new, wild, humdrum region! Who shall say that God does not order, and that heroism does not exist; and that faithful love is not still rewarded."
"Mrs. Markham"-- "Call me mother!" said that lady; "I have long loved you, and thought of you as my son."
"And your husband?" said Bart.
"Is here to answer for himself," said the Judge, entering. He came forward and greeted Bart warmly.
"Judge Markham," said Bart, holding each parent by a hand; "Julia and I met by accident this morning, at the place where we were sheltered a year ago. We found that no explanation was needed, and we there asked God to bless our love and marriage. Of course we may have taken too much for granted."
"No, no!" said the Judge, warmly, placing Julia's hand within his. "We will now, and always, and ever, ask God to bless your love, and crown it with a true and sacred marriage. Such as ours has been, my love, won't we?"
"Certainly," answered Mrs. Markham. "And we take him to our home and hearts as our true son."
Then all knelt, and the father's voice in reverent prayer and thanksgiving, was for a moment lifted to the Great Father.
Later, they were quiet and happy, around a tea, or rather a supper table. But Bart toyed with his fork, and sparkled with happy, brilliant sallies. Julia watched him with real concern.
"Arthur," she said, "I am a woman; and a woman likes to see even her lover eat. It is the mother part, isn't it, mamma?" blushing and laughing, "that likes to see children feed. Now he has not eaten a mouthful to-day; and I shall be anxious."
"For that matter he dined on a gill of milk, and one ounce of honey yesterday," said the Judge, "Don't you ever eat?"
"And I shall shock him;" said Julia, "he will soon find that I am only common vulgar flesh and blood, to be fed and nourished."
"Don't fear," said Bart; "I like a strong, healthy, deep chested woman, who can live and endure. I am not the least bit of a Byron. And now let me get used to this new heaven, into which you have just taken me; let my heart get steady, if it will, in its great happiness. Let me have some good runs in the woods, some good rows on the ponds, some hard gallops. Let me get tired, and I'll astonish you with a famine."
"I shall be glad to see it," said Julia.
There came pleasant talk of trifles, that only lay about on the surface, and near the great joy of their new happiness; and little pleasantries of the Judge. He asked Julia, "how she liked the moustache, suggesting that it might be in the way.
"I like it," said Julia, "and it isn't a bit in the way."
Then he referred to a certain other grave matter, and wanted to know when?
"That isn't for you to ask, Papa Judge--is it, mamma?"
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{
"id": "12249"
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52
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FINAL DREAM LAND.
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Later still, when the elders had left the lovers to each other, Bart found himself reclining on the sofa, with his head in Julia's lap. And those little rosy tipped fingers toyed caressingly with that coveted moustache, and were kissed for it, and went and did it again, and so on; and then tenderly with the long light brown wavy curls.
"Julia, these blessed moments of love and rest, though they run into days or weeks, will end."
"Arthur"--reproachfully.
"Time will not stand and leave us to float, and come and go on a sweet shaded river of delight; sometime I must go out to show that I am not unworthy of you, to find, and to make. You shall have your own sweet way, and will, and yet you will also--will you not? --tell me when this happiness shall be lost in the greater, merely that I may do my man's part."
"Arthur, I take you at your word. My will is that for two blessed months, of which this shall not be counted as one day, for it must stand forever apart, you shall say nothing of books, or wanting them; or of business, or cases, or location, but shall stay with us, our mothers and father, with me, and run, and ride, and hunt, and fish, and grow strong, and eat, and I will let you go, and alone, when you wish; and at the end of two months, I will tell you when."
"And Arthur," stooping low over him, "a young girl's heart and ways are curious, and not worth a man's knowing, or thought, perhaps. Let me know you, let me be acquainted with you, and I would like you to know me also, though it may not repay you; and let me grow to be your wife. We have such funny notions, such weak girl ways and thoughts. I have not had my lover a full day yet. A young girl wishes to be courted and sought, and made believe that she is supreme; and she likes to have her lover come at a set time, and sit and wait and think the clock has been turned back, and that he won't come, and yet he must come, at the moment; and she will affect to have forgotten it. She likes to be wooed with music, and flowers, and poetry, and to remain coy and only yield when her full heart had gone long before; and then to be engaged, and wear her ring, and be proud of her affianced, and to be envied--oh, it is a thousand, thousand times more to us than to you. It is our all, and we can enjoy it but once, and think what is lost out of the life of the young girl who has not enjoyed it at all. See, Arthur, what poor, petty, weak things we are, not worth the understanding, and not worth the winning, as we would be won."
Arthur had started up, and glided to the floor, on his knees, had clasped his hands about her slender waist, and was looking earnestly and tenderly into her coy, half-averted face, as, half seriously and half in badinage, she made her plaint.
"Oh, Julia!"
"Nay, Arthur, I like it as it is. It was in your nature to have known me, and to have courted me in the old way; but it would have been poor and tame, and made up of a few faded flowers and scraps of verses; and think what I have had--a daring hero between me and a wild beast--a brave, devoted and passionate lover, who, in spite of scorn and rejection, hunted for me through night and tempest, to rescue me from death, who takes me up in his strong arms, carries me over a flood, and nourishes me back to life, and goes proudly away, asking nothing but the great boon of serving me. Oh! I had a thousand times rather have this! It is now a beautiful romance. But I am to have my ring, and"-- "Be my sweet and blessed sovereign lady; to be served and worshipped, and to hear music and poetry; whose word and wish is to be law in all the realm of love."
"From which you are not to depart for two full months of thirty-one days each."
Then she conducted him to the apartment in which we beheld her the night before.
"This," pushing open the door, into the room, warm and sweet with the odor of flowers, "is your own special room, to be yours, always."
"Always?" a little plaintively.
"Always--until--until--I--we give you another."
"Good night, Arthur."
"Good night, Julia."
She tripped down the hall, and turned her bright face to catch a kiss, and throw it back.
With a sweet unrest in her full heart, the young maiden on her couch, set herself to count up the gathered treasures of the wonderful day.
How was it? Did her riding skirt really get under her feet? Would he have caught her in his arms if she had not fallen? She thought he would.
And so she mused; and at last in slumber dreamed sweet maiden's dreams of love and heaven.
And Bart found himself in a marvellous forest, wandering with Julia, wondrous in her fresh and tender beauty, on through endless glades, amid the gush of bird-songs, and the fragrance of flowers.
And there in the dream land whence I called them, I leave them. Why should I awake them again? For them can another day so bright and happy ever dawn? I who love them, could have kept them for a bright brief space longer. I could have heard the sparkling voice of Bart, and the answering laugh of Julia--and then I should listen and not hear--look anxiously around and not see!
I part in real sorrow with these bright children of my fancy, sweet awakeners of old time memories, placed amid far off scenes, to win from others, tenderness and love if they may. And may they be remembered as forever lingering in perennial youth and love, in the land of dreams.
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{
"id": "12249"
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In those days, Santa Fé, New Mexico, was an undergrown, decrepit, out-at-elbows ancient hidalgo of a town, with not a scintillation of prosperity or grandeur about it, except the name of capital.
It was two hundred and seventy years old; and it had less than five thousand inhabitants. It was the metropolis of a vast extent of country, not destitute of natural wealth; and it consisted of a few narrow, irregular streets, lined by one-story houses built of sun-baked bricks. Owing to the fine climate, it was difficult to die there; but owing to many things not fine, it was almost equally difficult to live.
Even the fact that Santa Fé had been for a period under the fostering wings of the American eagle did not make it grow much. Westward-ho emigrants halted there to refit and buy cattle and provisions; but always started resolutely on again, westward-hoing across the continent. Nobody seemed to want to stay in Santa Fé, except the aforesaid less than five thousand inhabitants, who were able to endure the place because they had never seen any other, and who had become a part of its gray, dirty, lazy lifelessness and despondency.
For a wonder, this old atom of a metropolis had lately had an increase of population, which was nearly as great a wonder as Sarah having a son when she was "well stricken in years." A couple of new-comers--not a man nor woman less than a couple--now stood on the flat roof of one of the largest of the sun-baked brick houses. By great good luck, moreover, these two were, I humbly trust, worthy of attention. The one was interesting because she was the handsomest girl in Santa Fé, and would have been considered a handsome girl anywhere; the other was interesting because she was a remarkable woman, and even, as Mr. Jefferson Brick might have phrased it, "one of the most remarkable women in our country, sir." At least so she judged, and judged it too with very considerable confidence, being one of those persons who say, "If I know myself, and I think I do."
The beauty was of a mixed type. She combined the blonde and the brunette fashions of loveliness. You might guess at the first glance that she had in her the blood of both the Teutonic and the Latin races. While her skin was clear and rosy, and her curling hair was of a light and bright chestnut, her long, shadowy eyelashes were almost black, and her eyes were of a deep hazel, nearly allied to blackness. Her form had the height of the usual American girl, and the round plumpness of the usual Spanish girl. Even in her bearing and expression you could discover more or less of this union of different races. There was shyness and frankness; there was mistrust and confidence; there was sentimentality and gayety. In short, Clara Muñoz Garcia Van Diemen was a handsome and interesting young lady.
Now for the remarkable woman. Sturdy and prominent old character, obviously. Forty-seven years old, or thereabouts; lots of curling iron-gray hair twisted about her round forehead; a few wrinkles, and not all of the newest. Round face, round and earnest eyes, short, self-confident nose, chin sticking out in search of its own way, mouth trembling with unuttered ideas. Good figure--what Lord Dundreary would call "dem robust," but not so sumptuous as to be merely ornamental; tolerably convenient figure to get about in. Walks up and down, man-fashion, with her hands behind her back--also man-fashion. Such is Mrs. Maria Stanley, the sister of Clara Van Diemen's father, and best known to Clara as Aunt Maria.
"And so this is Santa Fé?" said Aunt Maria, rolling her spectacles over the little wilted city. "Founded in 1581; two hundred and seventy years old. Well, if this is all that man can do in that time, he had better leave colonization to woman."
Clara smiled with an innocent air of half wonder and half amusement, such as you may see on the face of a child when it is shown some new and rather awe-striking marvel of the universe, whether a jack-in-a-box or a comet. She had only known Aunt Maria for the last four years, and she had not yet got used to her rough-and-ready mannish ways, nor learned to see any sense in her philosophizings. Looking upon her as a comical character, and supposing that she talked mainly for the fun of the thing, she was disposed to laugh at her doings and sayings, though mostly meant in solemn earnest.
"But about your affairs, my child," continued Aunt Maria, suddenly gripping a fresh subject after her quick and startling fashion. "I don't understand them. How is it possible? Here is a great fortune gone; gone in a moment; gone incomprehensibly. What does it mean? Some rascality here. Some man at the bottom of this."
"I presume my relative, Garcia, must be right," commenced Clara.
"No, he isn't," interrupted Aunt Maria. "He is wrong. Of course he's wrong. I never knew a man yet but what he was wrong."
"You make me laugh in spite of my troubles," said Clara, laughing, however, only through her eyes, which had great faculties for sparkling out meanings. "But see here," she added, turning grave again, and putting up her hand to ask attention. "Mr. Garcia tells a straight story, and gives reasons enough. There was the war," and here she began to count on her fingers, "That destroyed a great deal. I know when my father could scarcely send on money to pay my bills in New York. And then there was the signature for Señor Pedraez. And then there were the Apaches who burnt the hacienda and drove off the cattle. And then he--" Her voice faltered and she stopped; she could not say, "He died."
"My poor, dear child!" sighed Aunt Maria, walking up to the girl and caressing her with a tenderness which was all womanly.
"That seems enough," continued Clara, when she could speak again. "I suppose that what Garcia and the lawyers tell us is true. I suppose I am not worth a thousand dollars."
"Will a thousand dollars support you here?"
"I don't know. I don't think it will."
"Then if I can't set this thing straight, if I can't make somebody disgorge your property, I must take you back with me."
"Oh! if you would!" implored Clara, all the tender helplessness of Spanish girlhood appealing from her eyes.
"Of course I will," said Aunt Maria, with a benevolent energy which was almost terrific.
"I would try to do something. I don't know. Couldn't I teach Spanish?"
"You _shan't_" decided Aunt Maria. "Yes, you _shall_. You shall be professor of foreign languages in a Female College which I mean to have founded."
Clara stared with astonishment, and then burst into a hearty fit of laughter, the two finishing the drying of her tears. She was so far from wishing to be a strong-minded person of either gender, that she did not comprehend that her aunt could wish it for her, or could herself seriously claim to be one. The talk about a professorship was in her estimation the wayward, humorous whim of an eccentric who was fond of solemn joking. Mrs. Stanley, meanwhile, could not see why her utterance should not be taken in earnest, and opened her eyes at Clara's merriment.
We must say a word or two concerning the past of this young lady. Twenty-five years previous a New Yorker named Augustus Van Diemen, the brother of that Maria Jane Van Diemen now known to the world as Mrs. Stanley, had migrated to California, set up in the hide business, and married by stealth the daughter of a wealthy Mexican named Pedro Muñoz. Muñoz got into a Spanish Catholic rage at having a Yankee Protestant son-in-law, disowned and formally disinherited his child, and worried her husband into quitting the country. Van Diemen returned to the United States, but his wife soon became homesick for her native land, and, like a good husband as he was, he went once more to Mexico. This time he settled in Santa Fé, where he accumulated a handsome fortune, lived in the best house in the city, and owned haciendas.
Clara's mother dying when the girl was fourteen years old, Van Diemen felt free to give her, his only child, an American education, and sent her to New York, where she went through four years of schooling. During this period came the war between the United States and Mexico. Foreign residents were ill-treated; Van Diemen was sometimes a prisoner, sometimes a fugitive; in one way or another his fortune went to pieces. Four months previous to the opening of this story he died in a state little better than insolvency. Clara, returning to Santa Fé under the care of her energetic and affectionate relative, found that the deluge of debt would cover town house and haciendas, leaving her barely a thousand dollars. She was handsome and accomplished, but she was an orphan and poor. The main chance with her seemed to lie in the likelihood that she would find a mother (or a father) in Aunt Maria.
Yes, there was another sustaining possibility, and of a more poetic nature. There was a young American officer named Thurstane, a second lieutenant acting as quartermaster of the department, who had met her heretofore in New York, who had seemed delighted to welcome her to Santa Fé, and who now called on her nearly every day. Might it not be that Lieutenant Thurstane would want to make her Mrs. Thurstane, and would have power granted him to induce her to consent to the arrangement? Clara was sufficiently a woman, and sufficiently a Spanish woman especially, to believe in marriage. She did not mean particularly to be Mrs. Thurstane, but she did mean generally to be Mrs. Somebody. And why not Thurstane? Well, that was for him to decide, at least to a considerable extent. In the mean time she did not love him; she only disliked the thought of leaving him.
While these two women had been talking and thinking, a lazy Indian servant had been lounging up the stairway. Arrived on the roof, he advanced to La Señorita Clara, and handed her a letter. The girl opened it, glanced through it with a flushing face, and cried out delightedly, "It is from my grandfather. How wonderful! O holy Maria, thanks! His heart has been softened. He invites me to come and live with him in San Francisco. _O Madre de Dios! _" Although Clara spoke English perfectly, and although she was in faith quite as much of a Protestant as a Catholic, yet in her moments of strong excitement she sometimes fell back into the language and ideas of her childhood.
"Child, what are you jabbering about?" asked Aunt Maria.
"There it is. See! Pedro Muñoz! It is his own signature. I have seen letters of his. Pedro Muñoz! Read it. Oh! you don't read Spanish."
Then she translated the letter aloud. Aunt Maria listened with a firm and almost stern aspect, like one who sees some justice done, but not enough.
"He doesn't beg your pardon," she said at the close of the reading.
Clara, supposing that she was expected to laugh, and not seeing the point of the joke, stared in amazement.
"But probably he is in a meeker mood now," continued Aunt Maria. "By this time it is to be hoped that he sees his past conduct in a proper light. The letter was written three months ago."
"Three months ago," repeated Clara. "Yes, it has taken all that time to come. How long will it take me to go there? How shall I go?"
"We will see," said Aunt Maria, with the air of one who holds the fates in her hand, and doesn't mean to open it till she gets ready. She was by no means satisfied as yet that this grandfather Muñoz was a proper person to be intrusted with the destinies of a young lady. In refusing to let his daughter select her own husband, he had shown a very squinting and incomplete perception of the rights of woman.
"Old reprobate!" thought Aunt Maria. "Probably he has got gouty with his vices, and wants to be nursed. I fancy I see him getting Clara without going on his sore marrow-bones and begging pardon of gods and women."
"Of course I must go," continued Clara, unsuspicious of her aunt's reflections. "At all events he will support me. Besides, he is now the head of my family."
"Head of the family!" frowned Aunt Maria. "Because he is a man? So much the more reason for his being the tail of it. My dear, you are your own head."
"Ah--well. What is the use of all _that_?" asked Clara, smiling away those views. "I have no money, and he has."
"Well, we will see," persisted Aunt Maria. "I just told you so. We will see."
The two women had scarcely left the roof of the house and got themselves down to the large, breezy, sparsely furnished parlor, ere the lazy, dawdling Indian servant announced Lieutenant Thurstane.
Lieutenant Ralph Thurstane was a tall, full-chested, finely-limbed gladiator of perhaps four and twenty. Broad forehead; nose straight and high enough; lower part of the face oval; on the whole a good physiognomy. Cheek bones rather strongly marked; a hint of Scandinavian ancestry supported by his name. Thurstane is evidently Thor's stone or altar; forefathers priests of the god of thunder. His complexion was so reddened and darkened by sunburn that his untanned forehead looked unnaturally white and delicate. His yellow, one might almost call it golden hair, was wavy enough to be handsome. Eyes quite remarkable; blue, but of a very dark blue, like the coloring which is sometimes given to steel; so dark indeed that one's first impression was that they were black. Their natural expression seemed to be gentle, pathetic, and almost imploring; but authority, responsibility, hardship, and danger had given them an ability to be stern. In his whole face, young as he was, there was already the look of the veteran, that calm reminiscence of trials endured, that preparedness for trials to come. In fine, taking figure, physiognomy, and demeanor together, he was attractive.
He saluted the ladies as if they were his superior officers. It was a kindly address, but ceremonious; it was almost humble, and yet it was self-respectful.
"I have some great news," he presently said, in the full masculine tone of one who has done much drilling. "That is, it is great to me. I change station."
"How is that?" asked Clara eagerly. She was not troubled at the thought of losing a beau; we must not be so hard upon her as to make that supposition; but here was a trustworthy friend going away just when she wanted counsel and perhaps aid.
"I have been promoted first lieutenant of Company I, Fifth Regiment, and I must join my company."
"Promoted! I am glad," said Clara.
"You ought to be pleased," put in Aunt Maria, staring at the grave face of the young man with no approving expression. "I thought men were always pleased with such things."
"So I am," returned Thurstane. "Of course I am pleased with the step. But I must leave Santa Fé. And I have found Santa Fé very pleasant."
There was so much meaning obvious in these last words that Clara's face colored like a sunset.
"I thought soldiers never indulged in such feelings," continued the unmollified Aunt Maria.
"Soldiers are but men," observed Thurstane, flushing through his sunburn.
"And men are weak creatures."
Thurstane grew still redder. This old lady (old in his young eyes) was always at him about his manship, as if it were a crime and disgrace. He wanted to give her one, but out of respect for Clara he did not, and merely moved uneasily in his seat, as men are apt to do when they are set down hard.
"How soon must you go? Where?" demanded Clara.
"As soon as I can close my accounts here and turn over my stores to my successor. Company I is at Fort Yuma on the Colorado. It is the first post in California."
"California!" And Clara could not help brightening up in cheeks and eyes with fine tints and flashes. "Why, I am going to California."
"We will see," said Aunt Maria, still holding the fates in her fist.
Then came the story of Grandfather Muñoz's letter, with a hint or two concerning the decay of the Van Diemen fortune, for Clara was not worldly wise enough to hide her poverty.
Thurstane's face turned as red with pleasure as if it had been dipped in the sun. If this young lady was going to California, he might perhaps be her knight-errant across the desert, guard her from privations and hardships, and crown himself with her smiles. If she was poor, he might--well, he would not speculate upon that; it was too dizzying.
We must say a word as to his history in order to show why he was so shy and sensitive. He had been through West Point, confined himself while there closely to his studies, gone very soon into active service, and so seen little society. The discipline of the Academy and three years in the regular army had ground into him the soldier's respect for superiors. He revered his field officers; he received a communication from the War Department as a sort of superhuman revelation; he would have blown himself sky-high at the command of General Scott. This habit of subordination, coupled with a natural fund of reverence, led him to feel that many persons were better than himself, and to be humble in their presence. All women were his superior officers, and the highest in rank was Clara Van Diemen.
Well, hurrah! he was to march under her to California! and the thought made him half wild. He would protect her; he would kill all the Indians in the desert for her sake; he would feed her on his own blood, if necessary.
As he considered these proper and feasible projects, the audacious thought which he had just tried to expel from his mind forced its way back into it. If the Van Diemen estate were insolvent, if this semi-divine Clara were as poor as himself, there was a call on him to double his devotion to her, and there was a hope that his worship might some day be rewarded.
How he would slave and serve for her; how he would earn promotion for her sake; how he would fight her battle in life! But would she let him do it? Ah, it seemed too much to hope. Poor though she was, she was still a heaven or so above him; she was so beautiful and had so many perfections!
Oh, the purity, the self-abnegation, the humility of love! It makes a man scarcely lower than the angels, and quite superior to not a few reverenced saints.
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{
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"I must say," observed Thurstane--"I beg your pardon for advising--but I think you had better accept your grandfather's invitation."
He said it with a pang at his heart, for if this adorable girl went to her grandfather, the old fellow would be sure to love her and leave her his property, in which case there would be no chance for a proud and poor lieutenant. He gave his advice under a grim sense that it was his duty to give it, because the following of it would be best for Miss Van Diemen.
"So I think," nodded Clara, fortified by this opinion to resist Aunt Maria, and the more fortified because it was the opinion of a man.
After a certain amount of discussion the elder lady was persuaded to loosen her mighty grip and give the destinies a little liberty.
"Well, it _may_ be best," she said, pursing her mouth as if she tasted the bitter of some half-suspected and disagreeable future. "I don't know. I won't undertake positively to decide. But, if you do go," and here she became authentic and despotic--"if you do go, I shall go with you and see you safe there."
"Oh! _will_ you?" exclaimed Clara, all Spanish and all emotion in an instant. "How sweet and good and beautiful of you! You are my guardian angel. Do you know? I thought you would offer to go. I said to myself, She came on to Santa Fé for my sake, and she will go to California. But oh, it is too much for me to ask. How shall I ever pay you?"
"I will pay myself," returned Aunt Maria. "I have plans for California."
It was as if she had said, "Go to, we will make California in our own image."
The young lady was satisfied. Her strong-minded relative was a mighty mystery to her, just as men were mighty mysteries. Whatever she or they said could be done and should be done, why of course it would be done, and that shortly.
By the time that Aunt Maria had announced her decision, another visitor was on the point of entrance. Carlos Maria Muñoz Garcia de Coronado was a nephew of Manuel Garcia, who was a cousin of Clara's grandfather; only, as Garcia was merely his uncle by marriage, Coronado and Clara were not related by blood, though calling each other cousin. He was a man of medium stature, slender in build, agile and graceful in movement, complexion very dark, features high and aristocratic, short black hair and small black moustache, eyes black also, but veiled and dusky. He was about twenty-eight, but he seemed at least four years older, partly because of a deep wrinkle which slashed down each cheek, and partly because he was so perfectly self-possessed and elaborately courteous. His intellect was apparently as alert and adroit as his physical action. A few words from Clara enabled him to seize the situation.
"Go at once," he decided without a moment's hesitation. "My dear cousin, it will be the happy turning point of your fortunes. I fancy you already inheriting the hoards, city lots, haciendas, mines, and cattle of our excellent relative Muñoz--long may he live to enjoy them! Certainly. Don't whisper an objection. Muñoz owes you that reparation. His conduct has been--we will not describe it--we will hope that he means to make amends for it. Unquestionably he will. My dear cousin, nothing can resist you. You will enchant your grandfather. It will all end, like the tales of the Arabian Nights, in your living in a palace. How delightful to think of this long family quarrel at last coming to a close! But how do you go?"
"If Miss Van Diemen goes overland, I can do something toward protecting her and making her comfortable," suggested Thurstane. "I am ordered to Fort Yuma."
Coronado glanced at the young officer, noted the guilty blush which peeped out of his tanned cheek, and came to a decision on the instant.
"Overland!" he exclaimed, lifting both his hands. "Take her overland! My God! my God!"
Thurstane reddened at the insinuation that he had given bad advice to Miss Van Diemen; but though he wanted to fight the Mexican, he controlled himself, and did not even argue. Like all sensitive and at the same time self-respectful persons, he was exceedingly considerate of the feelings of others, and was a very lamb in conversation.
"It is a desert," continued Coronado in a kind of scream of horror. "It is a waterless desert, without a blade of grass, and haunted from end to end by Apaches. My little cousin would die of thirst and hunger. She would be hunted and scalped. O my God! overland!"
"Emigrant parties are going all the while," ventured Thurstane, very angry at such extravagant opposition, but merely looking a little stiff.
"Certainly. You are right, Lieutenant," bowed Coronado. "They do go. But how many perish on the way? They march between the unburied and withered corpses of their predecessors. And what a journey for a woman--for a lady accustomed to luxury--for my little cousin! I beg your pardon, my dear Lieutenant Thurstane, for disagreeing with you. My advice is--the isthmus."
"I have, of course, nothing, to say," admitted the officer, returning Coronado's bow. "The family must decide."
"Certainly, the isthmus, the steamers," went on the fluent Mexican. "You sail to Panama. You have an easy and safe land trip of a few days. Then steamers again. Poff! you are there. By all means, the isthmus."
We must allot a few more words of description to this Don Carlos Coronado. Let no one expect a stage Spaniard, with the air of a matador or a guerrillero, who wears only picturesque and outlandish costumes, and speaks only magniloquent Castilian. Coronado was dressed, on this spring morning, precisely as American dandies then dressed for summer promenades on Broadway. His hat was a fine panama with a broad black ribbon; his frock-coat was of thin cloth, plain, dark, and altogether civilized; his light trousers were cut gaiter-fashion, and strapped under the instep; his small boots were patent-leather, and of the ordinary type. There was nothing poetic about his attire except a reasonably wide Byron collar and a rather dashing crimson neck-tie, well suited to his dark complexion.
His manner was sometimes excitable, as we have seen above; but usually he was like what gentlemen with us desire to be. Perhaps he bowed lower and smiled oftener and gestured more gracefully than Americans are apt to do. But there was in general nothing Oriental about him, no assumption of barbaric pompousness, no extravagance of bearing. His prevailing deportment was calm, grave, and deliciously courteous. If you had met him, no matter how or where, you would probably have been pleased with him. He would have made conversation for you, and put you at ease in a moment; you would have believed that he liked you, and you would therefore have been disposed to like him. In short, he was agreeable to most people, and to some people fascinating.
And then his English! It was wonderful to hear him talk it. No American could say that he spoke better English than Coronado, and no American surely ever spoke it so fluently. It rolled off his lips in a torrent, undefiled by a mispronunciation or a foreign idiom. And yet he had begun to learn the language after reaching the age of manhood, and had acquired it mainly during three years of exile and teaching of Spanish in the United States. His linguistic cleverness was a fair specimen of his general quickness of intellect.
Mrs. Stanley had liked him at first sight--that is, liked him for a man. He knew it; he had seen that she was a person worth conciliating; he had addressed himself to her, let off his bows at her, made her the centre of conversation. In ten minutes from the entrance of Coronado Mrs. Stanley was of opinion that Clara ought to go to California by way of the isthmus, although she had previously taken the overland route for granted. In another ten minutes the matter was settled: the ladies were to go by way of New Orleans, Panama, and the Pacific.
Shortly afterward, Coronado and Thurstane took their leave; the Mexican affable, sociable, smiling, smoking; the American civil, but taciturn and grave.
"Aha! I have disappointed the young gentleman," thought Coronado as they parted, the one going to his quartermaster's office and the other to Garcia's house.
Coronado, although he had spent great part of his life in courting women, was a bachelor. He had been engaged once in New Mexico and two or three times in New York, but had always, as he could tell you with a smile, been disappointed. He now lived with his uncle, that Señor Manuel Garcia whom Clara has mentioned, a trader with California, an owner of vast estates and much cattle, and reputed to be one of the richest men in New Mexico. The two often quarrelled, and the elder had once turned the younger out of doors, so lively were their dispositions. But as Garcia had lost one by one all his children, he had at last taken his nephew into permanent favor, and would, it was said, leave him his property.
The house, a hollow square built of _adobe_ bricks in one story, covered a vast deal of ground, had spacious rooms and a court big enough to bivouac a regiment. It was, in fact, not only a dwelling, but a magazine where Garcia stored his merchandise, and a caravansary where he parked his wagons. As Coronado lounged into the main doorway he was run against by a short, pursy old gentleman who was rushing out.
"Ah! there you are!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in Spanish. "O you pig! you dog! you never are here. O Madre de Dios! how I have needed you! There is no time to lose. Enter at once."
A dyspeptic, worn with work and anxieties, his nervous system shattered, Garcia was subject to fits of petulance which were ludicrous. In these rages he called everybody who would bear it pigs, dogs, and other more unsavory nicknames. Coronado bore it because thus he got his living, and got it without much labor.
"I want you," gasped Garcia, seizing the young man by the arm and dragging him into a private room. "I want to speak to you in confidence--in confidence, mind you, in confidence--about Muñoz."
"I have heard of it," said Coronado, as the old man stopped to catch his breath.
"Heard of it!" exclaimed Garcia, in such consternation that he turned yellow, which was his way of turning pale. "Has the news got here? O Madre de Dios!"
"Yes, I was at our little cousin's this evening. It is an ugly affair."
"And _she_ knows it?" groaned the old man. "O Madre de Dios!"
"She told me of it. She is going there. I did the best I could. She was about to go overland, in charge of the American, Thurstane. I broke that up. I persuaded her to go by the isthmus."
"It is of little use," said Garcia, his eyes filmy with despair, as if he were dying. "She will get there. The property will be hers."
"Not necessarily. He has simply invited her to live with him. She may not suit."
"How?" demanded Garcia, open-eyed and open-mouthed with anxiety.
"He has simply invited her to live with him," repeated Coronado. "I saw the letter."
"What! you don't know, then?"
"Know what?"
"Muñoz is dead."
Coronado threw out, first a stare of surprise, and then a shout of laughter.
"And here they have just got a letter from him," he said presently; "and I have been persuading her to go to him by the isthmus!"
"May the journey take her to him!" muttered Garcia. "How old was this letter?"
"Nearly three months. It came by sea, first to New York, and then here."
"My news is a month later. It came overland by special messenger. Listen to me, Carlos. This affair is worse than you know. Do you know what Muñoz has done? Oh, the pig! the dog! the villainous pig! He has left everything to his granddaughter."
Coronado, dumb with astonishment and dismay, mechanically slapped his boot with his cane and stared at Garcia.
"I am ruined," cried the old man. "The pig of hell has ruined me. He has left me, his cousin, his only male relative, to ruin. Not a doubloon to save me.'
"Is there _no_ chance?" asked Coronado, after a long silence.
"None! Oh--yes--one. A little one, a miserable little one. If she dies without issue and without a will, I am heir. And you, Carlos" (changing here to a wheedling tone), "you are mine."
The look which accompanied these last words was a terrible mingling of cunning, cruelty, hope, and despair.
Coronado glanced at Garcia with a shocking comprehension, and immediately dropped his dusky eyes upon the floor.
"You know I have made my will," resumed the old man, "and left you everything."
"Which is nothing," returned Coronado, aware that his uncle was insolvent in reality, and that his estate when settled would not show the residuum of a dollar.
"If the fortune of Muñoz comes to me, I shall be very rich."
"When you get it."
"Listen to me, Carlos. Is there no way of getting it?"
As the two men stared at each other they were horrible. The uncle was always horrible; he was one of the very ugliest of Spaniards; he was a brutal caricature of the national type. He had a low forehead, round face, bulbous nose, shaking fat cheeks, insignificant chin, and only one eye, a black and sleepy orb, which seemed to crawl like a snake. His exceedingly dark skin was made darker by a singular bluish tinge which resulted from heavy doses of nitrate of silver, taken as a remedy for epilepsy. His face was, moreover, mottled with dusky spots, so that he reminded the spectator of a frog or a toad. Just now he looked nothing less than poisonous; the hungriest of cannibals would not have dared eat him.
"I am ruined," he went on groaning. "The war, the Yankees, the Apaches, the devil--I am completely ruined. In another year I shall be sold out. Then, my dear Carlos, you will have no home." " _Sangre de Dios! _" growled Coronado. "Do you want to drive me to the devil?
"O God! to force an old man to such an extremity!" continued Garcia. "It is more than an old man is fitted to strive with. An old man--an old, sick, worn-out man!"
"You are sure about the will?" demanded the nephew.
"I have a copy of it," said Garcia, eagerly. "Here it is. Read it. O Madre de Dios! there is no doubt about it. I can trust my lawyer. It all goes to her. It only comes to me if she dies childless and intestate."
"This is a horrible dilemma to force us into," observed Coronado, after he had read the paper.
"So it is," assented Garcia, looking at him with indescribable anxiety. "So it is; so it is. What is to be done?"
"Suppose I should marry her?"
The old man's countenance fell; he wanted to call his nephew a pig, a dog, and everything else that is villainous; but he restrained himself and merely whimpered, "It would be better than nothing. You could help me."
"There is little chance of it," said Coronado, seeing that the proposition was not approved. "She likes the American lieutenant much, and does not like me at all."
"Then--" began Garcia, and stopped there, trembling all over.
"Then what?"
The venomous old toad made a supreme effort and whispered, "Suppose she should die?"
Coronado wheeled about, walked two or three times up and down the room, returned to where Garcia sat quivering, and murmured, "It must be done quickly."
"Yes, yes," gasped the old man. "She must--it must be childless and intestate."
"She must go off in some natural way," continued the nephew.
The uncle looked up with a vague hope in his one dusky and filmy eye.
"Perhaps the isthmus will do it for her."
Again the old man turned to an image of despair, as he mumbled, "O Madre de Dios! no, no. The isthmus is nothing."
"Is the overland route more dangerous?" asked Coronado.
"It might be made more dangerous. One gets lost in the desert. There are Apaches."
"It is a horrible business," growled Coronado, shaking his head and biting his lips.
"Oh, horrible, horrible!" groaned Garcia. "Muñoz was a pig, and a dog, and a toad, and a snake."
"You old coward! can't you speak out?" hissed Coronado, losing his patience. "Do you want me both to devise and execute, while you take the purses? Tell me at once what your plan is."
"The overland route," whispered Garcia, shaking from head to foot. "You go with her. I pay--I pay everything. You shall have men, horses, mules, wagons, all you want."
"I shall want money, too. I shall need, perhaps, two thousand dollars. Apaches."
"Yes, yes," assented Garcia. "The Apaches make an attack. You shall have money. I can raise it; I will."
"How soon will you have a train ready?"
"Immediately. Any day you want. You must start at once. She must not know of the will. She might remain here, and let the estate be settled for her, and draw on it. She might go back to New York. Anybody would lend her money."
"Yes, events hurry us," muttered Coronado. "Well, get your cursed train ready. I will induce her to take it. I must unsay now all that I said in favor of the isthmus."
"Do be judicious," implored Garcia. "With judgment, with judgment. Lost on the plains. Stolen by Apaches. No killing. No scandals. O my God, how I hate scandals and uproars! I am an old man, Carlos. With judgment, with judgment."
"I comprehend," responded Coronado, adding a long string of Spanish curses, most of them meant for his uncle.
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{
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That very day Coronado made a second call on Clara and her Aunt Maria, to retract, contradict, and disprove all that he had said in favor of the isthmus and against the overland route.
Although his visit was timed early in the evening, he found Lieutenant Thurstane already with the ladies. Instead of scowling at him, or crouching in conscious guilt before him, he made a cordial rush for his hand, smiled sweetly in his face, and offered him incense of gratitude.
"My dear Lieutenant, you are perfectly right," he said, in his fluent English. "The journey by the isthmus is not to be thought of. I have just seen a friend who has made it. Poisonous serpents in myriads. The most deadly climate in the world. Nearly everybody had the _vomito_; one-fifth died of it. You eat a little fruit; down you go on your back--dead in four hours. Then there are constant fights between the emigrants and the sullen, ferocious Indians of the isthmus. My poor friend never slept with his revolver out of his hand. I said to him, 'My dear fellow, it is cruel to rejoice in your misfortunes, but I am heartily glad that I have heard of them. You have saved the life of the most remarkable woman that I ever knew, and of a cousin of mine who is the star of her sex.'"
Here Coronado made one bow to Mrs. Stanley and another to Clara, at the same time kissing his sallow hand enthusiastically to all creation. Aunt Maria tried to look stern at the compliment, but eventually thawed into a smile over it. Clara acknowledged it with a little wave of the hand, as if, coming from Coronado, it meant nothing more than good-morning, which indeed was just about his measure of it.
"Moreover," continued the Mexican, "overland route? Why, it is overland route both ways. If you go by the isthmus, you must traverse all Texas and Louisiana, at the very least. You might as well go at once to San Diego. In short, the route by the isthmus is not to be thought of."
"And what of the overland route?" asked Mrs. Stanley.
"The overland route is the _other_," laughed Coronado.
"Yes, I know. We must take it, I suppose. But what is the last news about it? You spoke this morning of Indians, I believe. Not that I suppose they are very formidable."
"The overland route does not lead directly through paradise, my dear Mrs. Stanley," admitted Coronado with insinuating candor. "But it is not as bad as has been represented. I have never tried it. I must rely upon the report of others. Well, on learning that the isthmus would not do for you, I rushed off immediately to inquire about the overland. I questioned Garcia's teamsters. I catechized some newly-arrived travellers. I pumped dry every source of information. The result is that the overland route will do. No suffering; absolutely none; not a bit. And no danger worth mentioning. The Apaches are under a cloud. Our American conquerors and fellow-citizens" (here he gently patted Thurstane on the shoulder-strap), "our Romans of the nineteenth century, they tranquillize the Apaches. A child might walk from here to Fort Yuma without risking its little scalp."
All this was said in the most light-hearted and airy manner conceivable. Coronado waved and floated on zephyrs of fancy and fluency. A butterfly or a humming-bird could not have talked more cheerily about flying over a parterre of flowers than he about traversing the North American desert. And, with all this frivolous, imponderable grace, what an accent of verity he had! He spoke of the teamsters as if he had actually conversed with them, and of the overland route as if he had been studiously gathering information concerning it.
"I believe that what you say about the Apaches is true," observed Thurstane, a bit awkwardly.
Coronado smiled, tossed him a little bow, and murmured in the most cordial, genial way, "And the rest?"
"I beg pardon," said the Lieutenant, reddening. "I didn't mean to cast doubt upon any of your statements, sir."
Thurstane had the army tone; he meant to be punctiliously polite; perhaps he was a little stiff in his politeness. But he was young, had had small practice in society, was somewhat hampered by modesty, and so sometimes made a blunder. Such things annoyed him excessively; a breach of etiquette seemed something like a breach of orders; hadn't meant to charge Coronado with drawing the long bow; couldn't help coloring about it. Didn't think much of Coronado, but stood somewhat in awe of him, as being four years older in time and a dozen years older in the ways of the world.
"I only meant to say," he continued, "that I have information concerning the Apaches which coincides with yours, sir. They are quiet, at least for the present. Indeed, I understand that Red Sleeve, or Manga Colorada, as you call him, is coming in with his band to make a treaty."
"Admirable!" cried Coronado. "Why not hire him to guarantee our safety? Set a thief to catch a thief. Why does not your Government do that sort of thing? Let the Apaches protect the emigrants, and the United States pay the Apaches. They would be the cheapest military force possible. That is the way the Turks manage the desert Arabs."
"Mr. Coronado, you ought to be Governor of New Mexico," said Aunt Maria, stricken with admiration at this project.
Thurstane looked at the two as if he considered them a couple of fools, each bigger than the other. Coronado advanced to Mrs. Stanley, took her hand, bowed over it, and murmured, "Let me have your influence at Washington, my dear Madame." The remarkable woman squirmed a little, fearing lest he should kiss her ringers, but nevertheless gave him a gracious smile.
"It strikes me, however," she said, "that the isthmus route is better. We know by experience that the journey from here to Bent's Fort is safe and easy. From there down the Arkansas and Missouri to St. Louis it is mostly water carriage; and from St. Louis you can sail anywhere."
Coronado was alarmed. He must put a stopper on this project. He called up all his resources.
"My dear Mrs. Stanley, allow me. Remember that emigrants move westward, and not eastward. Coming from Bent's Fort you had protection and company; but going towards it would be different. And then think what you would lose. The great American desert, as it is absurdly styled, is one of the most interesting regions on earth. Mrs. Stanley, did you ever hear of the Casas Grandes, the Casas de Montezuma, the ruined cities of New Mexico? In this so-called desert there was once an immense population. There was a civilization which rose, flourished, decayed, and disappeared without a historian. Nothing remains of it but the walls of its fortresses and palaces. Those you will see. They are wonderful. They are worth ten times the labor and danger which we shall encounter. Buildings eight hundred feet long by two hundred and fifty feet deep, Mrs. Stanley. The resting-places and wayside strongholds of the Aztecs on their route from the frozen North to found the Empire of the Montezumas! This whole region is strewn, and cumbered, and glorified with ruins. If we should go by the way of the San Juan--" "The San Juan!" protested Thurstane. "Nobody goes by the way of the San Juan."
Coronado stopped, bowed, smiled, waited to see if Thurstane had finished, and then proceeded.
"Along the San Juan every hilltop is crowned with these monuments of antiquity. It is like the castled Rhine. Ruins looking in the faces of ruins. It is a tragedy in stone. It is like Niobe and her daughters. Moreover, if we take this route we shall pass the Moquis. The independent Moquis are a fragment of the ancient ruling race of New Mexico. They live in stone-built cities on lofty eminences. They weave blankets of exquisite patterns and colors, and produce a species of pottery which almost deserves the name of porcelain."
"Really, you ought to write all this," exclaimed Aunt Maria, her imagination fired to a white heat.
"I ought," said Coronado, impressively. "I owe it to these people to celebrate them in history. I owe them that much because of the name I bear. Did you ever hear of Coronado, the conqueror of New Mexico, the stormer of the seven cities of Cibola? It was he who gave the final shock to this antique civilization. He was the Cortes of this portion of the continent. I bear his name, and his blood runs in my veins."
He held down his head as if he were painfully oppressed by the sense of his crimes and responsibilities as a descendant of the waster of aboriginal New Mexico. Mrs. Stanley, delighted with his emotion, slily grasped and pressed his hand.
"Oh, man! man!" she groaned. "What evils has that creature man wrought in this beautiful world! Ah, Mr. Coronado, it would have been a very different planet had woman had her rightful share in the management of its affairs."
"Undoubtedly," sighed Coronado. He had already obtained an insight into this remarkable person's views on the woman question, the superiority of her own sex, the stolidity and infamy of the other. It was worth his while to humor her on this point, for the sake of gaining an influence over her, and so over Clara. Cheered by the success of his history, he now launched into pure poetry.
"Woman has done something," he said. "There is every reason to believe that the cities of the San Juan were ruled by queens, and that some of them were inhabited by a race of Amazons."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Aunt Maria, flushing and rustling with interest.
"It is the opinion of the best antiquarians. It is my opinion. Nothing else can account for the exquisite earthenware which is found there. Women, you are aware, far surpass men in the arts of beauty. Moreover, the inscriptions on hieroglyphic rocks in these abandoned cities evidently refer to Amazons. There you see them doing the work of men--carrying on war, ruling conquered regions, founding cities. It is a picture of a golden age, Mrs. Stanley."
Aunt Maria meant to go by way of the San Juan, if she had to scalp Apaches herself in doing it.
"Lieutenant Thurstane, what do you say?" she asked, turning her sparkling eyes upon the officer.
"I must confess that I never heard of all these things," replied Thurstane, with an air which added, "And I don't believe in most of them."
"As for the San Juan route," he continued, "it is two hundred miles at least out of our way. The country is a desert and almost unexplored. I don't fancy the plan--I beg your pardon, Mr. Coronado--but I don't fancy it at all."
Aunt Maria despised him and almost hated him for his stupid, practical, unpoetic common sense.
"I must say that I quite fancy the San Juan route," she responded, with proper firmness.
"I venture to agree with you," said Coronado, as meekly as if her fancy were not of his own making. "Only a hundred miles off the straight line (begging your pardon, my dear Lieutenant), and through a country which is naturally fertile--witness the immense population which it once supported. As for its being unexplored, I have explored it myself; and I shall go with you."
"Shall you!" cried Aunt Maria, as if that made all safe and delightful.
"Yes. My excellent Uncle Garcia (good, kind-hearted old man) takes the strongest interest in this affair. He is resolved that his charming little relative here, La Señorita Clara, shall cross the continent in safety and comfort. He offers a special wagon train for the purpose, and insists that I shall accompany it. Of course I am only too delighted to obey him."
"Garcia is very good, and so are you, Coronado," said Clara, very thankful and profoundly astonished. "How can I ever repay you both? I shall always be your debtor."
"My dear cousin!" protested Coronado, bowing and smiling. "Well, it is settled. We will start as soon as may be. The train will be ready in a day or two."
"I have no money," stammered Clara. "The estate is not settled."
"Our good old Garcia has thought of everything. He will advance you what you want, and take your draft on the executors."
"Your uncle is one of nature's noblemen," affirmed Aunt Maria. "I must call on him and thank him for his goodness and generosity."
"Oh, never!" said Coronado. "He only waits your permission to visit you and pay you his humble respects. Absence has prevented him from attending to that delightful duty heretofore. He has but just returned from Albuquerque."
"Tell him I shall be glad to see him," smiled Aunt Maria. "But what does he say of the San Juan route?"
"He advises it. He has been in the overland trade for thirty years. He is tenderly interested in his relative Clara; and he advises her to go by way of the San Juan."
"Then so it shall be," declared Aunt Maria.
"And how do you go, Lieutenant?" asked Coronado, turning to Thurstane.
"I had thought of travelling with you," was the answer, delivered with a grave and troubled air, as if now he must give up his project.
Coronado was delighted. He had urged the northern and circuitous route mainly to get rid of the officer, taking it for granted that the latter must join his new command as soon as possible. He did not want him courting Clara all across the continent; and he, did not want him saving her from being lost, if it should become necessary to lose her.
"I earnestly hope that we shall not be deprived of your company," he said.
Thurstane, in profound thought, simply bowed his acknowledgments. A few minutes later, as he rose to return to his quarters, he said, with an air of solemn resolution, "If I can possibly go with you, I _will_."
All the next day and evening Coronado was in and out of the Van Diemen house. Had there been a mail for the ladies, he would have brought it to them; had it contained a letter from California, he would have abstracted and burnt it. He helped them pack for the journey; he made an inventory of the furniture and found storeroom for it; he was a valet and a spy in one. Meantime Garcia hurried up his train, and hired suitable muleteers for the animals and suitable assassins for the travellers. Thurstane was also busy, working all day and half of the night over his government accounts, so that he might if possible get off with Clara.
Coronado thought of making interest with the post-commandant to have Thurstane kept a few days in Santa Fé. But the post-commandant was a grim and taciturn old major, who looked him through and through with a pair of icy gray eyes, and returned brief answers to his musical commonplaces. Coronado did not see how he could humbug him, and concluded not to try it. The attempt might excite suspicion; the major might say, "How is this your business?" So, after a little unimportant tattle, Coronado made his best bow to the old fellow, and hurried off to oversee his so-called cousin.
In the evening he brought Garcia to call on the ladies. Aunt Maria was rather surprised and shocked to see such an excellent man look so much like an infamous scoundrel. "But good people are always plain," she reasoned; and so she was as cordial to him as one can be in English to a saint who understands nothing but Spanish. Garcia, instructed by Coronado, could not bow low enough nor smile greasily enough at Aunt Maria. His dull commonplaces moreover, were translated by his nephew into flowering compliments for the lady herself, and enthusiastic professions of faith in the superior intelligence and moral worth of all women. So the two got along famously, although neither ever knew what the other had really said.
When Clara appeared, Garcia bowed humbly without lifting his eyes to her face, and received her kiss without returning it, as one might receive the kiss of a corpse.
"Contemptible coward!" thought Coronado. Then, turning to Mrs. Stanley, he whispered, "My uncle is almost broken down with this parting."
"Excellent creature!" murmured Aunt Maria, surveying the old toad with warm sympathy. "What a pity he has lost one eye! It quite injures the benevolent expression of his face."
Although Garcia was very distantly connected with Clara, she gave him the title of uncle.
"How is this, my uncle?" she said, gaily. "You send your merchandise trains through Bernalillo, and you send me through Santa Anna and Rio Arriba."
Garcia, cowed and confounded, made no reply that was comprehensible.
"It is a newly discovered route," put in Coronado, "lately found to be easier and safer than the old one. Two hundred and fifty years in learning the fact, Mrs. Stanley! Just as we were two hundred and fifty years without discovering the gold of California."
"Ah!" said Clara. Absent since her childhood from New Mexico, she knew little about its geography, and could be easily deceived.
After a while Thurstane entered, out of breath and red with haste. He had stolen ten minutes from his accounts and stores to bring Miss Van Diemen a piece of information which was to him important and distressing.
"I fear that I shall not be able to go with you," he said. "I have received orders to wait for a sergeant and three recruits who have been assigned to my company. The messenger reports that they are on the march from Fort Bent with an emigrant train, and will not be here for a week. It annoys me horribly, Miss Van Diemen. I thought I saw my way clear to be of your party. I assure you I earnestly desired it. This route--I am afraid of it--I wanted to be with you."
"To protect me?" queried Clara, her face lighting up with a grateful smile, so innocent and frank was she. Then she turned grave, again, and added, "I am sorry."
Thankful for these last words, but nevertheless quite miserable, the youngster worshipped her and trembled for her.
This conversation had been carried on in a quiet tone, so that the others of the party had not overheard it, not even the watchful Coronado.
"It is too unfortunate," said Clara, turning to them, "Lieutenant Thurstane cannot go with us."
Garcia and Coronado exchanged a look which said, "Thank--the devil!"
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The next day brought news of an obstacle to the march of the wagon train through Santa Anna and Rio Arriba.
It was reported that the audacious and savage Apache chieftain, Manga Colorada, or Red Sleeve, under pretence of wanting to make a treaty with the Americans, had approached within sixty miles of Santa Fé to the west, and camped there, on the route to the San Juan country, not making treaties at all, but simply making hot beefsteaks out of Mexican cattle and cold carcasses out of Mexican rancheros.
"We shall have to get those fellows off that trail and put them across the Bernalillo route," said Coronado to Garcia.
"The pigs! the dogs! the wicked beasts! the devils!" barked the old man, dancing about the room in a rage. After a while he dropped breathless into a chair and looked eagerly at his nephew for help.
"It will cost at least another thousand," observed the younger man.
"You have had two thousand," shuddered Garcia. "You were to do the whole accursed job with that."
"I did not count on Manga Colorada. Besides, I have given a thousand to our little cousin. I must keep a thousand to meet the chances that may come. There are men to be bribed."
Garcia groaned, hesitated, decided, went to some hoard which he had put aside for great needs, counted out a hundred American eagles, toyed with them, wept over them, and brought them to Coronado.
"Will that do?" he asked. "It must do. There is no more."
"I will try with that," said the nephew. "Now let me have a few good men and your best horses. I want to see them all before I trust myself with them."
Coronado felt himself in a position to dictate, and it was curious to see how quick he put on magisterial airs; he was one of those who enjoy authority, though little and brief.
"Accursed beast!" thought Garcia, who did not dare just now to break out with his "pig, dog," etc. "He wants me to pay everything. The thousand ought to be enough for men and horses and all. Why not poison the girl at once, and save all this money? If he had the spirit of a man! O Madre de Dios! Madre de Dios! What extremities! what extremities!"
But Garcia was like a good many of us; his thoughts were worse than his deeds and words. While he was cogitating thus savagely, he was saying aloud, "My son, my dear Carlos, come and choose for yourself."
Turning into the court of the house, they strolled through a medley of wagons, mules, horses, merchandise, muleteers, teamsters, idlers, white men and Indians. Coronado soon picked out a couple of rancheros whom he knew as capital riders, fair marksmen, faithful and intelligent. Next his eye fell upon a man in Mexican clothing, almost as dark and dirty too as the ordinary Mexican, but whose height, size, insolence of carriage, and ferocity of expression marked him as of another and more pugnacious, more imperial race.
"You are an American," said Coronado, in his civil manner, for he had two manners as opposite as the poles.
"I be," replied the stranger, staring at Coronado as a Lombard or Frankish warrior might have stared at an effeminate and diminutive Roman.
"May I ask what your name is?"
"Some folks call me Texas Smith."
Coronado shifted uneasily on his feet, as a man might shift in presence of a tiger, who, as he feared, was insufficiently chained. He was face to face with a fellow who was as much the terror of the table-land, from the borders of Texas to California, as if he had been an Apache chief.
This noted desperado, although not more than twenty-six or seven years old, had the horrible fame of a score of murders. His appearance mated well with his frightful history and reputation. His intensely black eyes, blacker even than the eyes of Coronado, had a stare of absolutely indescribable ferocity. It was more ferocious than the merely brutal glare of a tiger; it was an intentional malignity, super-beastly and sub-human. They were eyes which no other man ever looked into and afterward forgot. His sunburnt, sallow, haggard, ghastly face, stained early and for life with the corpse-like coloring of malarious fevers, was a fit setting for such optics. Although it was nearly oval in contour, and although the features were or had been fairly regular, yet it was so marked by hard, and one might almost say fleshless muscles, and so brutalized by long indulgence in savage passions, that it struck you as frightfully ugly. A large dull-red scar on the right jaw and another across the left cheek added the final touches to this countenance of a cougar.
"He is my man," whispered Garcia to Coronado. "I have hired him for the great adventure. Sixty piastres a month. Why not take him with you to-day?"
Coronado gave another glance at the gladiator and meditated. Should he trust this beast of a Texan to guard him against those other beasts, the Apaches? Well, he could die but once; this whole affair was detestably risky; he must not lose time in shuddering over the first steps.
"Mr. Smith," he said, "very glad to know that you are with us. Can you start in an hour for the camp of Manga Colorada? Sixty miles there. We must be back by to-morrow night. It would be best not to say where we are going."
Texas Smith nodded, turned abruptly on the huge heels of his Mexican boots, stalked to where his horse was fastened, and began to saddle him.
"My dear uncle, why didn't you hire the devil?" whispered Coronado as he stared after the cutthroat.
"Get yourself ready, my nephew," was Garcia's reply. "I will see to the men and horses."
In an hour the expedition was off at full gallop. Coronado had laid aside his American dandy raiment, and was in the full costume of a Mexican of the provinces--broad-brimmed hat of white straw, blue broadcloth jacket adorned with numerous small silver buttons, velvet vest of similar splendor, blue trousers slashed from the knee downwards and gay with buttons, high, loose embroidered boots of crimson leather, long steel spurs jingling and shining. The change became him; he seemed a larger and handsomer man for it; he looked the caballero and almost the hidalgo.
Three hours took the party thirty miles to a hacienda of Garcia's, where they changed horses, leaving their first mounting for the return. After half an hour for dinner, they pushed on again, always at a gallop, the hoofs clattering over the hard, yellow, sunbaked earth, or dashing recklessly along smooth sheets of rock, or through fields of loose, slippery stones. Rare halts to breathe the animals; then the steady, tearing gallop again; no walking or other leisurely gait. Coronado led the way and hastened the pace. There was no tiring him; his thin, sinewy, sun-hardened frame could bear enormous fatigue; moreover, the saddle was so familiar to him that he almost reposed in it. If he had needed physical support, he would have found it in his mental energy. He was capable of that executive furor, that intense passion of exertion, which the man of Latin race can exhibit when he has once fairly set himself to an enterprise. He was of the breed which in nobler days had produced Gonsalvo, Cortes, Pizarro, and Darien.
These riders had set out at ten o'clock in the morning; at five in the afternoon they drew bridle in sight of the Apache encampment. They were on the brow of a stony hill: a pile of bare, gray, glaring, treeless, herbless layers of rock; a pyramid truncated near its base, but still of majestic altitude; one of the pyramids of nature in that region; in short, a butte. Below them lay a valley of six or eight miles in length by one or two in breadth, through the centre of which a rivulet had drawn a paradise of verdure. In the middle of the valley, at the head of a bend in the rivulet, was a camp of human brutes. It was a bivouac rather than a camp. The large tents of bison hide used by the northern Indians are unknown to the Apaches; they have not the bison, and they have less need of shelter in winter. What Coronado saw at this distance was, a few huts of branches, a strolling of many horses, and some scattered riders.
Texas Smith gave him a glance of inquiry which said, "Shall we go ahead--or fire?"
Coronado spurred his horse down the rough, disjointed, slippery declivity, and the others followed. They were soon perceived; the Apache swarm was instantly in a buzz; horses were saddled and mounted, or mounted without saddling; there was a consultation, and then a wild dash toward the travellers. As the two parties neared each other at a gallop, Coronado rode to the front of his squad, waving his sombrero. An Indian who wore the dress of a Mexican caballero, jacket, loose trousers, hat, and boots, spurred in like manner to the front, gestured to his followers to halt, brought his horse to a walk, and slowly approached the white man. Coronado made a sign to show that his pistols were in his holsters; and the Apache responded by dropping his lance and slinging his bow over his shoulder. The two met midway between the two squads of staring, silent horsemen.
"Is it Manga Colorada?" asked the Mexican, in Spanish.
"Manga Colorada," replied the Apache, his long, dark, haggard, savage face lighting up for a moment with a smile of gratified vanity.
"I come in peace, then," said Coronado. "I want your help; I will pay for it."
In our account of this interview we shall translate the broken Spanish of the Indian into ordinary English.
"Manga Colorada will help," he said, "if the pay is good."
Even during this short dialogue the Apaches had with difficulty restrained their curiosity; and their little wiry horses were now caracoling, rearing, and plunging in close proximity to the two speakers.
"We will talk of this by ourselves," said Coronado. "Let us go to your camp."
The conjoint movement of the leaders toward the Indian bivouac was a signal for their followers to mingle and exchange greetings. The adventurers were enveloped and very nearly ridden down by over two hundred prancing, screaming horsemen, shouting to their visitors in their own guttural tongue or in broken Spanish, and enforcing their wild speech with vehement gestures. It was a pandemonium which horribly frightened the Mexican rancheros, and made Coronado's dark cheek turn to an ashy yellow.
The civilized imagination can hardly conceive such a tableau of savagery as that presented by these Arabs of the great American desert. Arabs! The similitude is a calumny on the descendants of Ishmael; the fiercest Bedouin are refined and mild compared with the Apaches. Even the brutal and criminal classes of civilization, the pugilists, roughs, burglars, and pickpockets of our large cities, the men whose daily life is rebellion against conscience, commandment, and justice, offer a gentler and nobler type of character and expression than these "children of nature." There was hardly a face among that gang of wild riders which did not outdo the face of Texas Smith in degraded ferocity. Almost every man and boy was obviously a liar, a thief, and a murderer. The air of beastly cruelty was made even more hateful by an air of beastly cunning. Taking color, brutality, grotesqueness, and filth together, it seemed as if here were a mob of those malignant and ill-favored devils whom Dante has described and the art of his age has painted and sculptured.
It is possible, by the way, that this appearance of moral ugliness was due in part to the physical ugliness of features, which were nearly without exception coarse, irregular, exaggerated, grotesque, and in some cases more like hideous masks than like faces.
Ferocity of expression was further enhanced by poverty and squalor. The mass of this fierce cavalry was wretchedly clothed and disgustingly dirty. Even the showy Mexican costume of Manga Colorada was ripped, frayed, stained with grease and perspiration, and not free from sombre spots which looked like blood. Every one wore the breech-cloth, in some cases nicely fitted and sewed, in others nothing but a shapeless piece of deerskin tied on anyhow. There were a few, either minor chiefs, or leading braves, or professional dandies (for this class exists among the Indians), who sported something like a full Apache costume, consisting of a helmet-shaped cap with a plume of feathers, a blanket or _serape_ flying loose from the shoulders, a shirt and breech-cloth, and a pair of long boots, made large and loose in the Mexican style and showy with dyeing and embroidery. These boots, very necessary to men who must ride through thorns and bushes, were either drawn up so as to cover the thighs or turned over from the knee downward, like the leg-covering of Rupert's cavaliers. Many heads were bare, or merely shielded by wreaths of grasses and leaves, the greenery contrasting fantastically with the unkempt hair and fierce faces, but producing at a distance an effect which was not without sylvan grace.
The only weapons were iron-tipped lances eight or nine feet long, thick and strong bows of three or three and a half feet, and quivers of arrows slung across the thigh or over the shoulder. The Apaches make little use of firearms, being too lazy or too stupid to keep them in order, and finding it difficult to get ammunition. But so long as they have to fight only the unwarlike Mexicans, they are none the worse for this lack. The Mexicans fly at the first yell; the Apaches ride after them and lance them in the back; clumsy _escopetos_ drop loaded from the hands of dying cowards. Such are the battles of New Mexico. It is only when these red-skinned Tartars meet Americans or such high-spirited Indians as the Opates that they have to recoil before gunpowder. [Footnote: Since those times the Apaches have learned to use firearms.]
The fact that Coronado dared ride into this camp of thieving assassins shows what risks he could force himself to run when he thought it necessary. He was not physically a very brave man; he had no pugnacity and no adventurous love of danger for its own sake; but when he was resolved on an enterprise, he could go through with it.
There was a rest of several hours. The rancheros fed the horses on corn which they had brought in small sacks. Texas Smith kept watch, suffered no Apache to touch him, had his pistols always cocked, and stood ready to sell life at the highest price. Coronado walked deliberately to a retired spot with Manga Colorada, Delgadito, and two other chiefs, and made known his propositions. What he desired was that the Apaches should quit their present post immediately, perform a forced march of a hundred and forty miles or so to the southwest, place themselves across the overland trail through Bernalillo, and do something to alarm people. No great harm; he did not want men murdered nor houses burned; they might eat a few cattle, if they were hungry: there were plenty of cattle, and Apaches must live. And if they should yell at a train or so and stampede the loose mules, he had no objection. But no slaughtering; he wanted them to be merciful: just make a pretence of harrying in Bernalillo; nothing more.
The chiefs turned their ill-favored countenances on each other, and talked for a while in their own language. Then, looking at Coronado, they grunted, nodded, and sat in silence, waiting for his terms.
"Send that boy away," said the Mexican, pointing to a youth of twelve or fourteen, better dressed than most Apache urchins, who had joined the little circle.
"It is my son," replied Manga Colorada. "He is learning to be a chief."
The boy stood upright, facing the group with dignity, a handsomer youth than is often seen among his people. Coronado, who had something of the artist in him, was so interested in noting the lad's regular features and tragic firmness of expression, that for a moment he forgot his projects. Manga Colorada, mistaking the cause of his silence, encouraged him to proceed.
"My son does not speak Spanish," he said. "He will not understand."
"You know what money is?" inquired the Mexican.
"Yes, we know," grunted the chief.
"You can buy clothes and arms with it in the villages, and aguardiente."
Another grunt of assent and satisfaction.
"Three hundred piastres," said Coronado.
The chiefs consulted in their own tongue, and then replied, "The way is long."
"How much?"
Manga Colorada held up five fingers.
"Five hundred?"
A unanimous grunt.
"It is all I have," said Coronado.
The chiefs made no reply.
Coronado rose, walked to his horse, took two small packages out of his saddle-bags and slipped them slily into his boots, and then carried the bags to where the chiefs sat in council. There he held them up and rolled out five _rouleaux_, each containing a hundred Mexican dollars. The Indians tore open the envelopes, stared at the broad pieces, fingered them, jingled them together, and uttered grunts of amazement and joy. Probably they had never before seen so much money, at least not in their own possession. Coronado was hardly less content; for while he had received a thousand dollars to bring about this understanding, he had risked but seven hundred with him, and of these he had saved two hundred.
Four hours later the camp had vanished, and the Indians were on their way toward the southwest, the moonlight showing their irregular column of march, and glinting faintly from the heads of their lances.
At nine or ten in the evening, when every Apache had disappeared, and the clatter of ponies had gone far away into the quiet night, Coronado lay down to rest. He would have started homeward, but the country was a complete desert, the trail led here and there over vast sheets of trackless rock, and he feared that he might lose his way. Texas Smith and one of the rancheros had ridden after the Apaches to see whether they kept the direction which had been agreed upon. One ranchero was slumbering already, and the third crouched as sentinel.
Coronado could not sleep at once. He thought over his enterprise, cross-examined his chances of success, studied the invisible courses of the future. Leave Clara on the plains, to be butchered by Indians, or to die of starvation? He hardly considered the idea; it was horrible and repulsive; better marry her. If necessary, force her into a marriage; he could bring it about somehow; she would be much in his power. Well, he had got rid of Thurstane; that was a great obstacle removed. Probably, that fellow being out of sight, he, Coronado, could soon eclipse him in the girl's estimation. There would be no need of violence; all would go easily and end in prosperity. Garcia would be furious at the marriage, but Garcia was a fool to expect any other result.
However, here he was, just at the beginning of things, and by no means safe from danger. He had two hundred dollars in his boot-legs. Had his rancheros suspected it? Would they murder him for the money? He hoped not; he just faintly hoped not; for he was becoming very sleepy; he was asleep.
He was awakened by a noise, or perhaps it was a touch, he scarcely knew what. He struggled as fiercely and vainly as one who fights against a nightmare. A dark form was over him, a hard knee was on his breast, hard knuckles were at his throat, an arm was raised to strike, a weapon was gleaming.
On the threshold of his enterprise, after he had taken its first hazardous step with safety and success, Coronado found himself at the point of death.
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When Coronado regained a portion of the senses which had been throttled out of him, he discovered Texas Smith standing by his side, and two dead men lying near, all rather vaguely seen at first through his dizziness and the moonlight.
"What does this mean?" he gasped, getting on his hands and knees, and then on his feet. "Who has been assassinating?"
The borderer, who, instead of helping his employer to rise, was coolly reloading his rifle, did not immediately reply. As the shaken and somewhat unmanned Coronado looked at him, he was afraid of him. The moonlight made Smith's sallow, disfigured face so much more ghastly than usual, that he had the air of a ghoul or vampyre. And when, after carefully capping his piece, he drawled forth the word "Patchies," his harsh, croaking voice had an unwholesome, unhuman sound, as if it were indeed the utterance of a feeder upon corpses.
"Apaches!" said Coronado. "What! after I had made a treaty with them?"
"This un is a 'Patchie," remarked Texas, giving the nearest body a shove with his boot. "Thar was two of 'em. They knifed one of your men. T'other cleared, he did. I was comin' in afoot. I had a notion of suthin' goin' on, 'n' left the critters out thar, with the rancheros, 'n' stole in. Got in just in time to pop the cuss that had you. T'other un vamosed."
"Oh, the villains!" shrieked Coronado, excited at the thought of his narrow escape. "This is the way they keep their treaties."
"Mought be these a'n't the same," observed Texas. "Some 'Patchies is wild, 'n' live separate, like bachelor beavers."
Coronado stooped and examined the dead Indian. He was a miserable object, naked, except a ragged, filthy breech-clout, his figure gaunt, and his legs absolutely scaly with dirt, starvation, and hard living of all sorts. He might well be one of those outcasts who are in disfavor with their savage brethren, lead a precarious existence outside of the tribal organization, and are to the Apaches what the Texas Smiths are to decent Americans.
"One of the bachelor-beaver sort, you bet," continued Texas. "Don't run with the rest of the crowd."
"And there's that infernal coward of a ranchero," cried Coronado, as the runaway sentry sneaked back to the group. "You cursed poltroon, why didn't you give the alarm? Why didn't you fight?"
He struck the man, pulled his long hair, threw him down, kicked him, and spat on him. Texas Smith looked on with an approving grin, and suggested, "Better shute the dam cuss."
But Coronado was not bloodthirsty; having vented his spite, he let the fellow go. "You saved my life," he said to Texas. "When we get back you shall be paid for it."
At the moment he intended to present him with the two hundred dollars which were cumbering his boots. But by the time they had reached Garcia's hacienda on the way back to Santa Fé, his gratitude had fallen off seventy-five per cent, and he thought fifty enough. Even that diminished his profits on the expedition to four hundred and fifty dollars. And Coronado, although extravagant, was not generous; he liked to spend money, but he hated to give it or pay it.
During the four days which immediately followed his safe return to Santa Fé, he and Garcia were in a worry of anxiety. Would Manga Colorada fulfil his contract and cast a shadow of peril over the Bernalillo route? Would letters or messengers arrive from California, informing Clara of the death and will of Muñoz? Everything happened as they wished; reports came that the Apaches were raiding in Bernalillo; the girl received no news concerning her grandfather. Coronado, smiling with success and hope, met Thurstane at the Van Diemen house, in the presence of Clara and Aunt Maria, and blandly triumphed over him.
"How now about your safe road through the southern counties?" he said. "Apaches!"
"So I hear," replied the young officer soberly. "It is horribly unlucky."
"We start to-morrow," added Coronado.
"To-morrow!" replied Thurstane, with a look of dismay.
"I hope you will be with us," said Coronado.
"Everything goes wrong," exclaimed the annoyed lieutenant. "Here are some of my stores damaged, and I have had to ask for a board of survey. I couldn't possibly leave for two days yet, even if my recruits should arrive."
"How very unfortunate!" groaned Coronado. "My dear fellow, we had counted on you."
"Lieutenant Thurstane, can't you overtake us?" inquired Clara.
Thurstane wanted to kneel down and thank her, while Coronado wanted to throw something at her.
"I will try," promised the officer, his fine, frank, manly face brightening with pleasure. "If the thing can be done, it will be done."
Coronado, while hoping that he would be ordered by the southern route, or that he would somehow break his neck, had the superfine brass to say, "Don't fail us, Lieutenant."
In spite of the managements of the Mexican to keep Clara and Thurstane apart, the latter succeeded in getting an aside with the young lady.
"So you take the northern trail?" he said, with a seriousness which gave his blue-black eyes an expression of almost painful pathos. Those eyes were traitors; however discreet the rest of his face might be, they revealed his feelings; they were altogether too pathetic to be in the head of a man and an officer.
"But you will overtake us," Clara replied, out of a charming faith that with men all things are possible.
"Yes," he said, almost fiercely.
"Besides, Coronado knows," she added, still trusting in the male being. "He says this is the surest road."
Thurstane did not believe it, but he did not want to alarm her when alarm was useless, and he made no comment.
"I have a great mind to resign," he presently broke out.
Clara colored; she did not fully understand him, but she guessed that all this emotion was somehow on her account; and a surprised, warm Spanish heart beat at once its alarm.
"It would be of no use," he immediately added. "I couldn't get away until my resignation had been accepted. I must bear this as well as I can."
The young lady began to like him better than ever before, and yet she began to draw gently away from him, frightened by a consciousness of her liking.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Van Diemen," said Thurstane, in an inexplicable confusion.
"There is no need," replied Clara, equally confused.
"Well," he resumed, after a struggle to regain his self-control, "I will do my utmost to overtake you."
"We shall be very glad," returned Clara, with a singular mixture of consciousness and artlessness.
There was an exquisite innocence and almost childish simplicity in this girl of eighteen. It was, so to speak, not quite civilized; it was not in the style of American young ladies; our officer had never, at home, observed anything like it; and, of course--O yes, of course, it fascinated him. The truth is, he was so far gone in loving her that he would have been charmed by her ways no matter what they might have been.
On the very morning after the above dialogue Garcia's train started for Rio Arriba, taking with it a girl who had been singled out for a marriage which she did not guess, or for a death whose horrors were beyond her wildest fears.
The train consisted of six long and heavy covered vehicles, not dissimilar in size, strength, and build to army wagons. Garcia had thought that two would suffice; six wagons, with their mules, etc., were a small fortune: what if the Apaches should take them? But Coronado had replied: "Nobody sends a train of two wagons; do you want to rouse suspicion?"
So there were six; and each had a driver and a muleteer, making twelve hired men thus far. On horseback, there were six Mexicans, nominally cattle-drivers going to California, but really guards for the expedition--the most courageous bullies that could be picked up in Santa Fé, each armed with pistols and a rifle. Finally, there were Coronado and his terrible henchman, Texas Smith, with their rifles and revolvers. Old Garcia perspired with anguish as he looked over his caravan, and figured up the cost in his head.
Thurstane, wretched at heart, but with a cheering smile on his lips, came to bid the ladies farewell.
"What do you think of this?" Aunt Maria called to him from her seat in one of the covered wagons. "We are going a thousand miles through deserts and savages. You men suppose that women have no courage. I call this heroism."
"Certainly," nodded the young fellow, not thinking of her at all, unless it was that she was next door to an idiot.
Although his mind was so full of Clara that it did not seem as if he could receive an impression from any other human being, his attention was for a moment arrested by a countenance which struck him as being more ferocious than he had ever seen before except on the shoulders of an Apache. A tall man in Mexican costume, with a scar on his chin and another on his cheek, was glaring at him with two intensely black and savage eyes. It was Texas Smith, taking the measure of Thurstane's fighting power and disposition. A hint from Coronado had warned the borderer that here was a person whom it might be necessary some day to get rid of. The officer responded to this ferocious gaze with a grim, imperious stare, such as one is apt to acquire amid the responsibilities and dangers of army life. It was like a wolf and a mastiff surveying each other.
Thurstane advanced to Clara, helped her into her saddle, and held her hand while he urged her to be careful of herself, never to wander from the train, never to be alone, etc. The girl turned a little pale; it was not exactly because of his anxious manner; it was because of the eloquence that there is in a word of parting. At the moment she felt so alone in the world, in such womanish need of sympathy, that had he whispered to her, "Be my wife," she might have reached out her hands to him. But Thurstane was far from guessing that an angel could have such weak impulses; and he no more thought of proposing to her thus abruptly than of ascending off-hand into heaven.
Coronado observed the scene, and guessing how perilous the moment was, pushed forward his uncle to say good-by to Clara. The old scoundrel kissed her hand; he did not dare to lift his one eye to her face; he kissed her hand and bowed himself out of reach.
"Farewell, Mr. Garcia," called Aunt Maria. "Poor, excellent old creature! What a pity he can't understand English! I should so like to say something nice to him. Farewell, Mr. Garcia."
Garcia kissed his fat fingers to her, took off his sombrero, waved it, bowed a dozen times, and smiled like a scared devil. Then, with other good-bys, delivered right and left from everybody to everybody, the train rumbled away. Thurstane was about to accompany it out of the town when his clerk came to tell him that the board of survey required his immediate presence. Cursing his hard fate, and wishing himself anything but an officer in the army, he waved a last farewell to Clara, and turned his back on her, perhaps forever.
Santa Fé is situated on the great central plateau of North America, seven thousand feet above the level of the sea. Around it spreads an arid plain, sloping slightly where it approaches the Rio Grande, and bordered by mountains which toward the south are of moderate height, while toward the north they rise into fine peaks, glorious with eternal snow. Although the city is in the latitude of Albemarle Sound, North Carolina, its elevation and its neighborhood to Alpine ranges give it a climate which is in the main cool, equable, and healthy.
The expedition moved across the plain in a southwesterly direction. Coronado's intention was to cross the Rio Grande at Peña Blanca, skirt the southern edge of the Jemez Mountains, reach San Isidoro, and then march northward toward the San Juan region. The wagons were well fitted out with mules, and as Garcia had not chosen to send much merchandise by this risky route, they were light, so that the rate of progress was unusually rapid. We cannot trouble ourselves with the minor incidents of the journey. Taking it for granted that the Rio Grande was passed, that halts were made, meals cooked and eaten, nights passed in sleep, days in pleasant and picturesque travelling, we will leap into the desert land beyond San Isidoro.
The train was now seventy-five miles from Santa Fé. Coronado had so pushed the pace that he had made this distance in the rather remarkable time of three days. Of course his object in thus hurrying was to get so far ahead of Thurstane that the latter would not try to overtake him, or would get lost in attempting it.
Meanwhile he had not forgotten Garcia's little plan, and he had even better remembered his own. The time might come when he would be driven to _lose_ Clara; it was very shocking to think of, however, and so for the present he did not think of it; on the contrary, he worked hard (much as he hated work) at courting her.
It is strange that so many men who are morally in a state of decomposition should be, or at least can be, sweet and charming in manner. During these three days Coronado was delightful; and not merely in this, that he watched over Clara's comfort, rode a great deal by her side, gathered wild flowers for her, talked much and agreeably; but also in that he poured oil over his whole conduct, and was good to everybody. Although his natural disposition was to be domineering to inferiors and irascible under the small provocations of life, he now gave his orders in a gentle tone, never stormed at the drivers for their blunders, made light of the bad cooking, and was in short a model for travellers, lovers, and husbands. Few human beings have so much self-control as Coronado, and so little. So long as it was policy to be sweet, he could generally be a very honeycomb; but once a certain limit of patience passed, he was like a swarm of angry bees; he became blind, mad, and poisonous with passion.
"Mr. Coronado, you are a wonder," proclaimed the admiring Aunt Maria. "You are the only man I ever knew that was patient."
"I catch a grace from those who have it abundantly and to spare," said Coronado, taking off his hat and waving it at the two ladies.
"Ah, yes, we women know how to be patient," smiled Aunt Maria. "I think we are born so. But, more than that, we learn it. Moreover, our physical nature teaches us. We have lessons of pain and weakness that men know nothing of. The great, healthy savages! If they had our troubles, they might have some of our virtues."
"I refuse to believe it," cried Coronado. "Man acquire woman's worth? Never! The nature of the beast is inferior. He is not fashioned to become an angel."
"How charmingly candid and humble!" thought Aunt Maria. "How different from that sulky, proud Thurstane, who never says anything of the sort, and never thinks it either, I'll be bound."
All this sort of talk passed over Clara as a desert wind passes over an oasis, bringing no pleasant songs of birds, and sowing no fruitful seed. She had her born ideas as to men and women, and she was seemingly incapable of receiving any others. In her mind men were strong and brave, and women weak and timorous; she believed that the first were good to hold on to, and that the last were good to hold on; all this she held by birthright, without ever reasoning upon it or caring to prove it.
Coronado, on his part, hooted in his soul at Mrs. Stanley's whimsies, and half supposed her to be of unsound mind. Nor would he have said what he did about the vast superiority of the female sex, had he supposed that Clara would attach the least weight to it. He knew that the girl looked upon his extravagant declarations as merely so many compliments paid to her eccentric relative, equivalent to bowings and scrapings and flourishes of the sombrero. Both Spaniards, they instinctively comprehended each other, at least in the surface matters of intercourse. Meanwhile the American strong-minded female understood herself, it is to be charitably hoped, but understood herself alone.
Coronado did not hurry his courtship, for he believed that he had a clear field before him, and he was too sagacious to startle Clara by overmuch energy. Meantime he began to be conscious that an influence from her was reaching his spirit. He had hitherto considered her a child; one day he suddenly recognized her as a woman. Now a woman, a beautiful woman especially, alone with one in the desert, is very mighty. Matches are made in trains overland as easily and quickly as on sea voyages or at quiet summer resorts. Coronado began--only moderately as yet--to fall in love.
But an ugly incident came to disturb his opening dream of affection, happiness, wealth, and success. Toward the close of his fourth day's march, after he had got well into the unsettled region beyond San Isidore, he discovered, several miles behind the train, a party of five horsemen. He was on one summit and they on another, with a deep, stony valley intervening. Without a moment's hesitation, he galloped down a long slope, rejoined the creeping wagons, hurried them forward a mile or so, and turned into a ravine for the night's halt.
Whether the cavaliers were Indians or Thurstane and his four recruits he had been unable to make out. They had not seen the train; the nature of the ground had prevented that. It was now past sundown, and darkness coming on rapidly. Whispering something about Apaches, he gave orders to lie close and light no fires for a while, trusting that the pursuers would pass his hiding place.
For a moment he thought of sending Texas Smith to ambush the party, and shoot Thurstane if he should be in it, pleading afterwards that the men looked, in the darkness, like Apaches. But no; this was an extreme measure; he revolted against it a little. Moreover, there was danger of retribution: settlements not so far off; soldiers still nearer.
So he lay quiet, chewing a bit of grass to allay his nervousness, and talking stronger love to Clara than he had yet thought needful or wise.
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Lieutenant Thurstane passed the mouth of the ravine in the dusk of twilight, without guessing that it contained Clara Van Diemen and her perils.
He had with him Sergeant Weber of his own company, just returned from recruiting service at St. Louis, and three recruits for the company, Kelly, Shubert, and Sweeny.
Weber, a sunburnt German, with sandy eyelashes, blue eyes, and a scar on his cheek, had been a soldier from his eighteenth to his thirtieth year, and wore the serious, patient, much-enduring air peculiar to veterans. Kelly, an Irishman, also about thirty, slender in form and somewhat haggard in face, with the same quiet, contained, seasoned look to him, the same reminiscence of unavoidable sufferings silently borne, was also an old infantry man, having served in both the British and American armies. Shubert was an American lad, who had got tired of clerking it in an apothecary's shop, and had enlisted from a desire for adventure, as you might guess from his larkish countenance. Sweeny was a diminutive Paddy, hardly regulation height for the army, as light and lively as a monkey, and with much the air of one.
Thurstane had obtained orders from the post commandant to lead his party by the northern route, on condition that he would investigate and report as to its practicability for military and other transit. He had also been allowed to draw by requisition fifty days' rations, a box of ammunition, and four mules. Starting thirty-six hours after Coronado, he made in two days and a half the distance which the train had accomplished in four. Now he had overtaken his quarry, and in the obscurity had passed it.
But Sergeant Weber was an old hand on the Plains, and notwithstanding the darkness and the generally stony nature of the ground, he presently discovered that the fresh trail of the wagons was missing. Thurstane tried to retrace his steps, but starless night had already fallen thick around him, and before long he had to come to a halt. He was opposite the mouth of the ravine; he was within five hundred yards of Clara, and raging because he could not find her. Suddenly Coronado's cooking fires flickered through the gloom; in five minutes the two parties were together.
It was a joyous meeting to Thurstane and a disgusting one to Coronado. Nevertheless the latter rushed at the officer, grasped him by both hands, and shouted, "All hail, Lieutenant! So, there you are at last! My dear fellow, what a pleasure!"
"Yes, indeed, by Jove!" returned the young fellow, unusually boisterous in his joy, and shaking hands with everybody, not rejecting even muleteers. And then what throbbing, what adoration, what supernal delight, in the moment when he faced Clara.
In the morning the journey recommenced. As neither Thurstane nor Coronado had now any cause for hurry, the pace was moderate. The soldiers marched on foot, in order to leave the government mules no other load than the rations and ammunition, and so enable them to recover from their sharp push of over eighty miles. The party now consisted of twenty-five men, for the most part pretty well armed. Of the other sex there were, besides Mrs. Stanley and Clara, a half-breed girl named Pepita, who served as lady's maid, and two Indian women from Garcia's hacienda, whose specialties were cooking and washing. In all thirty persons, a nomadic village.
At the first halt Sergeant Weber approached Thurstane with a timorous air, saluted, and asked, "Leftenant, can we leafe our knabsacks in the vagons? The gentleman has gifen us bermission."
"The men ought to learn to carry their knapsacks," said Thurstane. "They will have to do it in serious service."
"It is drue, Leftenant," replied Weber, saluting again and moving off without a sign of disappointment.
"Let that man come back here," called Aunt Maria, who had overheard the dialogue. "Certainly they can put their loads in the wagons. I told Mr. Coronado to tell them so."
Weber looked at her without moving a muscle, and without showing either wonder or amusement. Thurstane could not help grinning good-naturedly as he said, "I receive your orders, Mrs. Stanley. Weber, you can put the knapsacks in the wagons."
Weber saluted anew, gave Mrs. Stanley a glance of gratitude, and went about his pleasant business. An old soldier is not in general so strict a disciplinarian as a young one.
"What a brute that Lieutenant is!" thought Aunt Maria. "Make those poor fellows carry those monstrous packs? Nonsense and tyranny! How different from Mr. Coronado! _He_ fairly jumped at my idea."
Thurstane stepped over to Coronado and said, "You are very kind to relieve my men at the expense of your animals. I am much obliged to you."
"It is nothing," replied the Mexican, waving his hand graciously. "I am delighted to be of service, and to show myself a good citizen."
In fact, he had been quite willing to favor the soldiers; why not, so long as he could not get rid of them? If the Apaches would lance them all, including Thurstane, he would rejoice; but while that could not be, he might as well show himself civil and gain popularity. It was not Coronado's style to bark when there was no chance of biting.
He was in serious thought the while. How should he rid himself of this rival, this obstacle in the way of his well-laid plans, this interloper into his caravan? Must he call upon Texas Smith to assassinate the fellow? It was a disagreeably brutal solution of the difficulty, and moreover it might lead to loud suspicion and scandal, and finally it might be downright dangerous. There was such a thing as trial for murder and for conspiracy to effect murder. As to causing a United States officer to vanish quietly, as might perhaps be done with an ordinary American emigrant, that was too good a thing to be hoped. He must wait; he must have patience; he must trust to the future; perhaps some precipice would favor him; perhaps the wild Indians. He offered his cigaritos to Thurstane, and they smoked tranquilly in company.
"What route do you take from here?" asked the officer.
"Pass Washington, as you call it. Then the Moqui country. Then the San Juan."
"There is no possible road down the San Juan and the Colorado."
"If we find that to be so, we will sweep southward. I am, in a measure, exploring. Garcia wants a route to Middle California."
"I also have a sort of exploring leave. I shall take the liberty to keep along with you. It may be best for both."
The announcement sounded like a threat of surveillance, and Coronado's dark cheek turned darker with angry blood. This stolid and intrusive brute was absolutely demanding his own death. After saying, with a forced smile, "You will be invaluable to us, Lieutenant," the Mexican lounged away to where Texas Smith was examining his firearms, and whispered, "Well, will you do it?"
"I ain't afeared of _him_," muttered the borderer. "It's his clothes. I don't like to shute at jackets with them buttons. I mought git into big trouble. The army is a big thing."
"Two hundred dollars," whispered Coronado.
"You said that befo'," croaked Texas. "Go it some better."
"Four hundred."
"Stranger," said Texas, after debating his chances, "it's a big thing. But I'll do it for that."
Coronado walked away, hurried up his muleteers, exchanged a word with Mrs. Stanley, and finally returned to Thurstane. His thin, dry, dusky fingers trembled a little, but he looked his man steadily in the face, while he tendered him another cigarito.
"Who is your hunter?" asked the officer. "I must say he is a devilish bad-looking fellow."
"He is one of the best hunters Garcia ever had," replied the Mexican. "He is one of your own people. You ought to like him."
Further journeying brought with it topographical adventures. The country into which they were penetrating is one of the most remarkable in the world for its physical peculiarities. Its scenery bears about the same relation to the scenery of earth in general, that a skeleton's head or a grotesque mask bears to the countenance of living humanity. In no other portion of our planet is nature so unnatural, so fanciful and extravagant, and seemingly the production of caprice, as on the great central plateau of North America.
They had left far behind the fertile valley of the Rio Grande, and had placed between it and them the barren, sullen piles of the Jemez mountains. No more long sweeps of grassy plain or slope; they were amid the _débris_ of rocks which hedge in the upper heights of the great plateau; they were struggling through it like a forlorn hope through _chevaux-de-frise_. The morning sun came upon them over treeless ridges of sandstone, and disappeared at evening behind ridges equally naked and arid. The sides of these barren masses, seamed by the action of water in remote geologic ages, and never softened or smoothed by the gentle attrition of rain, were infinitely more wild and jagged in their details than ruins. It seemed as if the Titans had built here, and their works had been shattered by thunderbolts.
Many heights were truncated mounds of rock, resembling gigantic platforms with ruinous sides, such as are known in this Western land as _mesas_ or _buttes_. They were Nature's enormous mockery of the most ambitious architecture of man, the pyramids of Egypt and the platform of Baalbek. Terrace above terrace of shattered wall; escarpments which had been displaced as if by the explosion of some incredible mine; ramparts which were here high and regular, and there gaping in mighty fissures, or suddenly altogether lacking; long sweeps of stairway, winding dizzily upwards, only to close in an impossible leap: there was no end to the fantastic outlines and the suggestions of destruction.
Nor were the open spaces between these rocky mounds less remarkable. In one valley, the course of a river which vanished ages ago, the power of fire had left its monuments amid those of the power of water. The sedimentary rock of sandstone, shales, and marl, not only showed veins of ignitible lignite, but it was pierced by the trap which had been shot up from earth's flaming recesses. Dikes of this volcanic stone crossed each other or ran in long parallels, presenting forms of fortifications, walls of buildings, ruined lines of aqueducts. The sandstone and marl had been worn away by the departed river, and by the delicately sweeping, incessant, tireless wings of the afreets of the air, leaving the iron-like trap in bold projection.
Some of these dikes stretched long distances, with a nearly uniform height of four or five feet, closely resembling old field-walls of the solidest masonry. Others, not so extensive, but higher and pierced with holes, seemed to be fragments of ruined edifices, with broken windows and shattered portals. As the trap is columnar, and the columns are horizontal in their direction, the joints of the polygons show along the surface of the ramparts, causing them to look like the work of Cyclopean builders. The Indians and Mexicans of the expedition, deceived by the similarity between these freaks of creation and the results of human workmanship, repeatedly called out, "Casas Grandes! Casas de Montezuma!"
It would seem, indeed, as if the ancient peoples of this country, in order to arrive at the idea of a large architecture, had only to copy the grotesque rock-work of nature. Who knows but that such might have been the germinal idea of their constructions? Mrs. Stanley was quite sure of it. In fact, she was disposed to maintain that the trap walls were really human masonry, and the production of Montezuma, or of the Amazons invented by Coronado.
"Those four-sided and six-sided stones look altogether too regular to be accidental," was her conclusion. Notwithstanding her belief in a superintending Deity, she had an idea that much of this world was made by hazard, or perhaps by the Old Harry.
In one valley the ancient demon of water-force had excelled himself in enchantments. The slopes of the alluvial soil were dotted with little buttes of mingled sandstone and shale, varying from five to twenty feet in height, many of them bearing a grotesque likeness to artificial objects. There were columns, there were haystacks, there were enormous bells, there were inverted jars, there were junk bottles, there were rustic seats. Most of these fantastic figures were surmounted by a flat capital, the remnant of a layer of stone harder than the rest of the mass, and therefore less worn by the water erosion.
One fragment looked like a monstrous gymnastic club standing upright, with a broad button to secure the grip. Another was a mighty centre-table, fit for the halls of the Scandinavian gods, consisting of a solid prop or pedestal twelve feet high, swelling out at the top into a leaf fifteen feet across. Another was a stone hat, standing on its crown, with a brim two yards in diameter. Occasionally there was a figure which had lost its capital, and so looked like a broken pillar, a sugar loaf, a pear. Imbedded in these grotesques of sandstone were fossils of wood, of fresh-water shells, and of fishes.
It was a land of extravagances and of wonders. The marvellous adventures of the "Arabian Nights" would have seemed natural in it. It reminded you after a vague fashion of the scenery suggested to the imagination by some of its details or those of the "Pilgrim's Progress." Sindbad the Sailor carrying the Old Man of the Sea; Giant Despair scowling from a make-believe window in a fictitious castle of eroded sandstone; a roc with wings eighty feet long, poising on a giddy pinnacle to pounce upon an elephant; pilgrim Christian advancing with sword and buckler against a demon guarding some rocky portal, would have excited no astonishment here.
Of a sudden there came an adventure which gave opening for knight-errantry. As Thurstane, Coronado, and Texas Smith were riding a few hundred yards ahead of the caravan, and just emerging from what seemed an enormous court or public square, surrounded by ruined edifices of gigantic magnitude, they discovered a man running toward them in a style which reminded the Lieutenant of Timorous and Mistrust flying from the lions. Impossible to see what he was afraid of; there was a broad, yellow plain, dotted with monuments of sandstone; no living thing visible but this man running.
He was an American; at least he had the clothes of one. As he approached, he appeared to be a lean, lank, narrow-shouldered, yellow-faced, yellow-haired creature, such as you might expect to find on Cape Cod or thereabouts. Hollow-chested as he was, he had a yell in him which was quite surprising. From the time that he sighted the three horsemen he kept up a steady screech until he was safe under their noses. Then he fell flat and gasped for nearly a minute without speaking. His first words were, "That's pooty good sailin' for a man who ain't used to't." "Did you run all the way from Down East?" asked Thurstane.
"All the way from that bewt there--the one that looks most like a haystack."
"Well, who the devil are you?"
"I'm Phineas Glover--Capm Phineas Glover--from Fair Haven, Connecticut. I'm goin' to Californy after gold. Got lost out of the caravan among the mountings. Was comin' along alone, 'n' run afoul of some Injuns. They're hidin' behind that bewt, 'n' they've got my mewl."
"Indians! How many are there?"
"Only three. 'N' I expect they a'nt the real wild kind, nuther. Sorter half Injun, half engineer, like what come round in the circuses. Didn't make much of 'n offer towards carvin' me. But I judged best to quit, the first boat that put off. Ah, they're there yit, 'n' the mewl tew."
"You'll find our train back there," said Thurstane. "You had better make for it. We'll recover your property."
He dashed off at a full run for the butte, closely followed by Texas Smith and Coronado. The Mexican had the best horse, and he would soon have led the other two; but his saddle-girth burst, and in spite of his skill in riding he was nearly thrown. Texas Smith pulled up to aid his employer, but only for an instant, as Coronado called, "Go on."
The borderer now spurred after Thurstane, who had got a dozen rods the lead of him. Coronado rapidly examined his saddle-bags and then his pockets without finding the cord or strap which he needed. He swore a little at this, but not with any poignant emotion, for in the first place fighting was not a thing that he yearned for, and in the second place he hardly anticipated a combat. The robbers, he felt certain, were only vagrant rancheros, or the cowardly Indians of some village, who would have neither the weapons nor the pluck to give battle.
But suddenly an alarming suspicion crossed his mind. Would Texas Smith seize this chance to send a bullet through Thurstane's head from behind? Knowing the cutthroat's recklessness and his almost insane thirst for blood, he feared that this might happen. And there was the train in view; the deed would probably be seen, and, if so, would be seen as murder; and then would come pursuit of the assassin, with possibly his seizure and confession. It would not do; no, it would not do here and now; he must dash forward and prevent it.
Swinging his saddle upon his horse's back, he vaulted into it without touching pommel or stirrup, and set off at full speed to arrest the blow which he desired. Over the plain flew the fiery animal, Coronado balancing himself in his unsteady seat with marvellous ease and grace, his dark eyes steadily watching every movement of the bushwhacker. There were sheets of bare rock here and there; there were loose slates and detached blocks of sandstone. The beast dashed across the first without slipping, and cleared the others without swerving; his rider bowed and swayed in the saddle without falling.
Texas Smith was now within a few yards of Thurstane, and it could be seen that he had drawn his revolver. Coronado asked himself in horror whether the man had understood the words "Go on" as a command for murder. He was thinking very fast; he was thinking as fast as he rode. Once a terrible temptation came upon him: he might let the fatal shot be fired; then he might fire another. Thus he would get rid of Thurstane, and at the same time have the air of avenging him, while ridding himself of his dangerous bravo. But he rejected this plan almost as soon as he thought of it. He did not feel sure of bringing down Texas at the first fire, and if he did not, his own life was not worth a second's purchase. As for the fact that he had been lately saved from death by the borderer, that would not have checked Coronado's hand, even had he remembered it. He must dash on at full speed, and prevent a crime which would be a blunder. But already it was nearly too late, for the Texan was close upon the officer. Nothing could save the doomed man but Coronado's magnificent horsemanship. He seemed a part of his steed; he shot like a bird over the sheets and bowlders of rock; he was a wonder of speed and grace.
Suddenly the outlaw's pistol rose to a level, and Coronado uttered a shout of anxiety and horror.
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At the shout which Coronado uttered on seeing Texas Smith's pistol aimed at Thurstane, the assassin turned his head, discovered the train, and, lowering his weapon, rode peacefully alongside of his intended victim.
Captain Phin Glover's mule was found grazing behind the butte, in the midst of the gallant Captain's dishevelled baggage, while the robbers had vanished by a magic which seemed quite natural in this scenery of grotesque marvels. They had unquestionably seen or heard their pursuers; but how had they got into the bowels of the earth to escape them?
Thurstane presently solved the mystery by pointing out three crouching figures on the flat cap of stone which surmounted the shales and marl of the butte. Bare feet and desperation of terror could alone explain how they had reached this impossible refuge. Texas Smith immediately consoled himself for his disappointment as to Thurstane by shooting two of these wretches before his hand could be stayed.
"They're nothin' but Injuns," he said, with a savage glare, when the Lieutenant struck aside his revolver and called him a murdering brute.
The third skulker took advantage of the cessation of firing to tumble down from his perch and fly for his life. The indefatigable Smith broke away from Thurstane, dashed after the pitiful fugitive, leaned over him as he ran, and shot him dead.
"I have a great mind to blow your brains out, you beast," roared the disgusted officer, who had followed closely. "I told you not to shoot that man." And here he swore heartily, for which we must endeavor to forgive him, seeing that he belonged to the army.
Coronado interfered. "My dear Lieutenant! after all, they were robbers. They deserved punishment." And so on.
Texas Smith looked less angry and more discomfited than might have been expected, considering his hardening life and ferocious nature.
"Didn't s'p'ose you really keered much for the cuss," he said, glancing respectfully at the imperious and angry face of the young officer.
"Well, never mind now," growled Thurstane. "It's done, and can't be undone. But, by Jove, I do hate useless massacre. Fighting is another thing."
Sheathing his fury, he rode off rapidly toward the wagons, followed in silence by the others. The three dead vagabonds (perhaps vagrants from the region of Abiquia) remained where they had fallen, one on the stony plain and two on the cap of the butte. The train, trending here toward the northwest, passed six hundred yards to the north of the scene of slaughter; and when Clara and Mrs. Stanley asked what had happened, Coronado told them with perfect glibness that the robbers had got away.
The rescued man, delighted at his escape and the recovery of his mule and luggage, returned thanks right and left, with a volubility which further acquaintance showed to be one of his characteristics. He was a profuse talker; ran a stream every time you looked at him; it was like turning on a mill-race.
"Yes, capm, out of Fair Haven," he said. "Been in the coastin' 'n' Wes' Injy trade. Had 'n unlucky time out las' few years. Had a schuner burnt in port, 'n' lost a brig at sea. Pooty much broke me up. Wife 'n' dahter gone into th' oyster-openin' business. Thought I'd try my han' at openin' gold mines in Californy. Jined a caravan at Fort Leavenworth, 'n' lost my reckonin's back here a ways."
We must return to love matters. However amazing it may be that a man who has no conscience should nevertheless have a heart, such appears to have been the case with that abnormal creature Coronado. The desert had made him take a strong liking to Clara, and now that he had a rival at hand he became impassioned for her. He began to want to marry her, not alone for the sake of her great fortune, but also for her own sake. Her beauty unfolded and blossomed wonderfully before his ardent eyes; for he was under that mighty glamour of the emotions which enables us to see beauty in its completeness; he was favored with the greatest earthly second-sight which is vouchsafed to mortals.
Only in a measure, however; the money still counted for much with him. He had already decided what he would do with the Muñoz fortune when he should get it. He would go to New York and lead a life of frugal extravagance, economical in comforts (as we understand them) and expensive in pleasures. New York, with its adjuncts of Saratoga and Newport, was to him what Paris is to many Americans. In his imagination it was the height of grandeur and happiness to have a box at the opera, to lounge in Broadway, and to dance at the hops of the Saratoga hotels. New Mexico! he would turn his back on it; he would never set eyes on its dull poverty again. As for Clara? Well, of course she would share in his gayeties; was not that enough for any reasonable woman?
But here was this stumbling-block of a Thurstane. In the presence of a handsome rival, who, moreover, had started first in the race, slow was far from being sure. Coronado had discovered, by long experience in flirtation and much intelligent meditation upon it, that, if a man wants to win a woman, he must get her head full of him. He decided, therefore, that at the first chance he would give Clara distinctly to understand how ardently he was in love with her, and so set her to thinking especially of him, and of him alone. Meantime, he looked at her adoringly, insinuated compliments, performed little services, walked his horse much by her side, did his best in conversation, and in all ways tried to outshine the Lieutenant.
He supposed that he did outshine him. A man of thirty always believes that he appears to better advantage than a man of twenty-three or four. He trusts that he has more ideas, that he commits fewer absurdities, that he carries more weight of character than his juvenile rival. Coronado was far more fluent than Thurstane; had a greater command over his moods and manners, and a larger fund of animal spirits; knew more about such social trifles as women like to hear of; and was, in short, a more amusing prattler of small talk. There was a steady seriousness about the young officer--something of the earnest sentimentality of the great Teutonic race--which the mercurial Mexican did not understand nor appreciate, and which he did not imagine could be fascinating to a woman. Knowing well how magnetic passion is in its guise of Southern fervor, he did not know that it is also potent under the cloak of Northern solemnity.
Unluckily for Coronado, Clara was half Teutonic, and could comprehend the tone of her father's race. Notwithstanding Thurstane's shyness and silences, she discovered his moral weight and gathered his unspoken meanings. There was more in this girl than appeared on the surface. Without any power of reasoning concerning character, and without even a disposition to analyze it, she had an instinctive perception of it. While her talk was usually as simple as a child's, and her meditations on men and things were not a bit systematic or logical, her decisions and actions were generally just what they should be.
Some one may wish to know whether she was clever enough to see through the character of Coronado. She was clever enough, but not corrupt enough. Very pure people cannot fully understand people who are very impure. It is probable that angels are considerably in the dark concerning the nature of the devil, and derive their disagreeable impression of him mainly from a consideration of his actions. Clara, limited to a narrow circle of good intentions and conduct, might not divine the wide regions of wickedness through which roved the soul of Coronado, and must wait to see his works before she could fairly bring him to judgment.
Of course she perceived that in various ways he was insincere. When he prattled compliments and expressions of devotion, whether to herself or to others, she made Spanish allowance. It was polite hyperbole; it was about the same as saying good-morning; it was a cheerful way of talking that they had in Mexico; she knew thus much from her social experience. But while she cared little for his adulations, she did not because of them consider him a scoundrel, nor necessarily a hypocrite.
Coronado found and improved opportunities to talk in asides with Clara. Thurstane, the modest, proud, manly youngster, who had no meannesses or trickeries by nature, and had learned none in his honorable profession, would not allow himself to break into these dialogues if they looked at all like confidences. The more he suspected that Coronado was courting Clara, the more resolutely and grimly he said to himself, "Stand back!" The girl should be perfectly free to choose between them; she should be influenced by no compulsions and no stratagems of his; was he not "an officer and a gentleman"?
"By Jove! I am miserable for life," he thought when he suspected, as he sometimes did, that they two were in love. "I'll get myself killed in my next fight. I can't bear it. But I won't interfere. I'll do my duty as an honorable man. Of course she understands me."
But just at this point Clara failed to understand him. It is asserted by some philosophers that women have less conscience about "cutting each other out," breaking up engagements, etc., than men have in such matters. Love-making and its results form such an all-important part of their existence, that they must occasionally allow success therein to overbear such vague, passionless ideas as principles, sentiments of honor, etc. It is, we fear, highly probable that if Clara had been in love with Ralph, and had seen her chance of empire threatened by a rival, she would have come out of that calm innocence which now seemed to enfold her whole nature, and would have done such things as girls may do to avert catastrophes of the affections. She now thought to herself, If he cares for me, how can he keep away from me when he sees Coronado making eyes at me? She was a little vexed with him for behaving so, and was consequently all the sweeter to his rival. This when Ralph would have risked his commission for a smile, and would have died to save her from a sorrow!
Presently this slightly coquettish, yet very good and lovely little being--this seraph from one of Fra Angelica's pictures, endowed with a frailty or two of humanity--found herself the heroine of a trying scene. Coronado hastened it; he judged her ready to fall into his net; he managed the time and place for the capture. The train had been ascending for some hours, and had at last reached a broad plateau, a nearly even floor of sandstone, covered with a carpet of thin earth, the whole noble level bare to the eye at once, without a tree or a thicket to give it detail. It was a scene of tranquillity and monotony; no rains ever disturbed or remoulded the tabulated surface of soil; there, as distinct as if made yesterday, were the tracks of a train which had passed a year before.
"Shall we take a gallop?" said Coronado. "No danger of ambushes here."
Clara's eyes sparkled with youth's love of excitement, and the two horses sprang off at speed toward the centre of the plateau. After a glorious flight of five minutes, enjoyed for the most part in silence, as such swift delights usually are, they dropped into a walk two miles ahead of the wagons.
"That was magnificent," Clara of course said, her face flushed with pleasure and exercise.
"You are wonderfully handsome," observed Coronado, with an air of thinking aloud, which disguised the coarse directness of the flattery. In fact, he was so dazzled by her brilliant color, the sunlight in her disordered curls, and the joyous sparkling of her hazel eyes, that he spoke with an ingratiating honesty.
Clara, who was in one of her unconscious and innocent moods, simply replied, "I suppose people are always handsome enough when they are happy."
"Then I ought to be lovely," said Coronado. "I am happier than I ever was before."
"Coronado, you look very well," observed Clara, turning her eyes on him with a grave expression which rather puzzled him. "This out-of-door life has done you good."
"Then I don't look very well indoors?" he smiled.
"You know what I mean, Coronado. Your health has improved, and your face shows it."
Fearing that she was not in an emotional condition to be bewildered and fascinated by a declaration of love, he queried whether he had not better put off his enterprise until a more susceptible moment. Certainly, if he were without a rival; but there was Thurstane, ready any and every day to propose; it would not do to let _him_ have the first word, and cause the first heart-beat. Coronado believed that to make sure of winning the race he must take the lead at the start. Yes, he would offer himself now; he would begin by talking her into a receptive state of mind; that done, he would say with all his eloquence, "I love you."
We must not suppose that the declaration would be a pure fib, or anything like it. The man had no conscience, and he was almost incomparably selfish, but he was capable of loving, and he did love. That is to say, he was inflamed by this girl's beauty and longed to possess it. It is a low species of affection, but it is capable of great violence in a man whose physical nature is ardent, and Coronado's blood could take a heat like lava. Already, although he had not yet developed his full power of longing, he wanted Clara as he had never wanted any woman before. We can best describe his kind of sentiment by that hungry, carnal word _wanted_.
After riding in silent thought for a few rods, he said, "I have lost my good looks now, I suppose."
"What do you mean, Coronado?"
"They depend on my happiness, and that is gone."
"Coronado, you are playing riddles."
"This table-land reminds me of my own life. Do you see that it has no verdure? I have been just as barren of all true happiness. There has been no fruit or blossom of true affection for me to gather. You know that I lost my excellent father and my sainted mother when I was a child. I was too young to miss them; but for all that the bereavement was the same; there was the less love for me. It seems as if there had been none."
"Garcia has been good to you--of late," suggested Clara, rather puzzled to find consolation for a man whose misery was so new to her.
Remembering what a scoundrel Garcia was, and what a villainous business Garcia had sent him upon, Coronado felt like smiling. He knew that the old man had no sentiments beyond egotism, and a family pride which mainly, if not entirely, sprang from it. Such a heart as Garcia's, what a place to nestle in! Such a creature as Coronado seeking comfort in such a breast as his uncle's was very much like a rattlesnake warming himself in a hole of a rock.
"Ah, yes!" sighed Coronado. "Admirable old gentleman! I should not have forgotten him. However, he is a solace which comes rather late. It is only two years since he perceived that he had done me injustice, and received me into favor. And his affection is somewhat cold. Garcia is an old man laden with affairs. Moreover, men in general have little sympathy with men. When we are saddened, we do not look to our own sex for cheer. We look to yours."
Almost every woman responds promptly to a claim for pity.
"I am sorry for you, Coronado," said Clara, in her artless way. "I am, truly."
"You do not know, you cannot know, how you console me."
Satisfied with the results of his experiment in boring for sympathy, he tried another, a dangerous one, it would seem, but very potent when it succeeds.
"This lack of affection has had sad results. I have searched everywhere for it, only to meet with disappointment. In my desperation I have searched where I should not. I have demanded true love of people who had no true love to give. And for this error and wrong I have been terribly punished. The mere failure of hope and trust has been hard enough to bear. But that was not the half. Shame, self-contempt, remorse have been an infinitely heavier burden. If any man was ever cured of trusting for happiness to a wicked world, it is Coronado."
In spite of his words and his elaborately penitent expression, Clara only partially understood him. Some kind of evil life he was obviously confessing, but what kind she only guessed in the vaguest fashion. However, she comprehended enough to interest her warmly: here was a penitent sinner who had forsaken ways of wickedness; here was a struggling soul which needed encouragement and tenderness. A woman loves to believe that she can be potent over hearts, and especially that she can be potent for good. Clara fixed upon Coronado's face a gaze of compassion and benevolence which was almost superhuman. It should have shamed him into honesty; but he was capable of trying to deceive the saints and the Virgin; he merely decided that she was in a fit frame to accept him.
"At last I have a faint hope of a sure and pure happiness," he said. "I have found one who I know can strengthen me and comfort me, if she will. I am seeking to be worthy of her. I am worthy of her so far as adoration can make me. I am ready to surrender my whole life--all that I am and that I can be--to her."
Clara had begun to guess his meaning; the quick blood was already flooding her cheek; the light in her eyes was tremulous with agitation.
"Clara, you must know what I mean," continued Coronado, suddenly reaching his hand toward her, as if to take her captive. "You are the only person I ever loved. I love you with all my soul. Can your heart ever respond to mine? Can you ever bring yourself to be my wife?"
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When Coronado proposed to Clara, she was for a moment stricken dumb with astonishment and with something like terror.
Her first idea was that she must take him; that the mere fact of a man asking for her gave him a species of right over her; that there was no such thing possible as answering, No. She sat looking at Coronado with a helpless, timorous air, very much as a child looks at his father, when the father, switching his rattan, says, "Come with me."
On recovering herself a little, her first words--uttered slowly, in a tone of surprise and of involuntary reproach--were, "Oh, Coronado! I did not expect this."
"Can't you answer me?" he asked in a voice which was honestly tremulous with emotion. "Can't you say yes?"
"Oh, Coronado!" repeated Clara, a good deal touched by his agitation.
"Can't you?" he pleaded. Repetitions, in such cases, are so natural and so potent.
"Let me think, Coronado," she implored. "I can't answer you now. You have taken me so by surprise!"
"Every moment that you take to think is torture to me," he pleaded, as he continued to press her.
Perhaps she was on the point of giving way before his insistence. Consider the advantages that he had over her in this struggle of wills for the mastery. He was older by ten years; he possessed both the adroitness of self-command and the energy of passion; he had a long experience in love matters, while she had none. He was the proclaimed heir of a man reputed wealthy, and could therefore, as she believed, support her handsomely. Since the death of her father she considered Garcia the head of her family in New Mexico; and Coronado had had the face to tell her that he made his offer with the approval of Garcia. Then she was under supposed obligations to him, and he was to be her protector across the desert.
She was as it were reeling in her saddle, when a truly Spanish idea saved her.
"Muñoz!" she exclaimed. "Coronado, you forget my grandfather. He should know of this."
Although the man was unaccustomed to start, he drew back as if a ghost had confronted him; and even when he recovered from his transitory emotion, he did not at first know how to answer her. It would not do to say, "Muñoz is dead," and much less to add, "You are his heir."
"We are Americans," he at last argued. "Spanish customs are dead and buried. Can't you speak for yourself on a matter which concerns you and me alone?"
"Coronado, I think it would not be right," she replied, holding firmly to her position. "It is probable that my grandfather would be better pleased to have this matter referred to him. I ought to consider him, and you must let me do so."
"I submit," he bowed, seeing that there was no help for it, and deciding to make a grace of necessity. "It pains me, but I submit. Let me hope that you will not let this pass from your mind. Some day, when it is proper, I shall speak again."
He was not wholly dissatisfied, for he trusted that henceforward her head would be full of him, and he had not much hoped to gain more in a first effort.
"I shall always be proud and gratified at the compliment you have paid me," was her reply to his last request.
"You deserve many such compliments," he said, gravely courteous and quite sincere.
Then they cantered back in silence to meet the advancing train.
Yes, Coronado was partly satisfied. He believed that he had gained a firmer footing among the girl's thoughts and emotions than had been gained by Thurstane. In a degree he was right. No sensitive, and pure, and good girl can receive her first offer without being much moved by it. The man who has placed himself at her feet will affect her strongly. She may begin to dread him, or begin to like him more than before; but she cannot remain utterly indifferent to him. The probability is that, unless subsequent events make him disagreeable to her, she will long accord him a measure of esteem and gratitude.
For two or three days, while Clara was thinking much of Coronado, he gave her less than usual of his society. Believing that her mind was occupied with him, that she was wondering whether he were angry, unhappy, etc., he remained a good deal apart, wrapped himself in sadness, and trusted that time would do much for him. Had there been no rival, the plan would have been a good one; but Ralph Thurstane being present, it was less successful.
Ralph had already become more of a favorite than any one knew, even the young lady herself; and now that he found chances for long talks and short gallops with her, he got on better than ever. He was just the kind of youngster a girl of eighteen would naturally like to have ride by her side. He was handsome; at any rate, he was the handsomest man she had seen in the desert, and the desert was just then her sphere of society. You could see in his figure how strong he was, and in his face how brave he was. He was a good fellow, too; "tendir and trew" as the Douglas of the ballad; sincere, frank, thoroughly truthful and honorable. Every way he seemed to be that being that a woman most wants, a potential and devoted protector. Whenever Clara looked in his face her eyes said, without her knowledge, "I trust you."
Now, as we have already stated, Thurstane's eyes were uncommonly fine and expressive. Of the very darkest blue that ever was seen in anybody's head, and shaded, moreover, by remarkably long chestnut lashes, they had the advantages of both blue eyes and black ones, being as gentle as the one and as fervent as the other. Accordingly, a sort of optical conversation commenced between the two young people. Every time that Clara's glance said, "I trust you," Thurstane's responded, "I will die for you." It was a perilous sort of dialogue, and liable to involve the two souls which looked out from these sparkling, transparent windows. Before long the Lieutenant's modest heart took courage, and his stammering tongue began to be loosed somewhat, so that he uttered things which frightened both him and Clara. Not that the remarks were audacious in themselves, but he was conscious of so much unexpressed meaning behind them, and she was so ready to guess that there might be such a meaning!
It seems ridiculous that a fellow who could hold his head straight up before a storm of cannon shot, should be positively bashful. Yet so it was. The boy had been through West Point, to be sure; but he had studied there, and not flirted; the Academy had not in any way demoralized him. On the whole, in spite of swearing under gross provocation, and an inclination toward strictness in discipline, he answered pretty well for a Bayard.
His bashfulness was such, at least in the presence of Clara, that he trembled to the tips of his fingers in merely making this remark: "Miss Van Diemen, this journey is the pleasantest thing in my whole life."
Clara blushed until she dazzled him and seemed to burn herself. Nevertheless she was favored with her usual childlike artlessness of speech, and answered, "I am glad you find it agreeable."
Nothing more from Ralph for a minute; he was recovering his breath and self-possession.
"You cannot think how much safer I feel because you and your men are with us," said Clara.
Thurstane unconsciously gripped the handle of his sabre, with a feeling that he could and would massacre all the Indians of the desert, if it were necessary to preserve her from harm.
"Yes, you may rely upon my men, too," he declared. "They have a sort of adoration for you."
"Have they?" asked Clara, with a frank smile of pleasure. "I wonder at it. I hardly notice them. I ought to, they seem so patient and trusty."
"Ah, a lady!" said Thurstane. "A good soldier will die any time for a lady."
Then he wondered how she could have failed to guess that she must be worshipped by these rough men for her beauty.
"I have overheard them talking about you," he went on, gratified at being able to praise her to her face, though in the speech of others. "Little Sweeny says, in his Irish brogue, 'I can march twic't as fur for the seein' av her!'"
"Oh! did he?" laughed Clara. "I must carry Sweeny's musket for him some time."
"Don't, if you please," said Thurstane, the disciplinarian rising in him. "You would spoil him for the service."
"Can't I send him a dish from our table?"
"That would just suit his case. He hasn't got broken to hard-tack yet."
"Miss Van Diemen," was his next remark, "do you know what you are to do, if we are attacked?"
"I am to get into a wagon."
"Into which wagon?"
"Into my aunt's."
"Why into that one?"
"So as to have all the ladies together."
"When you have got into the wagon, what next?"
"Lie down on the floor to protect myself from the arrows."
"Very good," laughed Thurstane. "You say your tactics well."
This catechism had been put and recited every day since he had joined the train. The putting of it was one of the Lieutenant's duties and pleasures; and, notwithstanding its prophecy of peril, Clara enjoyed it almost as much as he.
Well, we have heard these two talk, and much in their usual fashion. Not great souls as yet: they may indeed become such some day; but at present they are only mature in moral power and in capacity for mighty emotions. Information, mental development, and conversational ability hereafter.
In one way or another two or three of these tête-à-têtes were brought about every day. Thurstane wanted them all the time; would have been glad to make life one long dialogue with Miss Van Diemen; found an aching void in every moment spent away from her. Clara, too, in spite of maidenly struggles with herself, began to be of this way of feeling. Wonderful place the Great American Desert for falling in love!
Coronado soon guessed, and with good reason, that the seed which he had sown in the girl's mind was being replaced by other germs, and that he had blundered in trusting that she would think of him while she was talking with Thurstane. The fear of losing her increased his passion for her, and made him hate his rival with correlative fervor.
"Why don't you find a chance at that fellow?" he muttered to his bravo, Texas Smith.
"How the h--l kin I do it?" growled the bushwhacker, feeling that his intelligence and courage were unjustly called in question. "He's allays around the train, an' his sojers allays handy. I hain't had nary chance."
"Take him off on a hunt."
"He ain't a gwine. I reckon he knows himself. I'm afeard to praise huntin' much to him; he might get on my trail. Tell you these army chaps is resky. I never wanted to meddle with them kind o' close. You know I said so. I said so, fair an' square, I did."
"You might manage it somehow, if you had the pluck."
"Had the pluck!" repeated Texas Smith. His sallow, haggard face turned dusky with rage, and his singularly black eyes flamed as if with hell-fire. A Malay, crazed with opium and ready to run _amok_, could not present a more savage spectacle than this man did as he swayed in his saddle, grinding his teeth, clutching his rifle, and glaring at Coronado. What chiefly infuriated him was that the insult should come from one whom he considered a "greaser," a man of inferior race. He, Texas Smith, an American, a _white man_, was treated as if he were an "Injun" or a "nigger." Coronado was thoroughly alarmed, and smoothed his ruffled feathers at once.
"I beg your pardon," he said, promptly. "My dear Mr. Smith, I was entirely wrong. Of course I know that you have courage. Everybody knows it. Besides, I am under the greatest obligations to you. You saved my life. By heavens, I am horribly ashamed of my injustice."
A minute or so of this fluent apologizing calmed the bushwhacker's rage and soothed his injured feelings.
"But you oughter be keerful how you talk that way to a white man," he said. "No white man, if he's a gentleman, can stan' being told he hain't got no pluck."
"Certainly," assented Coronado. "Well, I have apologized. What more can I do?"
"Square, you're all right now," said the forgiving Texan, stretching out his bony, dirty hand and grasping Coronado's. "But don't say it agin. White men can't stan' sech talk. Well, about this feller--I'll see, I'll see. Square, I'll try to do what's right."
As Coronado rode away from this interview, he ground his teeth with rage and mortification, muttering, "A _white_ man! a _white_ man! So I am a black man. Yes, I am a greaser. Curse this whole race of English-speaking people!"
After a while he began to think to the purpose. He too must work; he must not trust altogether to Texas Smith; the scoundrel might flinch, or might fail. Something must be done to separate Clara and Thurstane. What should it be? Here we are almost ashamed of Coronado. The trick that he hit upon was the stalest, the most threadbare, the most commonplace and vulgar that one can imagine. It was altogether unworthy of such a clever and experienced conspirator. His idea was this: to get lost with Clara for one night; in the morning to rejoin the train. Thurstane would be disgusted, and would unquestionably give up the girl entirely when Coronado should say to him, "It was a very unlucky accident, but I have done what a gentleman should, and we are engaged."
This coarse, dastardly, and rather stupid stratagem he put into execution as quickly as possible. There were some dangers to be guarded against, as for instance Apaches, and the chance of getting lost in reality.
"Have an eye upon me to-day," he suggested to Texas. "If I leave the train with any one, follow me and keep a lookout for Indians. Only stay out of sight."
Now for an opportunity to lead Clara astray. The region was favorable; they were in an arid land of ragged sandstone spurs and buttes; it would be necessary to march until near sunset, in order to find water and pasturage. Consequently there was both time and scenery for his project. Late in the afternoon the train crossed a narrow _mesa_ or plateau, and approached a sublime terrace of rock which was the face of a second table-land. This terrace was cleft by several of those wonderful grooves which are known as cañons, and which were wrought by that mighty water-force, the sculpturer of the American desert. In one place two of these openings were neighbors: the larger was the route and the smaller led nowhere.
"Let the train pass on," suggested Coronado to Clara. "If you will ride with me up this little cañon, you will find some of the most exquisite scenery imaginable. It rejoins the large one further on. There is no danger."
Clara would have preferred not to go, or would have preferred to go with Thurstane.
"My dear child, what do you mean?" urged Aunt Maria, looking out of her wagon. "Mr. Coronado, I'll ride there with you myself."
The result of the dialogue which ensued was that, after the train had entered the gorge of the larger cañon, Coronado and Clara turned back and wandered up the smaller one, followed at a distance by Texas Smith. In twenty minutes they were separated from the wagons by a barrier of sandstone several hundred feet high, and culminating in a sharp ridge or frill of rocky points, not unlike the spiny back of a John Dory. The scenery, although nothing new to Clara, was such as would be considered in any other land amazing. Vast walls on either side, consisting mainly of yellow sandstone, were variegated with white, bluish, and green shales, with layers of gypsum of the party-colored marl series, with long lines of white limestone so soft as to be nearly earth, and with red and green foliated limestone mixed with blood-red shales. The two wanderers seemed to be amid the landscapes of a Christmas drama as they rode between these painted precipices toward a crimson, sunset.
It was a perfect solitude. There was not a breath of life besides their own in this gorgeous valley of desolation. The ragged, crumbling battlements, and the loftier points of harder rock, would not have furnished subsistence for a goat or a mouse. Color was everywhere and life nowhere: it was such a region as one might look for in the moon; it did not seem to belong to an inhabited planet.
Before they had ridden half an hour the sun went down suddenly behind serrated steeps, and almost immediately night hastened in with his obscurities. Texas Smith, riding hundreds of yards in the rear and concealing himself behind the turning points of the cañon, was obliged to diminish his distance in order to keep them under his guard. Clara had repeatedly expressed her doubts as to the road, and Coronado had as often asserted that they would soon see the train. At last the ravine became a gully, winding up a breast of shadowy mountain cumbered with loose rocks, and impassable to horses.
"We are lost," confessed Coronado, and then proceeded to console her. The train could not be far off; their friends would undoubtedly seek them; at all events, would not go on without them. They must bivouac there as well as might be, and in the morning rejoin the caravan.
He had been forethoughted enough to bring two blankets on his saddle, and he now spread them out for her, insisting that she should try to sleep. Clara cried frankly and heartily, and begged him to lead her back through the cañon. No; it could not be traversed by night, he asserted; they would certainly break their necks among the bowlders. At last the girl suffered herself to be wrapped in the blankets, and made an endeavor to forget her wretchedness and vexation in slumber.
Meantime, a few hundred yards down the ravine, a tragedy was on the verge of action. Thurstane, missing Coronado and Clara, and learning what direction they had taken, started with two of his soldiers to find them, and was now picking his way on foot along the cañon. Behind a detached rock at the base of one of the sandstone walls Texas Smith lay in ambush, aiming his rifle first at one and then at another of this stumbling trio, and cursing the starlight because it was so dim that he could not positively distinguish which was the officer.
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For the second time within a week, Texas Smith found himself upon the brink of opportunity, without being able (as he had phrased it to Coronado) to do what was right.
He levelled at Thurstane, and then it did not seem to be Thurstane; he had a dead sure sight at Kelly, and then perceived that that was an error; he drew a bead on Shubert, and still he hesitated. He could distinguish the Lieutenant's voice, but he could not fix upon the figure which uttered it.
It was exasperating. Never had an assassin been better ambuscaded. He was kneeling behind a little ridge of sandstone; about a foot below its edge was an orifice made by the rains and winds of bygone centuries; through this, as through an embrasure, he had thrust his rifle. Not a chance of being hit by a return shot, while after the enemy's fire had been drawn he could fly down the ravine, probably without discovery and certainly without recognition. His horse was tethered below, behind another rock; and he felt positive that these men had not come upon it. He could mount, drive their beasts before him into the plain, and then return to camp. No need of explaining his absence; he was the head hunter of the expedition; it was his business to wander.
All this was so easy to do, if he could only take the first step. But he dared not fire lest he should merely kill a soldier, and so make an uproar and rouse suspicions without the slightest profit. It was not probable that Coronado would pay him for shooting the wrong man, and setting on foot a dangerous investigation. So the desperado continued to peer through the dim night, cursing his stars and everybody's stars for not shining better, and seeing his opportunity slip rapidly away. After Thurstane and the others had passed, after the chance of murder had stalked by him like a ghost and vanished, he left his ambush, glided down the ravine to his horse, waked him up with a vindictive kick, leaped into the saddle, and hastened to camp. To inquiries about the lost couple he replied in his sullen, brief way that he had not seen them; and when urged to go to their rescue, he of course set off in the wrong direction and travelled but a short distance.
Meantime Ralph had found the captives of the cañon. Clara, wrapped in her blankets, was lying at the foot of a rock, and crying while she pretended to sleep. Coronado, unable to make her talk, irritated by the faint sobs which he overheard, but stubbornly resolved on carrying out his stupid plot, had retired in a state of ill-humor unusual with him to another rock, and was consoling himself by smoking cigarito after cigarito. The two horses, tied together neck and crupper, were fasting near by. As Coronado had forgotten to bring food with him, Clara was also fasting.
Think of Apaches, and imagine the terror with which she caught the sounds of approach, the heavy, stumbling steps through the darkness. Then imagine the joy with which she recognized Thurstane's call and groped to meet him. In the dizziness of her delight, and amid the hiding veils of the obscurity, it did not seem wrong nor unnatural to fall against his arm and be supported by it for a moment. Ralph received this touch, this shock, as if it had been a ball; and his nature bore the impress of it as long as if it had made a scar. In his whole previous life he had not felt such a thrill of emotion; it was almost too powerful to be adequately described as a pleasure.
Next came Coronado, as happy as a disappointed burglar whose cue it is to congratulate the rescuing policeman. "My dear Lieutenant! You are heaven's own messenger. You have saved us from a horrible night. But it is prodigious; it is incredible. You must have come here by enchantment. How in God's name could you find your way up this fearful cañon?"
"The cañon is perfectly passable on foot," replied the young officer, stiffly and angrily. "By Jove, sir! I don't see why you didn't make a start to get out. This is a pretty place to lodge Miss Van Diemen."
Coronado took off his hat and made a bow of submission and regret, which was lost in the darkness.
"I must say," Thurstane went on grumbling, "that, for a man who claims to know this country, your management has been very singular."
Clara, fearful of a quarrel, slightly pressed his arm and checked this volcano with the weight of a feather.
"We are not all like you, my dear Lieutenant," said Coronado, in a tone which might have been either apologetical or ironical. "You must make allowance for ordinary human nature."
"I beg pardon," returned Thurstane, who was thinking now chiefly of that pressure on his arm. "The truth is, I was alarmed for your safety. I can't help feeling responsibility on this expedition, although it is your train. My military education runs me into it, I suppose. Well, excuse my excitement. Miss Van Diemen, may I help you back through the gully?"
In leaning on him, being guided by him, being saved by him, trusting in him, the girl found a pleasure which was irresistible, although it seemed audacious and almost sinful. Before the cañon was half traversed she felt as if she could go on with him through the great dark valley of life, confiding in his strength and wisdom to lead her aright and make her happy. It was a temporary wave of emotion, but she remembered it long after it had passed.
Around the fires, after a cup of hot coffee, amid the odors of a plentiful supper, recounting the evening's adventure to Mrs. Stanley, Coronado was at his best. How he rolled out the English language! Our mother tongue hardly knew itself, it ran so fluently and sounded so magniloquently and lied so naturally. He praised everybody but himself; he praised Clara, Thurstane, and the two soldiers and the horses; he even said a flattering word or two for Divine Providence. Clara especially, and the whole of her heroic, more than human sex, demanded his enthusiastic admiration. How she had borne the terrors of the night and the desert! "Ah, Mrs. Stanley! only you women are capable of such efforts."
Aunt Maria's Olympian head nodded, and her cheerful face, glowing with tea and the camp fires, confessed "Certainly!"
"What nonsense, Coronado!" said Clara. "I was horribly frightened, and you know it."
Aunt Maria frowned with surprise and denial. "Absurd, child! You were not frightened at all. Of course you were not. Why, even if you had been slightly timorous, you had your cousin to protect you."
"Ah, Mrs. Stanley, I am a poor knight-errant," said Coronado. "We Mexicans are no longer formidable. One man of your Anglo-Saxon blood is supposed to be a better defence than a dozen of us. We have been subdued; we must submit to depreciation. I must confess, in fact, that I had my fears. I was greatly relieved on my cousin's account when I heard the voice of our military chieftain here."
Then came more flattery for Ralph, with proper rations for the two privates. Those faithful soldiers--he must show his gratitude to them; he had forgotten them in the basest manner. "Here, Pedronillo, take these cigaritos to privates Kelly and Shubert, with my compliments. Begging _your_ permission, Lieutenant. _Thank_ you."
"Pooty tonguey man, that Seenor," observed Captain Phineas Glover to Mrs. Stanley, when the Mexican went off to his blankets.
"Yes; a very agreeable and eloquent gentleman," replied the lady, wishing to correct the skipper's statement while seeming to assent to it.
"Jess so," admitted Glover. "Ruther airy. Big talkin' man. Don't raise no sech our way."
Captain Glover was not fully aware that he himself had the fame of possessing an imagination which was almost too much for the facts of this world.
"S'pose it's in the breed," he continued. "Or likely the climate has suthin' to do with it: kinder thaws out the words 'n' sets the idees a-bilin'. Niggers is pooty much the same. Most niggers kin talk like a line runnin' out, 'n' tell lies 's fast 's our Fair Haven gals open oysters--a quart a minute."
"Captain Glover, what do you mean?" frowned Aunt Maria. "Mr. Coronado is a friend of mine."
"Oh, I was speakin' of niggers," returned the skipper promptly. "Forgot we begun about the Seenor. Sho! niggers was what I was talkin' of. B' th' way, that puts me in mind 'f one I had for cook once. Jiminy! how that man would cook! He'd cook a slice of halibut so you wouldn't know it from beefsteak."
"Dear me! how did he do it?" asked Aunt Maria, who had a fancy for kitchen mysteries.
"Never could find out," said Glover, stepping adroitly out of his difficulty. "Don't s'pose that nigger would a let on how he did it for ten dollars."
"I should think the receipt would be worth ten dollars," observed Aunt Maria thoughtfully.
"Not 'xactly here," returned the captain, with one of his dried smiles, which had the air of having been used a great many times before. "Halibut too skurce. Wal, I was goin' to tell ye 'bout this nigger. He come to be the cook he was because he was a big eater. We was wrecked once, 'n' had to live three days on old shoes 'n' that sort 'f truck. Wal, this nigger was so darned ravenous he ate up a pair o' long boots in the time it took me to git down one 'f the straps."
"Ate up a pair of boots!" exclaimed Aunt Maria, amazed and almost incredulous.
"Yes, by thunder!" insisted the captain, "grease, nails, 'n' all. An' then went at the patent leather forepiece 'f his cap."
"What privations!" said Aunt Maria, staring fit to burst her spectacles.
"Oh, that's nothin'," chuckled Glover. "I'll tell ye suthin' some time that 'll astonish ye. But jess now I'm sleepy, 'n' I guess I'll turn in."
"Mr. Cluvver, it is your durn on card do-night," interposed Meyer, the German sergeant, as the captain was about to roll himself in his blankets.
"So 'tis," returned Glover in well feigned astonishment. "Don't forgit a feller, do ye, Sergeant? How 'n the world do ye keep the 'count so straight? Oh, got a little book there, hey, with all our names down. Wal, that's shipshape. You'd make a pooty good mate, Sergeant. When does my watch begin?"
"Right away. You're always on the virst relief. You'll fall in down there at the gorner of the vagon bark."
"Wal--yes--s'pose I will," sighed the skipper, as he rolled up his blankets and prepared for two hours' sentry duty.
Let us look into the arrangements for the protection of the caravan. With Coronado's consent Thurstane had divided the eighteen Indians and Mexicans, four soldiers, Texas Smith, and Glover, twenty-four men in all, into three equal squads, each composed of a sergeant, corporal, and six privates. Meyer was sergeant of one squad, the Irish veteran Kelly had another, and Texas Smith the third. Every night a detachment went on duty in three reliefs, each relief consisting of two men, who stood sentry for two hours, at the end of which time they were relieved by two others.
The six wagons were always parked in an oblong square, one at each end and two on each side; but in order to make the central space large enough for camping purposes, they were placed several feet apart; the gaps being closed with lariats, tied from wheel to wheel, to pen in the animals and keep out charges of Apache cavalry. On either flank of this enclosure, and twenty yards or so distant from it, paced a sentry. Every two hours, as we have said, they were relieved, and in the alternate hours the posts were visited by the sergeant or corporal of the guard, who took turns in attending to this service. The squad that came off duty in the morning was allowed during the day to take naps in the wagons, and was not put upon the harder camp labor, such as gathering firewood, going for water, etc.
The two ladies and the Indian women slept at night in the wagons, not only because the canvas tops protected them from wind and dew, but also because the wooden sides would shield them from arrows. The men who were not on guard lay under the vehicles so as to form a cordon around the mules. Thurstane and Coronado, the two chiefs of this armed migration, had their alternate nights of command, each when off duty sleeping in a special wagon known as "headquarters," but holding himself ready to rise at once in case of an alarm.
The cooking fires were built away from the park, and outside the beats of the sentries. The object was twofold: first, to keep sparks from lighting on the wagon covers; second, to hide the sentries from prowling archers. At night you can see everything between yourself and a fire, but nothing beyond it. As long as the wood continued to blaze, the most adroit Indian skulker could not approach the camp without exposing himself, while the guards and the garrison were veiled from his sight by a wall of darkness behind a dazzle of light.
Such were the bivouac arrangements, intelligent, systematic, and military. Not only had our Lieutenant devised them, but he saw to it that they were kept in working order. He was zealously and faithfully seconded by his men, and especially by his two veterans. There is no human machine more accurate and trustworthy than an old soldier, who has had year on year of the discipline and drill of a regular service, and who has learned to carry out instructions to the letter.
The arrangements for the march were equally thorough and judicious. Texas Smith, as the Nimrod of the party, claimed the right of going where he pleased; but while he hunted, he of course served also as a scout to nose out danger. The six Mexicans, who were nominally cattle-drivers, but really Coronado's minor bravos, were never suffered to ride off in a body, and were expected to keep on both sides of the train, some in advance and some in rear. The drivers and muleteers remained steadily with their wagons and animals. The four soldiers were also at hand, trudging close in front or in rear, accoutrements always on and muskets always loaded.
In this fashion the expedition had already journeyed over two hundred and twenty miles. Following Colonel Washington's trail, it had crossed the ranges of mountains immediately west of Abiquia, and, striking the Rio de Chaco, had tracked its course for some distance with the hope of reaching the San Juan. Stopped by a cañon, a precipitous gully hundreds of feet deep, through which the Chaco ran like a chased devil, the wagons had turned westward, and then had been forced by impassable ridges and lack of water into a southwest direction, at last gaining and crossing Pass Washington.
It was now on the western side of the Sierra de Chusca, in the rude, barren country over which Fort Defiance stands sentry. Ever since the second day after leaving San Isidore it had been on the great western slope of the continent, where every drop of water tends toward the Pacific. The pilgrims would have had cause to rejoice could they have travelled as easily as the drops of water, and been as certain of their goal. But the rivers had made roads for themselves, and man had not yet had time to do likewise.
The great central plateau of North America is a Mer de Glace in stone. It is a continent of rock, gullied by furious rivers; plateau on plateau of sandstone, with sluiceways through which lakes have escaped; the whole surface gigantically grotesque with the carvings of innumerable waters. What is remarkable in the scenery is, that its sublimity is an inversion of the sublimity of almost all other grand scenery. It is not so much the heights that are prodigious as the abysses. At certain points in the course of the Colorado of the West you can drop a plumb line six thousand feet before it will reach the bosom of the current; and you can only gain the water level by turning backward for scores of miles and winding laboriously down some subsidiary cañon, itself a chasm of awful grandeur.
Our travellers were now amid wild labyrinths of ranges, and buttes, and cañons, which were not so much a portion of the great plateau as they were the _débris_ that constituted its flanks. Although thousands of feet above the level of the sea, they still had thousands of feet to ascend before they could dominate the desert. Wild as the land was, it was thus far passable, while toward the north lay the untraversable. What course should be taken? Coronado, who had crimes to commit and to conceal, did not yet feel that he was far enough from the haunts of man. As soon as possible he must again venture a push northward.
But not immediately. The mules were fagged with hard work, weak with want of sufficient pasture, and had suffered much from thirst. He resolved to continue westward to the pueblas of the Moquis, that interesting race of agricultural and partially civilized Indians, perhaps the representatives of the architects of the Casas Grandes if not also descended from the mound-builders of the Mississippi valley. Having rested and refitted there, he might start anew for the San Juan.
Thus far they had seen no Indians except the vagrants who had robbed Phineas Glover. But they might now expect to meet them; they were in a region which was the raiding ground of four great tribes: the Utes on the north, the Navajos on the west, the Apaches on the south, and the Comanches on the east. The peaceful and industrious Moquis, with their gay and warm blankets, their fields of corn and beans, and their flocks of sheep, are the quarry which attracts this ferocious cavalry of the desert, these Tartars and Bedouin of America.
Thurstane took more pains than ever with the guard duty. Coronado, unmilitary though he was, and heartily as he abominated the Lieutenant, saw the wisdom of submitting to the latter's discipline, and made all his people submit. A practical-minded man, he preferred to owe the safety of his carcass to his rival rather than have it impaled on Apache lances. Occasionally, however, he made a suggestion.
"It is very well, this night-watching," he once observed, "but what we have most to fear is the open daylight. These mounted Indians seldom attack in the darkness."
Thurstane knew all this, but he did not say so; for he was a wise, considerate commander already, and he had learned not to chill an informant. He looked at Coronado inquiringly, as if to say, What do you propose?
"Every cañon ought to be explored before we enter it," continued the Mexican.
"It is a good hint," said Ralph. "Suppose I keep two of your cattle-drivers constantly in advance. You had better instruct them yourself. Tell them to fire the moment they discover an ambush. I don't suppose they will hit anybody, but we want the warning."
With two horsemen three or four hundred yards to the front, two more an equal distance in the rear, and, when the ground permitted, one on either flank, the train continued its journey. Every wagon-driver and muleteer had a weapon of some sort always at hand. The four soldiers marched a few rods in advance, for the ground behind had already been explored, while that ahead might contain enemies. The precautions were extraordinary; but Thurstane constantly trembled for Clara. He would have thought a regiment hardly sufficient to guard such a treasure.
"How timorous these men are," sniffed Aunt Maria, who, having seen no hostile Indians, did not believe there were any. "And it seems to me that soldiers are more easily scared than anybody else," she added, casting a depreciating glance at Thurstane, who was reconnoitring the landscape through his field glass.
Clara believed in men, and especially in soldiers, and more particularly in lieutenants. Accordingly she replied, "I suppose they know the dangers and we don't."
"Pshaw!" said Aunt Maria, an argument which carried great weight with her. "They don't know half what they claim to. It is a clever man who knows one-tenth of his own business." (She was right there.) "They don't know so much, I verily and solemnly believe, as the women whom they pretend to despise."
This peaceful and cheering conversation was interrupted by a shot ringing out of a cañon which opened into a range of rock some three hundred yards ahead of the caravan. Immediately on the shot came a yell as of a hundred demons, a furious trampling of the feet of many horses, and a cloud of the Tartars of the American desert.
In advance of the rush flew the two Mexican vedettes, screaming, "Apaches! Apaches!"
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When the Apache tornado burst out of the cañon upon the train, Thurstane's first thought was, "Clara!"
"Get off!" he shouted to her, seizing and holding her startled horse. "Into the wagon, quick! Now lie down, both of you."
He thundered all this out as sternly as if he were commanding troops. Because he was a man, Clara obeyed him; and notwithstanding he was a man, Mrs. Stanley obeyed him. Both were so bewildered with surprise and terror as to be in a kind of animal condition of spirit, knowing just enough to submit at once to the impulse of an imperious voice. The riderless horse, equally frightened and equally subordinate, was hurried to the rear of the leading wagon and handed over to a muleteer.
By the time this work was done the foremost riders of the assailants were within two hundred yards of the head of the train, letting drive their arrows at the flying Mexican vedettes and uttering yells fit to raise the dead, while their comrades behind, whooping also, stormed along under a trembling and flickering of lances. The little, lean, wiry horses were going at full speed, regardless of smooth faces of rock and beds of loose stones. The blackguards were over a hundred in number, all lancers and archers of the first quality.
The vedettes never pulled up until they were in rear of the hindermost wagon, while their countrymen on the flanks and rear made for the same poor shelter. The drivers were crouching almost under their seats, and the muleteers were hiding behind their animals. Thus it was evident that the entire brunt of the opening struggle would fall upon Thurstane and his people; that, if there was to be any resistance at all, these five men must commence it, and, for a while at least, "go it alone."
The little squad of regulars, at this moment a few yards in front of the foremost wagon, was drawn up in line and standing steady, precisely as if it were a company or a regiment. Sergeant Meyer was on the right, veteran Kelly on the left, the two recruits in the centre, the pieces at a shoulder, the bayonets fixed. As Thurstane rode up to this diminutive line of battle, Meyer was shouting forth his sharp and decisive orders. They were just the right orders; excited as the young officer was, he comprehended that there was nothing to change; moreover, he had already learned how men are disconcerted in battle by a multiplicity of directions. So he sat quietly on his horse, revolver in hand, his blue-black eyes staring angrily at the coming storm.
"Kelly, reserfe your fire!" yelled Meyer. "Recruits, ready--bresent--aim--aim low--fire!"
Simultaneously with the report a horse in the leading group of charging savages pitched headlong on his nose and rolled over, sending his rider straight forward into a rubble of loose shales, both lying as they fell, without movement. Half a dozen other animals either dropped on their haunches or sheered violently to the right and left, going off in wild plunges and caracolings. By this one casualty the head of the attacking column was opened and its seemingly resistless impetus checked and dissipated, almost before Meyer could shout, "Recruits, load at will, load!"
A moment previous this fiery cavalry had looked irresistible. It seemed to have in it momentum, audacity, and dash enough to break a square of infantry or carry a battery of artillery. The horses fairly flew; the riders had the air of centaurs, so firm and graceful was their seat; the long lances were brandished as easily as if by the hands of footmen; the bows were managed and the arrows sent with dazzling dexterity. It was a show of brilliant equestrianism, surpassing the feats of circus riders. But a single effective shot into the centre of the column had cleft it as a rock divides a torrent. It was like the breaking of a water-spout.
The attack, however, had only commenced. The Indians who had swept off to right and left went scouring along the now motionless train, at a distance of sixty or eighty yards, rapidly enveloping it with their wild caperings, keeping in constant motion so as to evade gunshots, threatening with their lances or discharging arrows, and yelling incessantly. Their main object so far was undoubtedly to frighten the mules into a stampede and thus separate the wagons. They were not assaulting; they were watching for chances.
"Keep your men together, Sergeant," said Thurstane. "I must get those Mexicans to work."
He trotted deliberately to the other end of the train, ordering each driver as he passed to move up abreast of the leading wagon, directing the first to the right, the second to the left, and so on. The result of this movement would of course be to bring the train into a compact mass and render it more defensible. The Indians no sooner perceived the advance than they divined its object and made an effort to prevent it. Thurstane had scarcely reached the centre of the line of vehicles when a score or so of yelling horsemen made a caracoling, prancing charge upon him, accompanying it with a flight of arrows. Our young hero presented his revolver, but they apparently knew the short range of the weapon, and came plunging, curveting onward. Matters were growing serious, for an arrow already stuck in his saddle, and another had passed through his hat. Suddenly there was a bang, bang of firearms, and two of the savages went down.
Meyer had observed the danger of his officer, and had ordered Kelly to fire, blazing away too himself. There was a headlong, hasty scramble to carry off the fallen warriors, and then the assailants swept back to a point beyond accurate musket shot. Thurstane reached the rear of the train unhurt, and found the six Mexican cattle-drivers there in a group, pointing their rifles at such Indians as made a show of charging, but otherwise doing nothing which resembled fighting. They were obviously panic-stricken, one or two of them being of an ashy-yellow, their nearest possible approach to pallor. There, too, was Coronado, looking not exactly scared, but irresolute and helpless.
"What does this mean?" Thurstane stormed in Spanish. "Why don't you shoot the devils?"
"We are reserving our fire," stammered Coronado, half alarmed, half ashamed.
Thurstane swore briefly, energetically, and to the point. "Damned pretty fighting!" he went on. "If _we_ had reserved our fire, we should all have been lanced by this time. Let drive!"
The cattle-drivers carried short rifles, of the then United States regulation pattern, which old Garcia had somehow contrived to pick up during the war perhaps buying them of drunken soldiers. Supported by Thurstane's pugnacious presence and hurried up by his vehement orders, they began to fire. They were shaky; didn't aim very well; hardly aimed at all, in fact; blazed away at extraordinary elevations; behaved as men do who have become demoralized. However, as the pieces had a range of several hundred yards, the small bullets hissed venomously over the heads of the Indians, and one of them, by pure accident, brought down a horse. There was an immediate scattering, a multitudinous glinting of hoofs through the light dust of the plain, and then a rally in prancing groups, at a safe distance.
"Hurrah!" shouted Thurstane, cheering the Mexicans. "That's very well. You see how easy it is. Now don't let them sneak up again; and at the same time don't waste powder."
Then turning to one who was near him, and who had just reloaded, he said in a calm, strong, encouraging tone--that voice of the thoroughly good officer which comes to the help of the shaken soldier like a reinforcement--"Now, my lad, steadily. Pick out your man; take your time and aim sure. Do you see him?"
"Si, señor," replied the herdsman. His coolness restored by this steady utterance and these plain, common-sense directions, he selected a warrior in helmet-shaped cap, blue shirt, and long boots, brought his rifle slowly to a level, took sight, and fired. The Indian bent forward, caught the mane of his plunging pony, hung there for a second or two, and then rolled to the ground, amid a yell of surprise and dismay from his comrades. There was a hasty rush to secure the body, and then another sweep backward of the loose array.
"Good!" called Thurstane, nodding and smiling at the successful marksman. "That is the way to do it. You are a match for half a dozen of them as long as you will keep cool."
The besieged travellers could now look about quietly and see how matters stood with them. The six wagons were by this time drawn up in two ranks of three each, so as to form a compact mass. As the one which contained the ladies had been the leader and the others had formed on it to right and left, it was in the centre of the first rank, and consequently pretty well protected by its neighbors. The drivers and muleteers had recovered their self-possession, and were all sitting or standing at their posts, with their miscellaneous arms ready for action. Not a human being had been hit as yet, and only three of the mules wounded, none of them seriously. The Apaches were all around the train, but none of them nearer than two hundred yards, and doing nothing but canter about and shout to each other.
"Where is Texas Smith?" demanded Thurstane, missing that mighty hunter, and wondering if he were a coward and had taken refuge in a wagon.
"He went off shutin' an hour ago," explained Phineas Glover. "Reckon he's astern somewhere."
Glover, by the way, had been useful. In the beginning of the affray he had brought his mule alongside of the headmost wagon, and there he had done really valuable service by blazing away alarmingly, though quite innocuously, at the gallopading enemy.
"It's a bad lookout for Texas," observed the Lieutenant "I shouldn't want to bet high on his getting back to us."
Coronado looked gloomy, fearing lest his trusted assassin was lost, and not knowing where he could pick up such another.
"And how are the ladies?" asked Thurstane, turning to Glover.
"Safe 's a bug in a rug," was the reply. "Seen to that little job myself. Not a bugger in the hull crew been nigh 'em."
Thurstane cantered around to the front of the wagon which contained the two women, and called, "How are you?"
At the sound of his voice there was a rustle inside, and Clara showed her face over the shoulder of the driver.
"So you were not hurt?" laughed the young officer. "Ah! that's bully."
With a smile which was almost a boast, she answered, "And I was not very frightened."
At this, Aunt Maria struggled from between two rolls of bedding into a sitting posture and ejaculated, "Of course not!"
"Did they hit you?" asked Clara, looking eagerly at Thurstane.
"How brave you are!" he replied, admiring her so much that he did not notice her question.
"But I do hope it is over," added the girl, poking her head out of the wagon. "Ah! what is that?"
With this little cry of dismay she pointed at a group of savages who had gathered between the train and the mouth of the cañon ahead of it.
"They are the enemy," said Thurstane. "We may have another little tussle with them. Now lie down and keep close."
"Acquit yourselves like--men!" exhorted Aunt Maria, dropping back into her stronghold among the bedding.
Sergeant Meyer now approached Thurstane, touched his cap, and said, "Leftenant, here is brifate Sweeny who has not fired his beece once. I cannot make him fire."
"How is that, Sweeny?" demanded the officer, putting on the proper grimness. "Why haven't you fired when you were ordered?"
Sweeny was a little wizened shaving of an Irishman. He was not only quite short, but very slender and very lean. He had a curious teetering gait, and he took ridiculously short steps in marching, as if he were a monkey who had not learned to feel at ease on his hind legs. His small, wilted, wrinkled face, and his expression of mingled simplicity and shrewdness, were also monkey-like. At Thurstane's reprimand he trotted close up to him with exactly the air of a circus Jocko who expects a whipping, but who hopes to escape it by grinning.
"Why haven't you fired?" repeated his commander.
"Liftinint, I dasn't," answered Sweeny, in the rapid, jerking, almost inarticulate jabber which was his usual speech.
Now it is not an uncommon thing for recruits to dread to discharge their arms in battle. They have a vague idea that, if they bang away, they will attract the notice of some antagonist who will immediately single them out for retaliation.
"Are you afraid anybody will hit you?" asked Thurstane.
"No, I ain't, Liftinint," jabbered Sweeny. "I ain't afeard av them niggers a bit. They may shoot their bow arrays at me all day if they want to. I'm afeard of me gun, Liftinint. I fired it wonst, an' it kicked me to blazes."
"Come, come! That won't do. Level it now. Pick out your man. Aim. Fire."
Thus constrained, Sweeny brought his piece down to an inclination of forty-five degrees, shut his eyes, pulled trigger, and sent a ball clean over the most distant Apaches. The recoil staggered him, but he recovered himself without going over, and instantly roared out a horse-laugh.
"Ho! ho! ho!" he shouted. "That time I reckon I fetched won av 'em."
"Sweeny," said Thurstane, "you must have hit either the sun or the moon, I don't know which."
Sweeny looked discomfited; the next breath he bethought himself of a saving joke: "Liftinint, it 'ud sarve erry won av 'em right;" then another neigh of laughter.
"I ain't afeard av the ball," he hastened to asseverate; "it's the kick av it that murthers me. Liftinint, why don't they put the britch to the other end av the gun? They do in the owld counthry."
"Load your beece," ordered Sergeant Meyer, "and go to your bost again, to the left of Shupert."
The fact of Sweeny's opening fire did not cause a resumption of the close fighting. Quiet still continued, and the leaders of the expedition took advantage of it to discuss their situation, while the Indians gathered into little groups and seemed also to be holding council.
"There are over a hundred warriors," said Thurstane.
"Apaches," added one of the Mexican herdsmen.
"What band?"
"Manga Colorada or Delgadito."
"I supposed they were in Bernalillo."
"That was three weeks ago," put in Coronado.
He was in profound thought. These fellows, who had agreed to harry Bernalillo, and who had for a time carried out their bargain, why had they come to intercept him in the Moqui country, a hundred and twenty miles away? Did they want to extort more money, or were they ignorant that this was his train? And, supposing he should make himself known to them, would they spare him personally and such others as he might wish to save, while massacring the rest of the party? It would be a bold step; he could not at once decide upon it; he was pondering it.
We must do full justice to Coronado's coolness and readiness. This atrocious idea had occurred to him the instant he heard the charging yell of the Apaches; and it had done far more than any weakness of nerves to paralyze his fighting ability. He had thought, "Let them kill the Yankees; then I will proclaim myself and save _her_; then she will be mine." And because of these thoughts he had stood irresolute, aiming without firing, and bidding his Mexicans do the same. The result was that six good shots and superb horsemen, who were capable of making a gallant fight under worthy leadership, had become demoralized, and, but for the advent of Thurstane, might have been massacred like sheep.
Now that three or four Apaches had fallen, Coronado had less hope of making his arrangement. He considered the matter carefully and judiciously, but at last he decided that he could not trust the vindictive devils, and he turned his mind strenuously toward resistance. Although not pugnacious, he had plenty of the desperate courage of necessity, and his dusky black eyes were very resolute as he said to Thurstane, "Lieutenant, we trust to you."
The young veteran had already made up his mind as to what must be done.
"We will move on," he said. "We can't camp here, in an open plain, without grass or water. We must get into the cañon so as to have our flanks protected. I want the wagons to advance in double file so as to shorten the train. Two of my men in front and two in rear; three of your herdsmen on one flank and three on the other; Captain Glover alongside the ladies, and you and I everywhere; that's the programme. If we are all steady, we can do it, sure."
"They are collecting ahead to stop us," observed Coronado.
"Good!" said Thurstane. "All I want is to have them get in a heap. It is this attacking on all sides which is dangerous. Suppose you give your drivers and muleteers a sharp lecture. Tell them they must fight if the Indians charge, and not skulk inside and under the wagons. Tell them we are going to shoot the first man who skulks. Pitch into them heavy. It's a devilish shame that a dozen tolerably well-armed men should be so helpless. It's enough to justify the old woman's contempt for our sex."
Coronado rode from wagon to wagon, delivering his reproofs, threats, and instructions in the plainest kind of Spanish. At the signal to march, the drivers must file off two abreast, commencing on the right, and move at the fastest trot of the mules toward the cañon. If any scoundrel skulked, quitted his post, or failed to fight, he would be pistolled instanter by him, Coronado _sangre de Dios_, etc.!
While he was addressing Aunt Maria's coachman, that level-headed lady called out, "Mr. Coronado, your very voice is cheering."
"Mrs. Stanley, you are an example of heroism to our sex," replied the Mexican, with an ironical grin.
"What a brave, noble, intelligent man?" thought Aunt Maria. "If they were only all like him!"
This business took up five minutes. Coronado had just finished his round when a loud yell was raised by the Apaches, and twenty or thirty of them started at full speed down the trail by which the caravan had come. Looking for the cause of this stampede, the emigrants beheld, nearly half a mile away, a single horseman rushing to encounter a score. It was Texas Smith, making an apparently hopeless rush to burst through the environment of Parthians and reach the train.
"Shall we make a sally to save him?" demanded Coronado, glancing at Thurstane.
The officer hesitated; to divide his small army would be perilous; the Apaches would attack on all sides and with advantage.
But the sight of one man so overmatched was too much for him, and with a great throb of chivalrous blood in his heart, he shouted, "Charge!"
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An hour before the attack Texas Smith had ridden off to stalk a deer; but the animal being in good racing condition in consequence of the thin fare of this sterile region, the hunting bout had miscarried; and our desperado was returning unladen toward the train when he heard the distant charging yell of the Apaches.
Scattered over the plateau which he was traversing, there were a few thickets of mesquite, with here and there a fantastic butte of sandstone. By dodging from one of these covers to another, he arrived undiscovered at a point whence he could see the caravan and the curveting mêlée which surrounded it. He was nearly half a mile from his comrades and over a quarter of a mile from his nearest enemies.
What should he do? If he made a rush, he would probably be overpowered and either killed instantly or carried off for torture. If he waited until night for a chance to sneak into camp, the wandering redskins would be pretty apt to surprise him in the darkness, and there would be small chance indeed of escaping with his hair. It was a nasty situation; but Texas, accustomed to perils, was as brave as he was wicked; and he looked his darkling fate in the face with admirable coolness and intelligence. His decision was to wait a favorable moment, and when it came, charge for life.
When he perceived that the mass of the Indians had gathered on the trail between the wagons and the cañon, he concluded that his chance had arrived; and with teeth grimly set, rifle balanced across his saddle-bow, revolver slung to his wrist, he started in silence and at full speed on his almost hopeless rush. If you will cease to consider the man as a modern bushwhacker, and invest him temporarily with the character, ennobled by time, of a borderer of the Scottish marches, you will be able to feel some sympathy for him in his audacious enterprise.
He was mounted on an American horse, a half-blood gray, large-boned and powerful, who could probably have traversed the half-mile in a minute had there been no impediment, and who was able to floor with a single shock two or three of the little animals of the Apaches. He was a fine spectacle as he thundered alone across the plain, upright and easy in his seat, balancing his heavy rifle as if it were a rattan, his dark and cruel face settled for fight and his fierce black eyes blazing.
Only a minute's ride, but that minute life or death. As he had expected, the Apaches discovered him almost as soon as he left the cover of his butte, and all the outlying members of the horde swarmed toward him with a yell, brandishing their spears and getting ready their bows as they rode. It would clearly be impossible for him to cut his way through thirty warriors unless he received assistance from the train. Would it come? His evil conscience told him, without the least reason, that Thurstane would not help. But from Coronado, whose life he had saved and whose evil work he had undertaken to do--from this man, "greaser" as he was, he did expect a sally. If it did not come, and if he should escape by some rare chance, he, Texas Smith, would murder the Mexican the first time he found him alone, so help him God!
While he thought and cursed he flew. But his goal was still five hundred yards away, and the nearest redskins were within two hundred yards, when he saw a rescuing charge shoot out from the wagons. Coronado led it. In this foxy nature the wolf was not wanting, and under strong impulse he could be somewhat of a Pizarro. He had no starts of humanity nor of real chivalry, but he had family pride and personal vanity, and he was capable of the fighting fury. When Thurstane had given the word to advance, Coronado had put himself forward gallantly.
"Stay here," he said to the officer; "guard the train with your infantry. I am a caballero, and I will do a caballero's work," he added, rising proudly in his stirrups. "Come on, you villains!" was his order to the six Mexicans.
All abreast, spread out like a skirmish line, the seven horsemen clattered over the plain, making for the point where Texas Smith was about to plunge among the whirling and caracoling Apaches.
Now came the crisis of the day. The moment the sixty or seventy Apaches near the mouth of the cañon saw Coronado set out on his charge, they raised a yell of joy over the error of the emigrants in dividing their forces, and plunged straight at the wagons. In half a minute two wild, irregular, and yet desperate combats were raging.
Texas Smith had begun his battle while Coronado was still a quarter of a mile away. Aiming his rifle at an Apache who was riding directly upon him, instead of dodging and wheeling in the usual fashion of these cautious fighters, he sent the audacious fellow out of his saddle with a bullet-hole through the lungs. But this was no salvation; the dreaded long-range firearm was now empty; the savages circled nearer and began to use their arrows. Texas let his rifle hang from the pommel and presented his revolver. But the bowshots were more than its match. It could not be trusted to do execution at forty yards, and at that distance the Indian shafts are deadly. Already several had hissed close by him, one had gashed the forehead of his horse, and another had pierced his clothing.
All that Texas wanted, however, was time. If he could pass a half minute without a disabling wound, he would have help. He retreated a little, or rather he edged away toward the right, wheeling and curveting after the manner of the Apaches, in order to present an unsteady mark for their archery. To keep them at a distance he fired one barrel of his revolver, though without effect. Meantime he dodged incessantly, now throwing himself forward and backward in the saddle, now hanging over the side of his horse and clinging to his neck. It was hard and perilous work, but he was gaining seconds, and every second was priceless. Notwithstanding his extreme peril, he calculated his chances with perfect coolness and with a sagacity which was admirable.
But this intelligent savage had to do with savages as clever as himself. The Apaches saw Coronado coming up on their rear, and they knew that they must make short work of the hunter, or must let him escape. While a score or so faced about to meet the Mexicans, a dozen charged with screeches and brandished lances upon the Texan. Now came a hand-to-hand struggle which looked as if it must end in the death of Smith and perhaps of several of his assailants. But cavalry fights are notoriously bloodless in comparison to their apparent fury; the violent and perpetual movement of the combatants deranges aim and renders most of the blows futile; shots are fired at a yard distance without hitting, and strokes are delivered which only wound the air.
One spear stuck in Smith's saddle; another pierced his jacket-sleeve and tore its way out; only one of the sharp, quickly-delivered points drew blood. He felt a slight pain in his side, and he found afterward that a lance-head had raked one of his ribs, tearing up the skin and scraping the bone for four or five inches. Meantime he shot a warrior through the head, sent another off with a hole in the shoulder, and fired one barrel without effect. He had but a single charge left (saving this for himself in the last extremity), when he burst through the prancing throng of screeching, thrusting ragamuffins, and reached the side of Coronado.
Here another hurly-burly of rearing and plunging combat awaited him. Coronado, charging as an old Castilian hidalgo might have charged upon the Moors, had plunged directly into the midst of the Apaches who awaited him, giving them little time to use their arrows, and at first receiving no damage. The six rifles of his Mexicans sent two Apaches out of their saddles, and then came a capering, plunging joust of lances, both parties using the same weapon. Coronado alone had sabre and revolver; and he handled them both with beautiful coolness and dexterity; he rode, too, as well as the best of all these other centaurs. His superb horse whirled and reared under the guidance of a touch of the knees, while the rider plied firearm with one hand and sharply-ground blade with the other. Thurstane, an infantryman, and only a fair equestrian, would not have been half so effective in this combat of caballeros.
Coronado's first bullet knocked a villainous-looking tatterdemalion clean into the happy hunting grounds. Then came a lance thrust; he parried it with his sabre and plunged within range of the point; there was a sharp, snake-like hiss of the light, curved blade; down went Apache number two. At this rate, providing there were no interruptions, he could finish the whole twenty. He went at his job with a handy adroitness which was almost scientific, it was so much like surgery, like dissection. His mind was bent, with a sort of preternatural calmness and cleverness, upon the business of parrying lance thrusts, aiming his revolver, and delivering sabre cuts. It was a species of fighting intellection, at once prudent and destructive. It was not the headlong, reckless, pugnacious rage of the old Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian berserker. It was the practical, ready, rational furor of the Latin race.
Presently he saw that two of his rancheros had been lanced, and that there were but four left. A thrill of alarm, a commencement of panic, a desire to save himself at all hazards, crisped his heart and half paralyzed his energy. Remembering with perfect distinctness that four of his barrels were empty, he would perhaps have tried to retreat at the risk of being speared in the back, had he not at this critical moment been joined by Texas Smith.
That instinctive, ferocious, and tireless fighter, while seeming to be merely circling and curveting among his assailants, contrived to recharge two barrels of his revolver, and was once more ready for business. Down went one Apache; then the horse of another fell to reeling and crouching in a sickly way; then a charge of half a dozen broke to right and left in irresolute prancings. At sight of this friendly work Coronado drew a fresh breath of courage, and executed his greatest feat yet of horsemanship and swordsmanship. Spurring after and then past one of the wheeling braves, he swept his sabre across the fellow's bare throat with a drawing stroke, and half detached the scowling, furious, frightened head from the body.
There was a wide space of open ground before him immediately. The Apaches know nothing of sabre work; not one of those present had ever before seen such a blow or such an effect; they were not only panic-stricken, but horror-stricken. For one moment, right between the staring antagonists, a bloody corpse sat upright on a rearing horse, with its head fallen on one shoulder and hanging by a gory muscle. The next moment it wilted, rolled downward with outstretched arms, and collapsed upon the gravel, an inert mass.
Texas Smith uttered a loud scream of tigerish delight. He had never, in all his pugnacious and sanguinary life, looked upon anything so fascinating. It seemed to him as if _his_ heaven--the savage Walhalla of his Saxon or Danish berserker race--were opened before him. In his ecstasy he waved his dirty, long fingers toward Coronado, and shouted, "Bully for you, old hoss!"
But he had self-possession enough, now that his hand was free for an instant from close battle, to reload his rifle and revolver. The four rancheros who still retained their saddles mechanically and hurriedly followed his example. The contest here was over; the Apaches knew that bullets would soon be humming about their ears, and they dreaded them; there was a retreat, and this retreat was a run of an eighth of a mile.
"Hurrah for the waggins!" shouted Texas, and dashed away toward the train. Coronado stared; his heart sank within him; the train was surrounded by a mob of prancing savages; there was more fighting to be done when he had already done his best. But not knowing where else to go, he followed his leader toward this new battle, loading his revolver as he rode, and wishing that he were in Santa Fé, or anywhere in peace.
We must go back a little. As already stated, the main body of the Apaches had perceived the error of the emigrants in separating, and had promptly availed themselves of it to charge upon the train. To attack it there were seventy ferocious and skilful warriors; to defend it there were twelve timorous muleteers and drivers, four soldiers, and Ralph.
"Fall back!" shouted the Lieutenant to his regulars when he saw the equestrian avalanche coming. "Each man take a wagon and hold it."
The order was obeyed in a hurry. The Apaches, heartened by what they supposed to be a panic, swarmed along at increased speed, and gave out their most diabolical screeches, hoping no doubt to scare men into helplessness, and beasts into a stampede. But the train was an immovable fortress, and the fortress was well garrisoned. Although the mules winced and plunged a good deal, the drivers succeeded in holding them to their places, and the double column of carriages, three in each rank, preserved its formation. In every vehicle there was a muleteer, with hands free for fighting, bearing something or other in the shape of a firelock, and inspired with what courage there is in desperation. The four flankers, necessarily the most exposed to assault, had each a United States regular, with musket, bayonet, and forty rounds of buck and ball. In front of the phalanx, directly before the wagon which contained the two ladies, sat as brave an officer as there was in the American army.
The Apaches had also committed their tactical blunder. They should all have followed Coronado, made sure of destroying him and his Mexicans, and then attacked the train. But either there was no sagacious military spirit among them, or the love of plunder was too much for judgment and authority, and so down they came on the wagons.
As the swarthy swarm approached, it spread out until it covered the front of the train and overlapped its flanks, ready to sweep completely around it and fasten upon any point which should seem feebly or timorously defended. The first man endangered was the lonely officer who sat his horse in front of the line of kicking and plunging mules. Fortunately for him, he now had a weapon of longer range than his revolver; he had remembered that in one of the wagons was stored a peculiar rifle belonging to Coronado; he had just had time to drag it out and strap its cartridge-box around his waist.
He levelled at the centre of the clattering, yelling column. It fluctuated; the warriors who were there did not like to be aimed at; they began to zigzag, caracole, and diverge to right or left; several halted and commenced using their bows. At one of these archers, whose arrow already trembled on the string, Thurstane let fly, sending him out of the saddle. Then he felt a quick, sharp pain in his left arm, and perceived that a shaft had passed clean through it.
There is this good thing about the arrow, that it has not weight enough to break bones, nor tearing power enough to necessarily paralyze muscle. Thurstane could still manage a revolver with his wounded arm, while his right was good for almost any amount of slashing work. Letting the rifle drop and swing from the pommel, he met the charge of two grinning and scowling lancers. One thrust he parried with his sabre; from the other he saved his neck by stooping; but it drove through his coat collar, and nearly unseated him. For a moment our bleeding and hampered young gladiator seemed to be in a bad way. But he was strong; he braced himself in his stirrups, and he made use of both his hands. The Indian whose spear was still free caught a bullet through the shoulder, dropped his weapon, and circled away yelling. Then Thurstane plunged at the other, reared his tall horse over him, broke the lance-shaft with a violent twist, and swung his long cavalry sabre. It was in vain that the Apache crouched, spurred, and skedaddled; he got away alive, but it was with a long bloody gash down his naked back; the last seen of him he was going at full speed, holding by his pony's mane. The Lieutenant remained master of the whole front of the caravan.
Meantime there was a busy popping along the flankers and through the hinder openings in the second line of wagons. The Indians skurried, wheeled, pranced, and yelled, let fly their arrows from a distance, dashed up here and there with their lances, and as quickly retreated before the threatening muzzles. The muleteers, encouraged by the presence of the soldiers, behaved with respectable firmness and blazed away rapidly, though not effectively. The regulars reserved their fire for close quarters, and then delivered it to bloody purpose.
Around Sweeny, who garrisoned the left-hand wagon of the rearmost line, the fight was particularly noisy. The Apaches saw that he was little, and perhaps they saw that he was afraid of his gun. They went for him; they were after him with their sharpest sticks; they counted on Sweeny. The speck of a man sat on the front seat of the wagon, outside of the driver, and fully exposed to the tribulation. He was in a state of the highest Paddy excitement. He grinned and bounced like a caravan of monkeys. But he was not much scared; he was mainly in a furious rage. Pointing his musket first at one and then at another, he returned yell for yell, and was in fact abusive.
"Oh, fire yer bow-arreys!" he screamed. "Ye can't hit the side av a waggin. Ah, ye bloody, murtherin' nagers! go 'way wid yer long poles. I'd fight a hundred av the loikes av ye wid ownly a shillelah."
One audacious thrust of a lance he parried very dexterously with his bayonet, at the same time screeching defiantly and scornfully in the face of his hideous assailant. But this fellow's impudent approach was too much to be endured, and Sweeny proceeded at once to teach him to keep at a more civil distance.
"Oh, ye pokin' blaggard!" he shouted, and actually let drive with his musket. The ball missed, but by pure blundering one of the buck-shot took effect, and the brave retreated out of the mêlée with a sensation as if his head had been split. Some time later he was discovered sitting up doggedly on a rock, while a comrade was trying to dig the buckshot out of his thick skull with an arrow-point.
"I'll tache 'em to moind their bizniss," grinned Sweeny triumphantly, as he reloaded. "The nasty, hootin' nagers! They've no rights near a white man, anyhow."
On the whole, the attack lingered. The Apaches had done some damage. One driver had been lanced mortally. One muleteer had been shot through the heart with an arrow. Another arrow had scraped Shubert's ankle. Another, directed by the whimsical genius of accident, had gone clean through the drooping cartilage of Phineas Glover's long nose, as if to prepare him for the sporting of jewelled decorations. Two mules were dead, and several wounded. The sides of the wagons bristled with shafts, and their canvas tops were pierced with fine holes. But, on the other hand, the Apaches had lost a dozen horses, three or four warriors killed, and seven or eight wounded.
Such was the condition of affairs around the train when Coronado, Texas Smith, and the four surviving herdsmen came storming back to it.
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The Apaches were discouraged by the immovability of the train, and by the steady and deadly resistance of its defenders. From first to last some twenty-five or twenty-seven of their warriors had been hit, of whom probably one third were killed or mortally wounded.
At the approach of Coronado those who were around the wagons swept away in a panic, and never paused in their flight until they were a good half mile distant. They carried off, however, every man, whether dead or injured, except one alone. A few rods from the train lay a mere boy, certainly not over fifteen years old, his forehead gashed by a bullet, and life apparently extinct. There was nothing strange in the fact of so young a lad taking part in battle, for the military age among the Indians is from twelve to thirty-six, and one third of their fighters are children.
"What did they leave that fellow for?" said Coronado in surprise, riding up to the senseless figure.
"I'll fix him," volunteered Texas Smith, dismounting and drawing his hunting knife. "Reckon he hain't been squarely finished."
"Stop!" ordered Coronado. "He is not an Apache. He is some pueblo Indian. See how much he is hurt."
"Skull ain't broke," replied Texas, fingering the wound as roughly as if it had been in the flesh of a beast. "Reckon he'll flop round. May do mischief, if we don't fix him."
Anxious to stick his knife into the defenceless young throat, he nevertheless controlled his sentiments and looked up for instructions. Since the splendid decapitation which Coronado had performed, Texas respected him as he had never heretofore hoped to respect a "greaser."
"Perhaps we can get information out of him," said Coronado. "Suppose you lay him in a wagon."
Meanwhile preparations had been made for an advance. The four dead or badly wounded draft mules were disentangled from the harness, and their places supplied with the four army mules, whose packs were thrown into the wagons. These animals, by the way, had escaped injury, partly because they had been tethered between the two lines of vehicles, and partly because they had been well covered by their loads, which were plentifully stuck-with arrows.
"We are ready to march," said Thurstane to Coronado. "I am sorry we can't try to recover your men back there."
"No use," commented Texas Smith. "The Patchies have been at 'em. They're chuck full of spear holes by this time."
Coronado shouted to the drivers to start. Commencing on the right, the wagons filed off two by two toward the mouth of the cañon, while the Indians, gathered in a group half a mile away, looked on without a yell or a movement. The instant that the vehicle which contained the ladies had cleared itself of the others, Thurstane and Coronado rode alongside of it.
"So! you are safe!" said the former. "By Heavens, if they _had_ hurt you!"
"And you?" asked Clara, very quickly and eagerly, while scanning him from head to foot.
Coronado saw that look, anxious for Thurstane alone; and, master of dissimulation though he was, his face showed both pain and anger.
"Ah--oh--oh dear!" groaned Mrs. Stanley, as she made her appearance in the front of the vehicle. "Well! this is rather more than I can bear. This is just as much as a woman can put up with. Dear me! what is the matter with your arm, Lieutenant?"
"Just a pin prick," said Thurstane.
Clara began to get out of the wagon, with the purpose of going to him, her eyes staring and her face pale.
"Don't!" he protested, motioning her back. "It is nothing."
And, although the lacerated arm hurt him and was not easy to manage, he raised it over his head to show that the damage was trifling.
"Do get in here and let us take care of you," begged Clara.
"Certainly!" echoed Aunt Maria, who was a compassionate woman at heart, and who only lacked somewhat in quickness of sympathy, perhaps by reason of her strong-minded notions.
"I will when I need it," said Ralph, flattered and gratified. "The arm will do without dressing till we reach camp. There are other wounded. Everybody has fought. Mr. Coronado here has done deeds worthy of his ancestors."
"Ah, Mr. Coronado!" smiled Aunt Maria, delighted that her favorite had distinguished himself.
"Captain Glover, what's the matter with your nose?" was the lady's next outcry.
"Wal, it's been bored," replied Glover, tenderly fingering his sore proboscis. "It's been, so to speak, eyelet-holed. I'm glad I hadn't but one. The more noses a feller kerries in battle, the wuss for him. I hope the darned rip'll heal up. I've no 'casion to hev a line rove through it 'n' be towed, that I know of."
"How did it feel when it went through?" asked Aunt Maria, full of curiosity and awe.
"Felt's though I'd got the dreadfullest influenzee thet ever snorted. Twitched 'n' tickled like all possessed."
"Was it an arrow?" inquired the still unsatisfied lady.
"Reckon 'twas. Never see it. But it kinder whished, 'n' I felt the feathers. Darn 'em! When I felt the feathers, tell ye I was 'bout half scairt. Hed 'n idee 'f th' angel 'f death, 'n' so on."
Of course Aunt Maria and Clara wanted to do much nursing immediately; but there were no conveniences and there was no time; and so benevolence was postponed.
"So you are hurt?" said Thurstane to Texas Smith, noticing his torn and bloody shirt.
"It's jest a scrape," grunted the bushwhacker. "Mought'a'been worse."
"It was bad generalship trying to save you. We nearly paid high for it."
"That's so. Cost four greasers, as 'twas. Well, I'm worth four greasers."
"You're a devil of a fighter," continued the Lieutenant, surveying the ferocious face and sullen air of the cutthroat with a soldier's admiration for whatever expresses pugnacity.
"Bet yer pile on it," returned Texas, calmly conscious of his character. "So be you."
The savage black eyes and the imperious blue ones stared into each other without the least flinching and with something like friendliness.
Coronado rode up to the pair and asked, "Is that boy alive yet?"
"It's about time for him to flop round," replied Texas indifferently. "Reckon you'll find him in the off hind wagon. I shoved him in thar."
Coronado cantered to the off hind wagon, peeped through the rear opening of its canvas cover, discovered the youth lying on a pile of luggage, addressed him in Spanish, and learned his story. He belonged to a hacienda in Bernalillo, a hundred miles or more west of Santa Fé. The Apaches had surprised the hacienda and plundered it, carrying him off because, having formerly been a captive among them, he could speak their language, manage the bow, etc.
For all this Coronado cared nothing; he wanted to know why the band had left Bernalillo; also why it had attacked his train. The boy explained that the raiders had been driven off the southern route by a party of United States cavalry, and that, having lost a number of their braves in the fight, they had sworn vengeance on Americans.
"Did you hear them say whose train this was?" demanded Coronado.
"No, Señor."
"Do you think they knew?"
"Señor, I think not."
"Whose band was this?"
"Manga Colorada's."
"Where is Delgadito?"
"Delgadito went the other side of the mountain. They were both going to fight the Moquis."
"So we shall find Delgadito in the Moqui valley?"
"I think so, Señor."
After a moment of reflection Coronado added, "You will stay with us and take care of mules. I will do well by you."
"Thanks, Señor. Many thanks."
Coronado rejoined Thurstane and told his news. The officer looked grave; there might be another combat in store for the train; it might be an affair with both bands of the Apaches.
"Well," he said, "we must keep our eyes open. Every one of us must do his very utmost. On the whole, I can't believe they can beat us."
"Nombre de Dios!" thought Coronado. "How will this accursed job end? I wish I were out of it."
They were now traversing the cañon from which they had been so long debarred. It was a peaceful solitude; no life but their own stirred within its sandstone ramparts; and its windings soon carried them out of sight of their late assailants. For four hours they slowly threaded it, and when night came on they were still in it, miles away from their expected camping ground. No water and no grass; the animals were drooping with hunger, and all suffered with thirst; the worst was that the hurts of the wounded could not be properly dressed. But progress through this labyrinth of stones in the darkness was impossible, and the weary, anxious, fevered travellers bivouacked as well as might be.
Starting at dawn, they finished the cañon in about an hour, traversed an uneven plateau which stretched beyond its final sinuous branch gullies, and found themselves on the brow of a lofty terrace, overlooking a sublime panorama. There was an immense valley, not smooth and verdurous, but a gigantic nest of savage buttes and crags and hills, only to be called a valley because it was enclosed by what seemed a continuous line of eminences. On the north and east rose long ranges and elevated table-lands; on the west, the savage rolls and precipices of the Sierra del Carrizo; and on the south, a more distant bordering of hazy mountains, closing to the southwest, a hundred miles away, in the noble snowy peaks of Monte San Francisco.
With his field-glass, Thurstane examined one after another of the mesas and buttes which diversified this enormous depression. At last his attention settled on an isolated bluff or mound, with a flattened surface three or four miles in length, the whole mass of which seemed to be solid and barren rock. On this truncated pyramid he distinguished, or thought he distinguished, one or more of the pueblos of the Moquis. He could not be quite sure, because the distance was fifteen miles, and the walls of these villages are of the same stone with the buttes upon which they stand.
"There is our goal, if I am not mistaken," he said to Coronado. "When we get there we can rest."
The train pushed onward, slowly descending the terrace, or rather the succession of terraces. After reaching a more level region, and while winding between stony hills of a depressing sterility, it came suddenly, at the bottom of a ravine, upon fresh green turf and thickets of willows, the environment of a small spring of clear water. There was a halt; all hands fell to digging a trench across the gully; when it had filled, the animals were allowed to drink; in an hour more they had closely cropped all the grass. This was using up time perilously, but it had to be done, for the beasts were tottering.
Moving again; five miles more traversed; another spring and patch of turf discovered; a rough ravine through a low sandstone ridge threaded; at last they were on one of the levels of the valley. Three of the Moqui towns were now about eight miles distant, and with his glass Thurstane could distinguish the horizontal lines of building. The trail made straight for the pueblos, but it was almost impassable to wagons, and progress was very slow. It was all the slower because of the weakness of the mules, which throughout all this hair-brained journey had been severely worked, and of late had been poorly fed.
Presently the travellers turned the point of a naked ridge which projected laterally into the valley. There they came suddenly upon a wide-spread sweep of turf, contrasting so brilliantly with the bygone infertilities that it seemed to them a paradise, and stretching clear on to the bluff of the pueblos.
There, too, with equal suddenness, they came upon peril. Just beyond the nose of the sandstone promontory there was a bivouac of half naked, dark-skinned horsemen, recognizable at a glance as Apaches. It was undoubtedly the band of Delgadito.
The camp was half a mile distant. The Indians, evidently surprised at the appearance of the train, were immediately in commotion. There was a rapid mounting, and in five minutes they were all on horseback, curveting in circles, and brandishing their lances, but without advancing.
"Manga Colorada hasn't reached here yet," observed Thurstane.
"That's so," assented Texas Smith. "They hain't heerd from the cuss, or they'd a bushwhacked us somewhar. Seein' he dasn't follow our trail, he had to make a big turn to git here. But he'll be droppin' along, an' then we'll hev a fight. I reckon we'll hev one any way. Them cusses ain't friendly. If they was, they'd a piled in helter-skelter to hev a talk an' ask fur whiskey."
"We must keep them at a distance," said Thurstane.
"You bet! The first Injun that comes nigh us. I'll shute him. They mustn't be 'lowed to git among us. First you know you'd hear a yell, an' find yourself speared in the back. An' them that's speared right off is the lucky ones."
"Not one of us must fall into their hands," muttered the officer, thinking of Clara.
"Cap, that's so," returned Texas grimly. "When I fight Injuns, I never empty my revolver. I keep one barl for myself. You'd better do the same. Furthermore, thar oughter be somebody detailed to shute the women folks when it comes to the last pinch. I say this as a friend."
As a friend! It was the utmost stretch of Texas Smith's humanity and sympathy. Obviously the fellow had a soft side to him.
The fact is that he had taken a fancy to Thurstane since he had learned his fighting qualities, and would rather have done him a favor than murder him. At all events his hatred to "Injuns" was such that he wanted the lieutenant to kill a great many of them before his own turn came.
"So you think we'll have a tough job of it?" inferred Ralph.
"Cap, we ain't so many as we was. An' if Manga Colorada comes up, thar'll be a pile of red-skins. It may be they'll outlast us; an' so I say as a friend, save one shot; save it for yourself, Cap."
But the Apaches did not advance. They watched the train steadily; they held a long consultation which evidently referred to it; at last they seemed to decide that it was in too good order to fall an easy prey; there was some wild capering along its flanks, at a safe distance; and then, little by little, the gang resettled in its bivouac. It was like a swarm of hornets, which should sally out to reconnoitre an enemy, buzz about threateningly for a while, and sail back to their nest.
The plain, usually dotted with flocks of sheep, was now a solitude. The Moquis had evidently withdrawn their woolly wealth either to the summit of the bluff, or to the partially sheltered pasturage around its base. The only objects which varied the verdant level were scattered white rocks, probably gypsum or oxide of manganese, which glistened surprisingly in the sunlight, reminding one of pearls sown on a mantel of green velvet. But already the travellers could see the peach orchards of the Moquis, and the sides of the lofty butte laid out in gardens supported by terrace-walls of dressed stone, the whole mass surmounted by the solid ramparts of the pueblos.
At this moment, while the train was still a little over two miles from the foot of the bluff, and the Apache camp more than three miles to the rear, Texas Smith shouted, "The cusses hev got the news."
It was true; the foremost riders, or perhaps only the messengers, of Manga Colorada had readied Delgadito; and a hundred warriors were swarming after the train to avenge their fallen comrades.
Now ensued a race for life, the last pull of the mules being lashed out of them, and the Indians riding at the topmost speed of their wiry ponies.
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When the race for life and death commenced between the emigrants and the Apaches, it seemed as if the former would certainly be able to go two miles before the latter could cover six.
But the mules were weak, and the soil of the plain was a thin loam into which the wheels sank easily, so that the heavy wagons could not be hurried beyond a trot, and before long were reduced to a walk. Thus, while the caravan was still half a mile from its city of refuge, the foremost hornets of Delgadito's swarm were already circling around it.
The chief could not charge at once, however, for the warriors whom he had in hand numbered barely a score, and their horses, blown with a run of over five miles, were unfit for sharp fighting work. For a few minutes nothing happened, except that the caravan continued its silent, sullen retreat, while the pursuers cantered yelling around it at a safe distance. Not a shot was fired by the emigrants; not a brave dashed up to let fly his arrows. At last there were fifty Apaches; then there was a hurried council; then a furious rush. Evidently the savages were ashamed to let their enemies escape for lack of one audacious assault.
This charge was led by a child. A boy not more than fourteen years of age, screaming like a little demon and discharging his arrows at full speed with wicked dexterity, rode at the head of this savage _hourra_ of the Cossacks of the American desert. As the fierce child came on, Coronado saw him and recognized him with a mixture of wonder, dread, and hate. Here was the son of the false-hearted savage who had accepted his money, agreed to do his work, and then turned against him. Should he kill him? It would open an account of blood between himself and the father. Never mind; vengeance is sweet; moreover, the youngster was dangerous.
Coronado raised his revolver, steadied it across his left arm, took a calm aim, and fired. The handsome, headlong, terrible boy swayed forward, rolled slowly over the pommel of his saddle, and fell to the ground motionless. In the next moment there was a general rattle of firearms from the train, and the mass of the charging column broke up into squads which went off in aimless caracolings. Barring a short struggle by half a dozen braves to recover the young chief's body, the contest was over; and in two minutes more the Apaches were half a mile distant, looking on in sulky silence while the train crawled toward the protecting bluff.
"Hurrah!" shouted Thurstane. "That was quick work. Delgadito doesn't take his punishment well."
"Reckon they see we had friends," observed Captain Glover. "Jest look at them critters pile down the mounting. Darned if they don't skip like nanny-goats."
Down the huge steep slope, springing along rocky, sinuous paths or over the walls of the terraces, came a hundred or a hundred and fifty men, running with a speed which, considering the nature of the footing, was marvellous. Before many in the train were aware of their approach, they were already among the wagons, rushing up to the travellers with outstretched hands, the most cordial, cheerful, kindly-eyed people that Thurstane had seen in New Mexico. Good features, too; that is, they were handsomer than the usual Indian type; some even had physiognomies which reminded one of Italians. Their hair was fine and glossy for men of their race; and, stranger still, it bore an appearance of careful combing. Nearly all wore loose cotton trousers or drawers reaching to the knee, with a kind of blouse of woollen or cotton, and over the shoulders a gay woollen blanket tied around the waist. In view of their tidy raiment and their general air of cleanliness, it seemed a mistake to class them as Indians. These were the Moquis, a remnant of one of the semi-civilizations of America, perhaps a colony left behind by the Aztecs in their migrations, or possibly by the temple-builders of Yucatan.
Impossible to converse with them. Not a person in the caravan spoke the Moqui tongue, and not a Moqui spoke or understood a word of Spanish or English. But it was evident from their faces and gestures that they were enthusiastically friendly, and that they had rushed down from their fastness to aid the emigrants against the Apaches. There was even a little sally into the plain, the Moquis running a quarter of a mile with amazing agility, spreading out into a loose skirmishing line of battle, brandishing their bows and defying the enemy to battle. But this ended in nothing; the Apaches sullenly cantered away; the others soon checked their pursuit.
Now came the question of encampment. To get the wagons up the bluff, eight hundred feet or so in height, along a path which had been cut in the rock or built up with stone, was obviously impossible. Would there be safety where they were, just at the base of the noble slope? The Moquis assured them by signs that the plundering horse-Indians never came so near the pueblos. Camp then; the wagons were parked as usual in a hollow square; the half-starved animals were unharnessed and allowed to fly at the abundant grass; the cramped and wearied travellers threw themselves on the ground with delight.
"What a charming people these Monkeys are!" said Aunt Maria, surveying the neat and smiling villagers with approval.
"Moquis," Coronado corrected her, with a bow.
"Oh, Mo-kies," repeated Aunt Maria, this time catching the sound exactly. "Well, I propose to see as much of them as possible. Why shouldn't the women and the wounded sleep in the city?"
"It is an excellent idea," assented Coronado, although he thought with distaste that this would bring Clara and Thurstane together, while he would be at a distance.
"I suppose we shall get an idea from it of the ancient city of Mexico, as described by Prescott," continued the enthusiastic lady.
"You will discover a few deviations in the ground plan," returned Coronado, for once ironical.
Aunt Maria's suggestion with regard to the women and the wounded was adopted. The Moquis seemed to urge it; so at least they were understood. Within a couple of hours after the halt a procession of the feebler folk commenced climbing the bluff, accompanied by a crowd of the hospitable Indians. The winding and difficult path swarmed for a quarter of a mile with people in the gayest of blankets, some ascending with the strangers and some coming down to greet them.
"I should think we were going up to the Temple of the Sun to be sacrified," said Clara, who had also read Prescott.
"To be worshipped," ventured Thurstane, giving her a look which made her blush, the boldest look that he had yet ventured.
The terraces, as we have stated, were faced with partially dressed stone. They were in many places quite broad, and were cultivated everywhere with admirable care, presenting long green lines of corn fields or of peach orchards. Half-way up the ascent was a platform of more than ordinary spaciousness which contained a large reservoir, built of chipped stone strongly cemented, and brimming with limpid water. From this cistern large earthen pipes led off in various directions to irrigate the terraces below.
"It seems to me that we are discovering America," exclaimed Aunt Maria, her face scarlet with exercise and enthusiasm.
Presently she asked, in full faith that she was approaching a metropolis, "What is the name of the city?"
"This must be Tegua," replied Thurstane. "Tegua is the most eastern of the Moqui pueblos. There are three on this bluff. Mooshaneh and two others are on a butte to the west. Oraybe is further north."
"What a powerful confederacy!" said Aunt Maria. "The United States of the Moquis!"
After a breathless ascent of at least eight hundred feet, they reached the undulated, barren, rocky surface of a plateau. Here the whole population of Tegua had collected; and for the first time the visitors saw Moqui women and children. Aunt Maria was particularly pleased with the specimens of her own sex; she went into ecstasies over their gentle physiognomies and their well-combed, carefully braided, glossy hair; she admired their long gowns of black woollen, each with a yellow stripe around the waist and a border of the same at the bottom.
"Such a sensible costume!" she said. "So much more rational and convenient than our fashionable fripperies!"
Another fact of great interest was that the Moquis were lighter complexioned than Indians in general. And when she discovered a woman with fair skin, blue eyes, and yellow hair--one of those albinos who are found among the inhabitants of the pueblos--she went into an excitement which was nothing less than ethnological.
"These are white people," she cried, losing sight of all the brown faces. "They are some European race which colonized America long before that modern upstart, Columbus. They are undoubtedly the descendants of the Northmen who built the old mill at Newport and sculptured the Dighton Rock."
"There is a belief," said Thurstane, "that some of these pueblo people, particularly those of Zuni, are Welsh. A Welsh prince named Madoc, flying before the Saxons, is said to have reached America. There are persons who hold that the descendants of his followers built the mounds in the Mississippi Valley, and that some of them became the white Mandans of the upper Missouri, and that others founded this old Mexican civilization. Of course it is all guess-work. There's nothing about it in the Regulations."
"I consider it highly probable," asserted Aunt Maria, forgetting her Scandinavian hypothesis. "I don't see how you can doubt that that flaxen-haired girl is a descendant of Medoc, Prince of Wales."
"Madoc," corrected Thurstane.
"Well, Madoc then," replied Aunt Maria rather pettishly, for she was dreadfully tired, and moreover she didn't like Thurstane.
A few minutes' walk brought them to the rampart which surrounded the pueblo. Its foundation was a solid blind wall, fifteen feet or so in height, and built of hewn stone laid in clay cement. Above was a second wall, rising from the first as one terrace rises from another, and surmounted by a third, which was also in terrace fashion. The ground tier of this stair-like structure contained the storerooms of the Moquis, while the upper tiers were composed of their two-story houses, the entire mass of masonry being upward of thirty feet high, and forming a continuous line of fortification. This rampart of dwellings was in the shape of a rectangle, and enclosed a large square or plaza containing a noble reservoir. Compact and populous, at once a castle and a city, the place could defy all the horse Indians of North America.
"Bless me! this is sublime but dreadful," said Aunt Maria when she learned that she must ascend to the landing of the lower wall by a ladder. "No gate? Isn't there a window somewhere that I could crawl through? Well, well! Dear me! But it's delightful to see how safe these excellent people have made themselves."
So with many tremblings, and with the aid of a lariat fastened around her waist and vigorously pulled from above by two Moquis, Aunt Maria clutched and scraped her way to the top of the foundation terrace.
"I shall never go down in the world," she remarked with a shuddering glance backward. "I shall pass the rest of my days here."
From the first platform the travellers were led to the second and third by stone stairways. They were now upon the inside of the rectangle, and could see two stories of doors facing the plaza and the reservoir in its centre, the whole scene cheerful with the gay garments and smiling faces of the Moquis.
"Beautiful!" said Aunt Maria. "That court is absolutely swept and dusted. One might give a ball there. I should like to hear Lucretia Mott speak in it."
Her reflections were interrupted by the courteous gestures of a middle-aged, dignified Moqui, who was apparently inviting the party to enter one of the dwellings.
Pepita and the other two Indian women, with the wounded muleteers, were taken to another house. Aunt Maria, Clara, Thurstane, and Phineas Glover entered the residence of the chief, and found themselves in a room six or seven feet high, fifteen feet in length and ten in breadth. The floor was solid, polished clay; the walls were built of the large, sunbaked bricks called adobes; the ceilings were of beams, covered by short sticks, with adobes over all. Skins, bows and arrows, quivers, antlers, blankets, articles of clothing, and various simple ornaments hung on pegs driven into the walls or lay packed upon shelves.
"They are a musical race, I see," observed Aunt Maria, pointing to a pair of painted drumsticks tipped with gay feathers, and a reed wind-instrument with a bell-shaped mouth like a clarionet. "Of course they are. The Welsh were always famous for their bards and their harpers. Does anybody in our party speak Welsh? What a pity we are such ignoramuses! We might have an interesting conversation with these people. I should so like to hear their traditions about the voyage across the Atlantic and the old mill at Newport."
Her remarks were interrupted by a short speech from the chief, whom she at first understood as relating the adventures of his ancestors, but who finally made it clear that he was asking them to take seats. After they were arranged on a row of skins spread along the wall, a shy, meek, and pretty Moqui woman passed around a vase of water for drinking and a tray which contained something not unlike a bundle of blue wrapping paper.
"Is this to wipe our hands on?" inquired Aunt Maria, bringing her spectacles to bear on the contents of the tray.
"It smells like corn bread," said Clara.
So it was. The corn of the Moquis is blue, and grinding does not destroy the color. The meal is stirred into a thin gruel and cooked by pouring over smooth, flat, heated stones, the light shining tissues being rapidly taken off and folded, and subsequently made up in bundles.
The party made a fair meal off the blue wrapping paper. Then the meek-eyed woman reappeared, removed the dishes, returned once more, and looked fixedly at Thurstane's bloody sleeve.
"Certainly!" said Aunt Maria. "Let her dress your arm. I have no doubt that unpretending woman knows more about surgery than all the men doctors in New York city. Let her dress it."
Thurstane partially threw off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. Clara gave one glance at the huge white arm with the small crimson hole in it, and turned away with a thrill which was new to her. The Moqui woman washed the wound, applied a dressing which looked like chewed leaves, and put on a light bandage.
"Does it feel any better?" asked Aunt Maria eagerly.
"It feels cooler," said Thurstane.
Aunt Maria looked as if she thought him very ungrateful for not saying that he was entirely well.
"An' my nose," suggested Glover, turning up his lacerated proboscis.
"Yes, certainly; your poor nose," assented Aunt Maria. "Let the lady cure it."
The female surgeon fastened a poultice upon the tattered cartilage by passing a bandage around the skipper's sandy and bristly head.
"Works like a charm 'n' smells like peach leaves," snuffled the patient. "It's where it's handy to sniff at--that's a comfort."
After much dumb show, arrangements were made for the night. One of the inner rooms was assigned to Mrs. Stanley and Clara, and another to Thurstane and Glover. Bedding, provisions, and some small articles as presents for the Moquis were sent up from the train by Coronado.
But would the wagons, the animals, and the human members of the party below be safe during the night? Young as he was, and wounded as he was, Thurstane was so badgered by his army habit of incessant responsibility that he could not lie down to rest until he had visited the camp and examined personally into probabilities of attack and means of defence. As he descended the stony path which scored the side of the butte, his anxiety was greatly increased by the appearance of a party of armed Moquis rushing like deer down the steep slope, as if to repel an attack.
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Thurstane found the caravan in excellent condition, the mules being tethered at the reservoir half-way up the acclivity, and the wagons parked and guarded as usual, with Weber for officer of the night.
"We are in no tanger, Leftenant," said the sergeant. "A large barty of these bueplo beeble has shust gone to the vront. They haf daken atfandage of our bresence to regover a bortion of the blain. I haf sent Kelly along to look after them a leetle und make them keep a goot watch. We are shust as safe as bossible. Und to-morrow we will basture the animals. It is a goot blace for a gamp, Leftenant, und we shall pe all right in a tay or two."
"Does Shubert's leg need attention?"
"No. It is shust nothing. Shupert is for tuty."
"And you feel perfectly able to take care of yourselves here?"
"Berfectly, Leftenant."
"Forty rounds apiece!"
"They are issued, Leftenant."
"If you are attacked, fire heavily; and if the attack is sharp, retreat to the bluff. Never mind the wagons; they can be recovered."
"I will opey your instructions, Leftenant."
Thurstane was feverish and exhausted; he knew that Weber was as good a soldier as himself; and still he went back to the village with an anxious heart; such is the tenderness of the military conscience as to _duty_.
By the time he reached the upper landing of the wall of the pueblo it was sunset, and he paused to gaze at a magnificent landscape, the _replica_ of the one which he had seen at sunrise. There were buttes, valleys, and cañons, the vast and lofty plateaus of the north, the ranges of the Navajo country, the Sierra del Carrizo, and the ice peaks of Monte San Francisco. It was sublime, savage, beautiful, horrible. It seemed a revelation from some other world. It was a nightmare of nature.
Clara met him on the landing with the smile which she now often gave him. "I was anxious about you," she said. "You were too weak to go down there. You look very tired. Do come and eat, and then rest. You will make yourself sick. I was quite anxious about you."
It was a delightful repetition. How his heart and his eyes thanked her for being troubled for his sake! He was so cheered that in a moment he did not seem to be tired at all. He could have watched all that night, if it had been necessary for her safety, or even for her comfort. The soul certainly has a great deal to do with the body.
While our travellers sleep, let us glance at the singular people among whom they have found refuge.
It is said hesitatingly, by scholars who have not yet made comparative studies of languages, that the Moquis are not _red men_, like the Algonquins, the Iroquois, the Lenni-Lenape, the Sioux, and in general those whom we know as _Indians_. It is said, moreover, that they are of the same generic stock with the Aztecs of Mexico, the ancient Peruvians, and all the other city-building peoples of both North and South America.
It was an evil day for the brown race of New Mexico when horses strayed from the Spanish settlements into the desert, and the savage red tribes became cavalry. This feeble civilization then received a more cruel shock than that which had been dealt it by the storming columns of the conquistadors. The horse transformed the Utes, Apaches, Comanches, and Navajos from snapping-turtles into condors. Thenceforward, instead of crawling in slow and feeble bands to tease the dense populations of the pueblos, they could come like a tornado, and come in a swarm. At no time were the Moquis and their fellow agriculturists and herdsmen safe from robbery and slaughter. Such villages as did not stand upon buttes inaccessible to horsemen, and such as did not possess fertile lands immediately under the shelter of their walls, were either abandoned or depopulated by slow starvation.
It is thus that we may account for many of the desolate cities which are now found in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. Not of course for all; some, we know, were destroyed by the early Spaniards; others may have been forsaken because their tillable lands became exhausted; others doubtless fell during wars between different tribes of the brown race. But the cavalry of the desert must necessarily have been a potent instrument of destruction.
It is a pathetic spectacle, this civilization which has perished, or is perishing, without the poor consolation of a history to record its sufferings. It comes near to being a repetition of the silent death of the flint and bronze races, the mound-raisers, and cave-diggers, and cromlech-builders of Europe.
Captain Phineas Glover, rising at an early hour in the morning, and having had his nosebag of medicament refilled and refitted, set off on an appetizer around the ramparts of the pueblo, and came back marvelling.
"Been out to shake hands with these clever critters," he said. "Best behavin' 'n' meekest lookin' Injuns I ever see. Put me in mind o' cows 'n' lambs. An' neat! 'Most equal to Amsterdam Dutch. Seen a woman sweepin' up her husband's tobacco ashes 'n' carryin' 'em out to throw over the wall. Jest what they do in Broek. Ever been in Broek? Tell ye 'bout it some time. But how d'ye s'pose this town was built? _I_ didn't see no stun up here that was fit for quarryin'. So I put it to a lot of fellers where they got their buildin' m'ter'ls. Wal, after figurin' round a spell, 'n' makin' signs by the schuner load, found out the hull thing. Every stun in this place was whittled out 'f the ruff-scuff at the bottom of the mounting, 'n' fetched up here in blankets on men's shoulders. All the mud, too, to make their bricks, was backed up in the same way. Feller off with his blanket 'n' showed me how they did it. Beats all. Wust of it was, couldn't find out how long it took 'em, nor how the job was lotted out to each one."
"I suppose they made their women do it," said Aunt Maria grimly. "Men usually put all the hard work on women."
"Wal, women folks do a heap," admitted Glover, who never contradicted anybody. "But there's reason to entertain a hope that they didn't take the brunt of it here. I looked over into the gardens down b'low the town, 'n' see men plantin' corn, 'n' tendin' peach trees, but didn't see no women at it. The women was all in the houses, spinnin', weavin', sewin', 'n' fixin' up ginerally."
"Remarkable people!" exclaimed Aunt Maria. "They are at least as civilized as we. Very probably more so. Of course they are. I must learn whether the women vote, or in any way take part in the government. If so, these Indians are vastly our superiors, and we must sit humbly at their feet."
During this talk the worn and wounded Thurstane had been lying asleep. He now appeared from his dormitory, nodded a hasty good-morning, and pushed for the door.
"Train's all right," said Glover. "Jest took a squint at it. Peaceful's a ship becalmed. Not a darned Apache in sight."
"You are sure?" demanded the young officer.
"Better get some more peach-leaf pain-killer on your arm 'n' set straight down to breakfast."
"If the Apaches have vamosed, Coronado might join us," suggested Thurstane.
"Never!" answered Mrs. Stanley with solemnity. "His ancestor stormed Cibola and ravaged this whole country. If these people should hear his name pronounced, and suspect his relationship to their oppressor, they might massacre him."
"That was three hundred years ago," smiled the wretch of a lieutenant.
"It doesn't matter," decided Mrs. Stanley.
And so Coronado, thanks to one of his splendid inventions, was not invited up to the pueblo.
The travellers spent the day in resting, in receiving a succession of pleasant, tidy visitors, and in watching the ways of the little community. The weather was perfect, for while the season was the middle of May, and the latitude that of Algeria and Tunis, they were nearly six thousand feet above the level of the sea, and the isolated butte was wreathed with breezes. It was delightful to sit or stroll on the landings of the ramparts, and overlook the flourishing landscape near at hand, and the peaceful industry which caused it to bloom.
Along the hillside, amid the terraced gardens of corn, pumpkins, guavas, and peaches, many men and children were at work, with here and there a woman.
The scene had not only its charms, but its marvels. Besides the grand environment of plateaus and mountains in the distance, there were near at hand freaks of nature such as one might look for in the moon. Nowhere perhaps has the great water erosion of bygone aeons wrought more grotesquely and fantastically than in the Moqui basin. To the west rose a series of detached buttes, presenting forms of castles, towers, and minarets, which looked more like the handiwork of man than the pueblo itself. There were piles of variegated sandstone, some of them four hundred feet in height, crowned by a hundred feet of sombre trap. Internal fire had found vent here; its outflowings had crystallized into columnar trap; the trap had protected the underlying sandstone from cycles of water-flow; thus had been fashioned these sublime donjons and pinnacles.
They were not only sublime but beautiful. The sandstone, reduced by ages to a crumbling marl, was of all colors. There were layers of green, reddish-brown, drab, purple, red, yellow, pinkish, slate, light-brown, orange, white, and banded. Nature, not contented with building enchanted palaces, had frescoed them. At this distance, indeed, the separate tints of the strata could not be discerned, but their general effect of variegation was distinctly visible, and the result was a landscape of the Thousand and One Nights.
To the south were groups of crested mounds, some of them resembling the spreading stumps of trees, and others broad-mouthed bells, all of vast magnitude. These were of sandstone marl, the caps consisting of hard red and green shales, while the swelling boles, colored by gypsum, were as white as loaf-sugar. It was another specimen of the handiwork of deluges which no man can number.
Far away to the southwest, and yet faintly seen through the crystalline atmosphere, were the many-colored knolls and rolls and cliffs of the Painted Desert. Marls, shales, and sandstones, of all tints, were strewn and piled into a variegated vista of sterile splendor. Here surely enchantment and glamour had made undisputed abode.
All day the wounded and the women reposed, gazing a good deal, but sleeping more. During the afternoon, however, our wonder-loving Mrs. Stanley roused herself from her lethargy and rushed into an adventure such as only she knew how to find. In the morning she had noticed, at the other end of the pueblo from her quarters, a large room which was frequented by men alone. It might be a temple; it might be a hall for the transaction of public business; such were the diverse guesses of the travellers. Into the mysteries of this apartment Aunt Maria resolved to poke.
She reached it; nobody was in it; suspicious circumstance! Aunt Maria put an end to this state of questionable solitude by entering. A dark room; no light except from a trap door; a very proper place for improper doings. At one end rose a large, square block of red sandstone, on which was carved a round face environed by rays, probably representing the sun. Aunt Maria remembered the sacrificial altars of the Aztecs, and judged that the old sanguinary religion of Tenochtitlan was not yet extinct. She became more convinced of this terrific fact when she discovered that the red tint of the stone was deepened in various places by stains which resembled blood.
Three or four horrible suggestions arose in succession to jerk at her heartstrings. Were these Moquis still in the habit of offering human sacrifices? Would a woman answer their purpose, and particularly a white woman? If they should catch her there, in the presence of their deity, would they consider it a leading of Providence? Aunt Maria, notwithstanding her curiosity and courage, began to feel a desire to retreat.
Her reflections were interrupted and her emotions accelerated by darkness. Evidently the door had been shut; then she heard a rustling of approaching feet and an awful whispering; then projected hands impeded her gropings toward safety. While she stood still, too completely blinded to fly and too frightened to scream, a light gleamed from behind the altar and presently rose into a flame. The sacred fire! --she knew it as soon as she saw it; she remembered Prescott, and recognized it at a glance.
By its flickering rays she perceived that the apartment was full of men, all robed in blankets of ebony blackness, and all gazing at her in solemn silence. Two of them, venerable elders with long white hair, stood in front of the others, making genuflexions and signs of adoration toward the carved face on the altar. Presently they advanced to her, one of them suddenly seizing her by the shoulders and pinioning her arms behind her, while the other drew from beneath his robe a long sharp knife of the glassy flint known as obsidian.
At this point the horrified Aunt Maria found her voice, and uttered a piercing scream.
At the close of her scream she by a supreme effort turned on her side, raised her hands to her face, rubbed her eyes open, stared at Clara, who was lying near her, and mumbled, "I've had an awful nightmare."
That was it. There was no altar, nor holy fire, nor high priest, nor flint lancet. She hadn't been anywhere, and she hadn't even screamed, except in imagination. She was on her blanket, alongside of her niece, in the house of the Moqui chief, and as safe as need be.
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But the visionary terror had scarcely gone when a real one came. Coronado appeared--Coronado, the descendant of the great Vasquez--Coronado, whom the Moquis would destroy if they heard his name--of whom they would not leave two limbs or two fingers together. From her dormitory she saw him walk into the main room of the house in his airiest and cheeriest manner, bowing and smiling to right, bowing and smiling to left, winning Moqui hearts in a moment, a charmer of a Coronado. He shook hands with the chief; he shook hands with all the head men; next a hand to Thurstane and another to Glover. Mrs. Stanley heard him addressed as Coronado; she looked to see him scattered in rags on the floor; she tried to muster courage to rush to his rescue.
There was no outcry of rage at the sound of the fatal name, and she could not perceive that a Moqui countenance smiled the less for it.
Coronado produced a pipe, filled it, lighted it, and handed it to the chief. That dignitary took it, bowed gravely to each of the four points of the compass, exhaled a few whiffs, and passed it to his next blanketed neighbor, who likewise saluted the four cardinal points, smoked a little, and sent it on. Mrs. Stanley drew a sigh of relief; the pipe of peace had been used, and there would be no bloodshed; she saw the whole bearing of her favorite's audacious manoeuvre at a glance.
Coronado now glided into the obscure room where she and Clara were sitting on their blankets and skins. He kissed his hand to the one and the other, and rolled out some melodious congratulations.
"You reckless creature!" whispered Aunt Maria. "How dared you come up here?"
"Why so?" asked the Mexican, for once puzzled.
"Your name! Your ancestor!"
"Ah!!" and Coronado smiled mysteriously. "There is no danger. We are under the protection of the American eagle. Moreover, hospitalities have been interchanged."
Next the experiences of the last twenty-four hours, first Mrs. Stanley's version and then Coronado's, were related. He had little to tell: there had been a quiet night and much slumber; the Moquis had stood guard and been every way friendly; the Apaches had left the valley and gone to parts unknown.
The truth is that he had slept more than half of the time. Journeying, fighting, watching, and anxiety had exhausted him as well as every one else, and enabled him to plunge into slumber with a delicious consciousness of it as a restorative and a luxury.
Now that he was himself again, he wondered at what he had been. For two days he had faced death, fighting like a legionary or a knight-errant, and in short playing the hero. What was there in his nature, or what had there been in his selfish and lazy life, that was akin to such fine frenzies? As he remembered it all, he hardly knew himself for the same old Coronado.
Well, being safe again, he was a devoted lover again, and he must get on with his courtship. Considering that Clara and Thurstane, if left much together here in the pueblo, might lead each other into the temptation of a betrothal, he decided that he must be at hand to prevent such a catastrophe, and so here he was. Presently he began to talk to the girl in Spanish; then he begged the aunt's pardon for speaking what was to her an unknown tongue; but he had, he said, some family matters for his cousin's ear; would Mrs. Stanley be so good as to excuse him?
"Certainly," returned that far-sighted woman, guessing what the family matters might be, and approving them. "By the way, I have something to do," she added. "I must attend to it immediately."
By this time she remembered all about her nightmare, and she was in a state of inflammation as to the Moqui religion. If the dream were true, if the Moquis were in the habit of sacrificing strong-minded women or any kind of women, she must know it and put a stop to it. Stepping into the central room, where Thurstane and Glover were smoking with a number of Indians, she said in her prompt, positive way, "I must look into these people's religion. Does anybody know whether they have any?"
The Lieutenant had a spark or two of information on the subject. Through the medium of a Navajo who had strolled into the pueblo, and who spoke a little Spanish and a good deal of Moqui, he had been catechising the chief as to manners, customs, etc.
"I understand," he said, "that they have a sacred fire which they never suffer to go out. They are believed to worship the sun, like the ancient Aztecs. The sacred fire seems to confirm the suspicion."
"Sacred fire! vestal virgins, too, I suppose! can they be Romans?" reasoned Aunt Maria, beginning to doubt Prince Madoc.
"The vestal virgins here are old men," replied Ralph, wickedly pleased to get a joke on the lady.
"Oh! The Moquis are not Romans," decided Mrs Stanley. "Well, what do these old men do?"
"Keep the fire burning."
"What if it should go out? What would happen?"
"I don't know," responded the sub-acid Thurstane.
"I didn't suppose you did," said Aunt Maria pettishly. "Captain Glover, I want you to come with me."
Followed by the subservient skipper, she marched to the other end of the pueblo. There was the mysterious apartment; it was not really a temple, but a sort of public hall and general lounging place; such rooms exist in the Spanish-speaking pueblos of Zuni and Laguna, and are there called _estufas_. The explorers soon discovered that the only entrance into the estufa was by a trapdoor and a ladder. Now Aunt Maria hated ladders: they were awkward for skirts, and moreover they made her giddy; so she simply got on her knees and peeped through the trap-door. But there was a fire directly below, and there was also a pretty strong smell of pipes of tobacco, so that she saw nothing and was stifled and disgusted. She sent Glover down, as people lower a dog into a mine where gases are suspected. After a brief absence the skipper returned and reported.
"Pooty sizable room. Dark's a pocket 'n' hot's a footstove. Three or four Injuns talkin' 'n' smokin'. Scrap 'f a fire smoulder'in a kind 'f standee fireplace without any top."
"That's the sacred fire," said Aunt Maria. "How many old men were watching it?"
"Didn't see _any_."
"They must have been there. Did you put the fire out?"
"No water handy," explained the prudent Glover.
"You might have--expectorated on it."
"Reckon I didn't miss it," said the skipper, who was a chewer of tobacco and a dead shot with his juice.
"Of course nothing happened."
"Nary."
"I knew there wouldn't," declared the lady triumphantly. "Well, now let us go back. We know something about the religion of these people. It is certainly a very interesting study."
"Didn't appear to me much l'k a temple," ventured Glover. "Sh'd say t'was a kind 'f gineral smokin' room 'n' jawin' place. Git together there 'n' talk crops 'n' 'lections 'n' the like."
"You must be mistaken," decided Aunt Maria. "There was the sacred fire."
She now led the willing captain (for he was as inquisitive as a monkey) on a round of visits to the houses of the Moquis. She poked smiling through their kitchens and bedrooms, and gained more information than might have been expected concerning their spinning and weaving, cheerfully spending ten minutes in signs to obtain a single idea.
"Never shear their sheep till they are dead!" she exclaimed when that fact had been gestured into her understanding. "Absurd! There's another specimen of masculine stupidity. I'll warrant you, if the women had the management of things, the good-for-nothing brutes would be sheared every day."
"Jest as they be to hum," slily suggested Glover, who knew better.
"Certainly," said Aunt Maria, aware that cows were milked daily.
The Moquis were very hospitable; they absolutely petted the strangers. At nearly every house presents were offered, such as gourds full of corn, strings of dried peaches, guavas as big as pomegranates, or bundles of the edible wrapping paper, all of which Aunt Maria declined with magnanimous waves of the hand and copious smiles. Curious and amiable faces peeped at the visitors from the landings and doorways.
"How mild and good they all look!" said Aunt Maria. "They put me in mind somehow of Shenstone's pastorals. How humanizing a pastoral life is, to be sure! On the whole, I admire their way of not shearing their sheep alive. It isn't stupidity, but goodness of heart. A most amiable people!"
"Jest so," assented Glover. "How it must go ag'in the grain with 'em to take a skelp when it comes in the way of dooty! A man oughter feel willin' to be skelped by sech tender-hearted critters."
"Pshaw!" said Aunt Maria. "I don't believe they ever scalp anybody--unless it is in self-defence."
"Dessay. Them fellers that went down to fight the Apaches was painted up's savage's meat-axes. Probably though 'twas to use up some 'f their paint that was a wastin'. Equinomical, I sh'd say."
Mrs. Stanley did not see her way clear to comment either upon the fact or the inference. There were times when she did not understand Glover, and this was one of the times. He had queer twistical ways of reasoning which often proved the contrary of what he seemed to want to prove; and she had concluded that he was a dark-minded man who did not always know what he was driving at; at all events, a man not invariably comprehensible by clear intellects.
Her attention was presently engaged by a stir in the pueblo. Great things were evidently at hand; some spectacle was on the point of presentation; what was it? Aunt Maria guessed marriage, and Captain Glover guessed a war-dance; but they had no argument, for the skipper gave in. Meantime the Moquis, men, women, and children, all dressed in their gayest raiment, were gathering in groups on the landings and in the square. Presently there was a crowd, a thousand or fifteen hundred strong; at last appeared the victims, the performers, or whatever they were.
"Dear me!" murmured Aunt Maria. "Twenty weddings at once! I hope divorce is frequent."
Twenty men and twenty women advanced to the centre of the plaza in double file and faced each other.
The dance began; the performers furnished their own music; each rolled out a deep _aw aw aw_ under his visor.
"Sounds like a swarm of the biggest kind of blue-bottle flies inside the biggest kind 'f a sugar hogset," was Glover's description.
The movement was as monotonous as the melody. The men and women faced each other without changing positions; there was an alternate lifting of the feet, in time with the _aw aw_ and the rattling of the gourds; now and then there was a simultaneous about face.
After a while, open ranks; then rugs and blankets were brought; the maidens sat down and the men danced at them; trot trot, aw aw, and rattle rattle.
Every third girl now received a large empty gourd, a grooved board, and the dry shoulder-bone of a sheep. Laying the board on the gourd, she drew the bone sharply across the edges of the wood, thus producing a sound like a watchman's rattle.
They danced once on each side of the square; then retired to a house and rested fifteen minutes; then recommenced their trot. Meanwhile maidens with large baskets ran about among the spectators, distributing meat, roasted ears of corn, sheets of bread, and guavas.
So the gayety went on until the sun and the visitors alike withdrew.
"After all, I think it is more interesting than our marriages," declared Aunt Maria. "I wonder if we ought to make presents to the wedded couples. There are a good many of them."
She was quite amazed when she learned that this was not a wedding, but a rain-dance, and that the maidens whom she had admired were boys dressed up in female raiment, the customs of the Moquis not allowing women to take part in public spectacles.
"What exquisite delicacy!" was her consolatory comment. "Well, well, this is the golden age, truly."
When further informed that in marriage among the Moquis it is woman who takes the initiative, the girl pointing out the young man of her heart and the girl's father making the offer, which is never refused, Mrs. Stanley almost shed tears of gratification. Here was something like woman's rights; here was a flash of the glorious dawn of equality between the sexes; for when she talked of equality she meant female preëminence.
"And divorces?" she eagerly asked.
"They are at the pleasure of the parties," explained Thurstane, who had been catechising the chief at great length through his Navajo.
"And who, in case of a divorce, cares for the children?"
"The grandparents."
Aunt Maria came near clapping her hands. This was better than Connecticut or Indiana. A woman here might successively marry all the men whom she might successively fancy, and thus enjoy a perpetual gush of the affections and an unruffled current of happiness.
To such extreme views had this excellent creature been led by brooding over what she called the wrongs of her sex and the legal tyranny of the other.
But we must return to Coronado and Clara. The man had come up to the pueblo on purpose to have a plain talk with the girl and learn exactly what she meant to do with him. It was now more than a week since he had offered himself, and in that time she had made no sign which indicated her purpose. He had looked at her and sighed at her without getting a response of any sort. This could not go on; he must know how she felt towards him; he must know how much, she cared for Thurstane. How else could he decide what to do with her and with _him_?
Thus, while the other members of the party were watching the Moqui dances, Coronado and Clara were talking matters of the heart, and were deciding, unawares to her, questions of life and death.
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It must be remembered that when Mrs. Stanley carried off skipper Glover to help her investigate the religion of the Moquis, she left Coronado alone with Clara in one of the interior rooms of the chief's house.
Thurstane, to be sure, was in the next room and in sight; but he had with him the chief, two other leading Moquis, and his chance Navajo interpreter; they were making a map of the San Juan country by scratching with an arrow-point on the clay floor; everybody was interested in the matter, and there was a pretty smart jabbering. Thus Coronado could say his say without being overheard or interrupted.
For a little while he babbled commonplaces. The truth is that the sight of the girl had unsettled his resolutions a little. While he was away from her, he could figure to himself how he would push her into taking him at once, or how, if she refused him, he would let loose upon her the dogs of fate. But once face to face with her, he found that his resolutions had dispersed like a globule of mercury under a hammer, and that he needed a few moments to scrape them together again. So he prattled nothings while he meditated; and you would have thought that he cared for the nothings. He had that faculty; he could mentally ride two horses at once; he would have made a good diplomatist.
His mind glanced at the past while it peered into the future. What a sinuous underground plot the superficial incidents of this journey covered! To his fellow-travellers it was a straight line; to him it was a complicated and endless labyrinth. How much more he had to think of than they! Only he knew that Pedro Muñoz was dead, that Clara Van Diemen was an heiress, that she was in danger of being abandoned to the desert, that Thurstane was in danger of assassination. Nothing that he had set out to do was yet done, and some of it he must absolutely accomplish, and that shortly. How much? That depended upon this girl. If she accepted him, his course would be simple, and he would be spared the perils of crime.
Meantime, he looked at Clara even more frankly and calmly than she looked at him. He showed no guilt or remorse in his face, because he felt none in his heart. It must be understood distinctly that the man was almost as destitute of a conscience as it is possible for a member of civilized society to be. He knew what the world called right and wrong; but the mere opinion of the world had no weight with him; that is, none as against his own opinion. His rule of life was to do what he wanted to do, providing he could accomplish it without receiving a damage. You can hardly imagine a being whose interior existence was more devoid of complexity and of mixed motives than was Coronado's. Thus he was quite able to contemplate the possible death of Clara, and still look her calmly in the face and tell her that he loved her.
The girl returned his gaze tranquilly, because she had no suspicions of his profound wickedness. By nature confiding and reverential, she trusted those who professed friendship, and respected those who were her elders, especially if they belonged in any manner to her own family. Considering herself under obligations to Coronado, and not guessing that he was capable of doing her a harm, she was truly grateful to him and wished him well with all her heart. If her eye now and then dropped under his, it was because she feared a repetition of his offer of marriage, and hated to pain him with a refusal.
The commonplaces lasted longer than the man had meant, for he could not bring himself promptly to take the leap of fate. But at last came the dance; the chief and his comrades led Thurstane away to look at it; now was the time to talk of this fateful betrothal.
"Something is passing outside," observed Clara. "Shall we go to see?"
"I am entirely at your command," replied Coronado, with his charming air of gentle respect. "But if you can give me a few minutes of your time, I shall be very grateful."
Clara's heart beat violently, and her cheeks and neck flushed with spots of red, as she sank back upon her seat. She guessed what was coming; she had been a good deal afraid of it all the time; it was her only cause of dreading Coronado.
"I venture to hope that you have been good enough to think of what I said to you a week ago," he went on. "Yes, it was a week ago. It seems to me a year."
"It seems a long time," stammered Clara. So it did, for the days since had been crammed with emotions and events, and they gave her young mind an impression of a long period passed.
"I have been so full of anxiety!" continued Coronado. "Not about our dangers," he asserted with a little bravado. "Or, rather, not about mine. For you I have been fearful. The possibility that you might fall into the hands of the Apaches was a horror to me. But, after all, my chief anxiety was to know what would be your final answer to me. Yes, my beautiful and very dear cousin, strange as it may seem under our circumstances, this thought has always outweighed with me all our dangers."
Coronado, as we have already declared, was really in love with Clara. It seems incredible, at first glance, that a man who had no conscience could have a heart. But the assertion is not a fairy story; it is founded in solid philosophy. It is true that Coronado's moral education had been neglected or misdirected; that he was either born indifferent to the idea of duty, or had become indifferent to it; and that he was an egotist of the first water, bent solely upon favoring and gratifying himself. But while his nature was somewhat chilled by these things, he had the hottest of blood in his veins, he possessed a keen perception of the beautiful, and so he could desire with fury. His love could not be otherwise than selfish; but it was none the less capable of ruling him tyrannically.
Just at this moment his intensity of feeling made him physically imposing and almost fascinating. It seemed to remove a veil from his usually filmy black eyes, and give him power for once to throw out all of truth that there was in his soul. It communicated to his voice a tremor which made it eloquent. He exhaled, as it were, an aroma of puissant emotion which was intoxicating, and which could hardly fail to act upon the sensitive nature of woman. Clara was so agitated by this influence, that for the moment she seemed to herself to know no man in the world but Coronado. Even while she tried to remember Thurstane, he vanished as if expelled by some enchantment, and left her alone in life with her tempter. Still she could not or would not answer; though she trembled, she remained speechless.
"I have asked you to be my wife," resumed Coronado, seeing that he must urge her. "I venture now to ask you again. I implore you not to refuse me. I cannot be refused. It would make me utterly wretched. It might perhaps bring wretchedness upon you. I hope not. I could not wish you a pain, though you should give me many. My very dear Clara, I offer you the only love of my life, and the only love that I shall ever offer to any one. Will you take it?"
Clara was greatly moved. She could not doubt his sincerity; no one who heard him could have doubted it; he _was_ sincere. To her, young, tender-hearted, capable of loving earnestly, beginning already to know what love is, it seemed a horrible thing to spurn affection. If it had not been for Thurstane, she would have taken Coronado for pity.
"Oh, my cousin!" she sighed, and stopped there.
Coronado drew courage from the kindly title of relationship, and, leaning gently towards her, attempted to take her hand. It was a mistake; she was strangely shocked by his touch; she perceived that she did not like him, and she drew away from him.
"Thank you for that word," he whispered. "Is it the kindest that you can give me? Is there--?"
"Coronado!" she interrupted. "This is all an error. See here. I am not an independent creature. I am a young girl. I owe some duty somewhere. My father and mother are gone, but I have a grandfather. Coronado, he is the head of my family, and I ought not to marry without his permission. Why can you not wait until we are with Muñoz?"
There she suddenly dropped her head between the palms of her hands. It struck her that she was hypocritical; that even with the consent of Muñoz she would not marry Coronado; that it was her duty to tell him so.
"My cousin, I have not told the whole truth," she added, after a terrible struggle. "I would not marry any one without first laying the case before my grandfather. But that is not all. Coronado, I cannot--no, I cannot marry you."
The man without a conscience, the man who was capable of planning and ordering murder, turned pale under this announcement.
Notwithstanding its commonness, notwithstanding that it has been described until the subject is hackneyed, notwithstanding that it has become a laughing-stock for many, even including poets and novelists, there is probably no heart-pain keener than disappointment in love. The shock of it is like a deep stab; it not merely tortures, but it instantly sickens; the anguish is much, but the sense of helplessness is more; the lover who is refused feels not unlike the soldier who is wounded to death.
This sorrow compares in dignity and terror with the most sublime sorrows of which humanity is capable. The death of a parent or child, though rendered more imposing to the spectator by the ceremonies of the sepulchre, does not chill the heart more deeply than the death of love. It lasts also; many a human being has carried the marks of it for life; and surely duration of effect is proof of power. We are serious in making these declarations, strange as they may seem to a satirical age. What we have said is strictly true, notwithstanding the mockery of those who have never loved, or the incredulity of those who, having loved, have never lost. But probably only the wretchedly initiated will believe.
Coronado, though selfish, infamous, and atrocious, was so far susceptible of affection that he was susceptible of suffering. The simple fact of pallor in that hardened face was sufficient proof of torture.
However, it stood him in hand to recover his self-possession and plead his suit. There was too much at stake in this cause for him to let it go without a struggle and a vehement one. Although he had seen at once that the girl was in earnest, he tried to believe that she was not so, and that he could move her.
"My dear cousin!" he implored in a voice that was mellow with agitation, "don't decide against me at once and forever. I must have some hope. Pity me."
"Ah, Coronado! Why will you?" urged Clara, in great trouble.
"I must! You must not stop me!" he persisted eagerly. "My life is in it. I love you so that I don't know how I shall end if you will not hearken to me. I shall be driven to desperation. Why do you turn away from me? Is it my fault that I care for you? It is your own. You are _so_ beautiful!"
"Coronado, I wish I were very ugly," murmured Clara, for the moment sincere in so wishing.
"Is there anything you dislike in me? I have been as kind as I knew how to be."
"It is true, Coronado. You have overwhelmed me with your goodness. I could go on my knees to thank you."
"Then--why?"
"Ah! why will you force me to say hard things? Don't you see that it tortures me to refuse you?"
"Then why refuse me? Why torture us both?"
"Better a little pain now than much through life."
"Do you mean to say that you never can--?" He could not finish the question.
"It is so, Coronado. I never could have said it myself. But you have said it. I never shall love you."
Once more the man felt a cutting and sickening wound, as of a bullet penetrating a vital part. Unable for the moment to say another word, he rose and walked the room in silence.
"Coronado, you don't know how sorry I am to grieve you so," cried the girl, almost sobbing. "It seems, too, as if I were ungrateful. I can only beg your pardon for it, and pray that Heaven will reward you."
"Heaven!" he returned impatiently. "You are my heaven. You are the only heaven that I know."
"Oh, Coronado! Don't say that. I am a poor, sinful, unworthy creature. Perhaps I could not make any one happy long. Believe me, Coronado, I am not worthy to be loved as you love me."
"You are!" he said, turning on her passionately and advancing close to her. "You are worthy of my life-long love, and you shall have it. You shall have it, whether you wish it or not. You shall not escape it. I will pursue you with it wherever you go and as long as you live."
"Oh! You frighten me. Coronado, I beg of you not to talk to me in that way. I am afraid of you."
"What is the cause of this?" he demanded, hoping to daunt her into submission. "There is something in my way. What is it? Who is it?"
Clara's paleness turned in an instant to scarlet.
"Who is it?" he went on, his voice suddenly becoming hoarse with excitement. "It is some one. Is it this American? This boy of a lieutenant?"
Clara, trembling with an agitation which was only in part dismay, remained speechless.
"Is it?" he persisted, attempting to seize her hands and looking her fiercely in the eyes. "Is it?"
"Coronado, stand back!" said Clara. "Don't you try to take my hands!"
She was erect, her eyes flashing, her cheeks spotted with crimson, her expression strangely imposing.
The man's courage drooped the moment he saw that she had turned at bay. He walked to the other side of the room, pressed his temples between his palms to quiet their throbbing, and made an effort to recover his self-possession. When he returned to her, after nearly a minute of silence, he spoke quite in his natural manner.
"This must pass for the present," he said. "I see that it is useless to talk to you of it now."
"I hope you are not angry with me, Coronado."
"Let it go," he replied, waving his hand. "I can't speak more of it now."
She wanted to say, "Try never to speak of it again;" but she did not dare to anger him further, and she remained silent.
"Shall we go to see the dance?" he asked.
"I will, if you wish it."
"But you would rather stay alone?"
"If you please, Coronado."
Bowing with an air of profound respect, he went his way alone, glanced at the games of the Moquis, and hurried back to camp, meditating as he went.
What now should be done? He was in a state of fury, full of plottings of desperation, swearing to himself that he would show no mercy. Thurstane must die at the first opportunity, no matter if his death should kill Clara. And she? There he hesitated; he could not yet decide what to do with her; could not resolve to abandon her to the wilderness.
But to bring about any part of his projects he must plunge still deeper into the untraversed. To him, by the way, as to many others who have had murder at heart, it seemed as if the proper time and place for it would never be found. Not now, but by and by; not here, but further on. Yes, it must be further on; they must set out as soon as possible for the San Juan country; they must get into wilds never traversed by civilized man.
To go thither in wagons he had already learned was impossible. The region was a mass of mountains and rocky plateaux, almost entirely destitute of water and forage, and probably forever impassable by wheels. The vehicles must be left here; the whole party must take saddle for the northern desert; and then must come death--or deaths.
But while Coronado was thus planning destruction for others, a noiseless, patient, and ferocious enmity was setting its ambush for him.
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Shortly after the safe arrival of the train at the base of the Moqui bluff, and while the repulsed and retreating warriors of Delgadito were still in sight two strange Indians cantered up to the park of wagons.
They were fine-looking fellows, with high aquiline features, the prominent cheek-bones and copper complexion of the red race, and a bold, martial, trooper-like expression, which was not without its wild good-humor and gayety. One was dressed in a white woollen hunting-shirt belted around the waist, white woollen trousers or drawers reaching to the knee, and deerskin leggins and moccasins. The other had the same costume, except that his drawers were brown and his hunting-shirt blue, while a blanket of red and black stripes drooped from his shoulders to his heels. Their coarse black hair was done up behind in thick braids, and kept out of their faces by a broad band around the temples. Each had a lance eight or ten feet long in his hand, and a bow and quiver slung at his waist-belt. These men were Navajos (Na-va-hos).
Two jolly and impudent braves were these visitors. They ate, smoked, lounged about, cracked jokes, and asked for liquor as independently as if the camp were a tavern. Rebuffs only made them grin, and favors only led to further demands. It was hard to say whether they were most wonderful for good-nature or impertinence.
Coronado was civil to them. The Navajos abide or migrate on the south, the north, and the west of the Moqui pueblas. He was in a manner within their country, and it was still necessary for him to traverse a broad stretch of it, especially if he should attempt to reach the San Juan. Besides, he wanted them to warn the Apaches out of the neighborhood and thus avert from his head the vengeance of Manga Colorada. Accordingly he gave this pair of roystering troopers a plentiful dinner and a taste of aguardiente. Toward sunset they departed in high good-humor, promising to turn back the hoofs of the Apache horses; and when in the morning Coronado saw no Indians on the plain, he joyously trusted that his visitors had fulfilled their agreement.
Somewhere or other, within the next day or two, there was a grand council of the two tribes. We know little of it; we can guess that Manga Colorada must have made great concessions or splendid promises to the Navajos; but it is only certain that he obtained leave to traverse their country. Having secured this privilege, he posted himself fifteen or twenty miles to the southwest of Tegua, behind a butte which was extensive enough to conceal his wild cavalry, even in its grazings. He undoubtedly supposed that, when the train should quit its shelter, it would go to the west or to the south. In either case he was in a position to fall upon it.
Did the savage know anything about Coronado? Had he attacked his wagons without being aware that they belonged to the man who had paid him five hundred dollars and sent him to harry Bernalillo? Or had he attacked in full knowledge of this fact, because he had been beaten off the southern trail, and believed that he had been lured thither to be beaten? Had he learned, either from Apaches or Navajos, whose hand it was that slew his boy? We can only ask these questions.
One thing alone is positive: there was a debt of blood to be paid. An Indian war is often the result of a private vendetta. The brave is bound, not only by natural affection and family pride, but still more powerfully by sense of honor and by public opinion, to avenge the slaughter of a relative. Whether he wishes it or not, and frequently no doubt when he does not wish it, he must black his face, sing his death-song, set out alone if need be, encounter labors, hardships, and dangers, and never rest until his sanguinary account is settled. The tyranny of Mrs. Grundy in civilized cities and villages is nothing to the despotism which she exercises among those slaves of custom, the red men of the American wildernesses. Manga Colorada, bereaved and with blackened face, lay in wait for the first step of the emigrants outside of their city of refuge.
We must return to Coronado. Although Clara's rejection of his suit left him vindictively and desperately eager for a catastrophe of some sort, a week elapsed before he dared take his mad plunge into the northern desert. It was a hundred miles to the San Juan; the intervening country was a waste of rocks, almost entirely destitute of grass and water; the mules and horses must recruit their full strength before they could undertake such a journey. They must not only be strong enough to go, but they must have vital force left to return.
It is astonishing what labors and dangers the man was willing to face in his vain search for a spot where he might commit a crime in safety. Such a spot is as difficult to discover as the Fountain of Youth or the Terrestrial Paradise. More than once Coronado sickened of his seemingly hopeless and ever lengthening pilgrimage of sin. Not because it was sinful--he had little or no conscience, remember--only because it was perplexing and perilous.
It was in vain that Thurstane protested against the crazy trip northward. Coronado sometimes argued for his plan; said the route improved as it approached the river; hoped the party would not be broken up in this manner; declared that he could not spare his dear friend the lieutenant. Another time he calmly smoked his cigarito, looked at Thurstane with filmy, expressionless eyes, and said, "Of course you are not obliged to accompany us."
"I have not the least intention of quitting you," was the rather indignant reply of the young fellow.
At this declaration Coronado's long black eyebrows twitched, and his lips curled with the smile of a puma, showing his teeth disagreeably.
"My dear lieutenant, that is so like you!" he said. "I own that I expected it. Many thanks."
Thurstane's blue-black eyes studied this enigmatic being steadily and almost angrily. He could not at all comprehend the fellow's bland obstinacy and recklessness.
"Very well," he said sullenly. "Let us start on our wild-goose chase. What I object to is taking the women with us. As for myself, I am anxious to reach the San Juan and get something to report about it."
"The ladies will have a day or two of discomfort," returned Coronado; "but you and I will see that they run no danger."
Nine days after the arrival of the emigrants at Tegua they set out for the San Juan. The wagons were left parked at the base of the butte under the care of the Moquis. The expedition was reorganized as follows: On horseback, Clara, Coronado, Thurstane, Texas Smith, and four Mexicans; on mules, Mrs. Stanley, Glover, the three Indian women, the four soldiers, and the ten drivers and muleteers. There were besides eighteen burden mules loaded with provisions and other baggage. In all, five women, twenty-two men, and forty-five animals.
The Moquis, to whom some stores and small presents were distributed, overflowed with hospitable offices. The chief had a couple of sheep slaughtered for the travellers, and scores of women brought little baskets of meal, corn, guavas, etc. As the strangers left the pueblo both sexes and all ages gathered on the landings, grouped about the stairways and ladders which led down the rampart, and followed for some distance along the declivity of the butte, holding out their simple offerings and urging acceptance. Aunt Maria was more than ever in raptures with Moquis and women.
The chief and several others accompanied the cavalcade for eight or ten miles in order to set it on the right trail for the river. But not one would volunteer as a guide; all shook their heads at the suggestion. "Navajos! Apaches! Comanches!"
They had from the first advised against the expedition, and they now renewed their expostulations. Scarcely any grass; no water except at long distances; a barren, difficult, dangerous country: such was the meaning of their dumb show. On the summit of a lofty bluff which commanded a vast view toward the north, they took their leave of the party, struck off in a rapid trot toward the pueblo, and never relaxed their speed until they were out of sight.
The adventurers now had under their eyes a large part of the region which they were about to traverse. For several miles the landscape was rolling; then came elevated plateaux rising in successive steps, the most remote being apparently sixty miles away; and the colossal scene was bounded by isolated peaks, at a distance which could not be estimated with anything like accuracy. Ranges, buttes, pinnacles, monumental crags, gullies, shadowy chasms, the beds of perished rivers, the stony wrecks left by unrecorded deluges, diversified this monstrous, sublime, and savage picture. Only here and there, separated by vast intervals of barrenness, could be seen minute streaks of verdure. In general the landscape was one of inhospitable sterility. It could not be imagined by men accustomed only to fertile regions. It seemed to have been taken from some planet not yet prepared for human, nor even for beastly habitation. The emotion which it aroused was not that which usually springs from the contemplation of the larger aspects of nature. It was not enthusiasm; it was aversion and despair.
Clara gave one look, and then drew her hat over her eyes with a shudder, not wishing to see more. Aunt Maria, heroic and constant as she was or tried to be, almost lost faith in Coronado and glanced at him suspiciously. Thurstane, sitting bolt upright in his saddle, stared straight before him with a grim frown, meanwhile thinking of Clara. Coronado's eyes were filmy and incomprehensible; he was planning, querying, fearing, almost trembling; when he gave the word to advance, it was without looking up. There was a general feeling that here before them lay a fate which could only be met blindfold.
Now came a long descent, avoiding precipices and impracticable slopes, winding from one stony foot-hill to another, until the party reached what had seemed a plain. It was a plain because it was amid mountains; a plain consisting of rolls, ridges, ravines, and gullies; a plain with hardly an acre of level land. All day they journeyed through its savage interstices and struggled with its monstrosities of trap and sandstone. Twice they halted in narrow valleys, where a little loam had collected and a little moisture had been retained, affording meagre sustenance to some thin grass and scattered bushes. The animals browsed, but there was nothing for them to drink, and all began to suffer with thirst.
It was seven in the evening, and the sun had already gone down behind the sullen barrier of a gigantic plateau, when they reached the mouth of the cañon which had once contained a river, and discovered by the merest accident that it still treasured a shallow pool of stagnant water. The fevered mules plunged in headlong and drank greedily; the riders were perforce obliged to slake their thirst after them. There was a hastily eaten supper, and then came the only luxury or even comfort of the day, the sound and delicious sleep of great weariness.
Repose, however, was not for all, inasmuch as Thurstane had reorganized his system of guard duty, and seven of the party had to stand sentry. It was Coronado's _tour_; he had chosen to take his watch at the start; there would be three nights on this stretch, and the first would be the easiest. He was tired, for he had been fourteen hours in the saddle, although the distance covered was only forty miles. But much as he craved rest, he kept awake until midnight, now walking up and down, and now smoking his eternal cigarito.
There was a vast deal to remember, to plan, to hope for, to dread, and to hate. Once he sat down beside the unconscious Thurstane, and meditated shooting him through the head as he lay, and so making an end of that obstacle. But he immediately put this idea aside as a frenzy, generated by the fever of fatigue and sleeplessness. A dozen times he was assaulted by a lazy or cowardly temptation to give up the chances of the desert, push back to the Bernalillo route, leave everything to fortune, and take disappointment meekly if it should come. When the noon of night arrived, he had decided upon nothing but to blunder ahead by sheer force of momentum, as if he had been a rolling bowlder instead of a clever, resolute Garcia Coronado.
The truth is, that his circumstances were too mighty for him. He had launched them, but he could not steer them as he would, and they were carrying him he knew not whither. At one o'clock he awoke Texas Smith, who was now his sergeant of the guard; but instead of enjoining some instant atrocity upon him, as he had more than once that night purposed, he merely passed the ordinary instructions of the watch; then, rolling himself in his blankets, he fell asleep as quickly and calmly as an infant.
At daybreak commenced another struggle with the desert. It was still sixty miles to the San Juan, over a series of savage sandstone plateaux, said to be entirely destitute of water. If the animals could not accomplish the distance in two days, it seemed as if the party must perish. Coronado went at his work, so to speak, head foremost and with his hat over his eyes. Nevertheless, when it came to the details of his mad enterprise, he managed them admirably. He was energetic, indefatigable, courageous, cheerful. All day he was hurrying the cavalcade, and yet watching its ability to endure. His "Forward, forward," alternated with his "Carefully, carefully." Now "_Adelante_" and now "_Con juicio_" About two in the afternoon they reached a little nook of sparse grass, which the beasts gnawed perfectly bare in half an hour. No water; the horses were uselessly jaded in searching for it; beds of trap and gullies of ancient rivers were explored in vain; the horrible rocky wilderness was as dry as a bone. Meanwhile, the fatigue of scrambling and stumbling thus far had been enormous. It had been necessary to ascend plateau after plateau by sinuous and crumbling ledges, which at a distance looked impracticable to goats. More than once, in face of some beetling precipice, or on the brink of some gaping chasm, it seemed as if the journey had come to an end. Long detours had to be made in order to connect points which were only separated by slight intervals. The whole region was seamed by the jagged zigzags of cañons worn by rivers which had flowed for thousands of years, and then for thousands of years more had been non-existent. If, at the commencement of one of these mighty grooves, you took the wrong side, you could not regain the trail without returning to the point of error, for crossing was impossible.
A trail there was. It is by this route that the Utes and Payoches of the Colorado come to trade with the Moquis or to plunder them. But, as may be supposed, it is a journey which is not often made even by savages; and the cavalcade, throughout the whole of its desperate push, did not meet a human being. Amid the monstrous expanse of uninhabited rock it seemed lost beyond assistance, forsaken and cast out by mankind, doomed to a death which was to have no spectator. Could you have seen it, you would have thought of a train of ants endeavoring to cross a quarry; and you would have judged that the struggle could only end in starvation, or in some swifter destruction.
The most desperate venture of the travellers was amid the wrecks of an extinct volcano. It seemed here as if the genius of fire had striven to outdo the grotesque extravagances of the genii of the waters. Crags, towers, and pinnacles of porphyry were mingled with huge convoluted masses of light brown trachyte, of tufa either pure white or white veined with crimson, of black and gray columnar basalts, of red, orange, green, and black scoria, with adornments of obsidian, amygdaloids, rosettes of quartz crystal and opalescent chalcedony. A thousand stony needles lifted their ragged points as if to defy the lightning. The only vegetation was a spiny cactus, clinging closely to the rocks, wearing their grayish and yellowish colors, lending no verdure to the scene, and harmonizing with its thorny inhospitality.
As the travellers gazed on this wilderness of scorched summits, glittering in the blazing sunlight, and yet drawing from it no life--as stark, still, unsympathizing, and cruel as death--they seemed to themselves to be out of the sweet world of God, and to be in the power of malignant genii and demons. The imagination cannot realize the feeling of depression which comes upon one who finds himself imprisoned in such a landscape. Like uttermost pain, or like the extremity of despair, it must be felt in order to be known.
"It seems as if Satan had chosen this land for himself," was the perfectly serious and natural remark of Thurstane.
Clara shuddered; the same impression was upon her mind; only she felt it more deeply than he. Gentle, somewhat timorous, and very impressionable, she was almost overwhelmed by the terrific revelations of a nature which seemed to have no pity, or rather seemed full of malignity. Many times that day she had prayed in her heart that God would help them. Apparently detached from earth, she was seeking nearness to heaven. Her look at this moment was so awe-struck and piteous, that the soul of the man who loved her yearned to give her courage.
"Miss Van Diemen, it shall all turn out well," he said, striking his fist on the pommel of his saddle.
"Oh! why did we come here?" she groaned.
"I ought to have prevented it," he replied, angry with himself. "But never mind. Don't be troubled. It shall all be right. I pledge my life to bring it all to a good end."
She gave him a look of gratitude which would have repaid him for immediate death. This is not extravagant; in his love for her he did not value himself; he had the sublime devotion of immense adoration.
That night another loamy nook was found, clothed with a little thin grass, but waterless. Some of the animals suffered so with thirst that they could not graze, and uttered doleful whinneys of distress. As it was the Lieutenant's tour on guard, he had plenty of time to study the chances of the morrow.
"Kelly, what do you think of the beasts?" he said to the old soldier who acted as his sergeant.
"One more day will finish them, Leftenant."
"We have been fifteen hours in the saddle. We have made about thirty-five miles. There are twenty-five miles more to the river. Do you think we can crawl through?"
"I should say, Leftenant, we could just do it."
At daybreak the wretched animals resumed their hideous struggle. There was a plateau for them to climb at the start, and by the time this labor was accomplished they were staggering with weakness, so that a halt had to be ordered on the windy brink of the acclivity. Thurstane, according to his custom, scanned the landscape with his field-glass, and jotted down topographical notes in his journal. Suddenly he beckoned to Coronado, quietly put the glass in his hands, nodded toward the desert which lay to the rear, and whispered, "Look."
Coronado looked, turned slightly more yellow than his wont, and murmured "Apaches!"
"How far off are they?"
"About ten miles," judged Coronado, still gazing intently.
"So I should say. How do you know they are Apaches?"
"Who else would follow us?" asked the Mexican, remembering the son of Manga Colorada.
"It is another race for life," calmly pronounced Thurstane, facing about toward the caravan and making a signal to mount.
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{
"id": "12335"
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Yes, it was a life and death race between the emigrants and the Apaches for the San Juan. Positions of defence were all along the road, but not one of them could be held for a day, all being destitute of grass and water.
"There is no need of telling the ladies at once," said Thurstane to Coronado, as they rode side by side in rear of the caravan. "Let them be quiet as long as they can be. Their trouble will come soon enough."
"How many were there, do you think?" was the reply of a man who was much occupied with his own chances. "Were there a hundred?"
"It's hard to estimate a mere black line like that. Yes, there must be a hundred, besides stragglers. Their beasts have suffered, of course, as well as ours. They have come fast, and there must be a lot in the rear. Probably both bands are along."
"The devils!" muttered Coronado. "I hope to God they will all perish of thirst and hunger. The stubborn, stupid devils! Why should they follow us _here_?" he demanded, looking furiously around upon the accursed landscape.
"Indian revenge. We killed too many of them."
"Yes," said Coronado, remembering anew the son of the chief. "Damn them! I wish we could have killed them all."
"That is just what we must try to do," returned Thurstane deliberately.
"The question is," he resumed after a moment of business-like calculation of chances--"the question is mainly this, whether we can go twenty-five miles quicker than they can go thirty-five. We must be the first to reach the river."
"We can spare a few beasts," said Coronado. "We must leave the weakest behind."
"We must not give up provisions."
"We can eat mules."
"Not till the last moment. We shall need them to take us back."
Coronado inwardly cursed himself for venturing into this inferno, the haunting place of devils in human shape. Then his mind wandered to Saratoga, New York, Newport, and the other earthly heavens that were known to him. He hummed an air; it was the _brindisi_ of Lucrezia Borgia; it reminded him of pleasures which now seemed lost forever; he stopped in the middle of it. Between the associations which it excited--the images of gayety and splendor, real or feigned--a commingling of kid gloves, bouquets, velvet cloaks, and noble names--between these glories which so attracted his hungry soul and the present environment of hideous deserts and savage pursuers, what a contrast there was! There, far away, was the success for which he longed; here, close at hand, was the peril which must purchase it. At that moment he was willing to deny his bargain with Garcia and the devil. His boldest desire was, "Oh that I were in Santa Fé!"
By Coronado's side rode a man who had not a thought for himself. A person who has not passed years in the army can hardly imagine the sense of _responsibility_ which is ground into the character of an officer. He is a despot, but a despot who is constantly accountable for the welfare of his subjects, and who never passes a day without many grave thoughts of the despots above him. Superior officers are in a manner his deities, and the Army Regulations have for him the weight of Scripture. He never forgets by what solemn rules of duty and honor he will be judged if he falls short of his obligations. This professional conscience becomes a destiny to him, and guides his life to an extent inconceivable by most civilians. He acquires a habit of watching and caring for others; he cannot help assuming a charge which falls in his way. When he is not governed by the rule of obedience, he is governed by the rule of responsibility. The two make up his duty, and to do his duty is his existence.
At this moment our young West Pointer, only twenty-three or four years old, was gravely and grimly anxious for his four soldiers, for all these people whom circumstance had placed under his protection, and even for his army mules, provisions, and ammunition. His only other sentiment was a passionate desire to prevent harm or even fear from approaching Clara Van Diemen. These two sentiments might be said to make up for the present his entire character. As we have already observed, he had not a thought for himself.
Presently it occurred to the youngster that he ought to cheer on his fellow-travellers.
Trotting up with a smile to Mrs. Stanley and Clara, he asked, "How do you bear it?"
"Oh, I am almost dead," groaned Aunt Maria. "I shall have to be tied on before long."
The poor woman, no longer youthful, it must be remembered, was indeed badly jaded. Her face was haggard; her general get-up was in something like scarecrow disorder; she didn't even care how she looked. So fagged was she that she had once or twice dozed in the saddle and come near falling.
"It was outrageous to bring us here," she went on pettishly. "Ladies shouldn't be dragged into such hardships."
Thurstane wanted to say that he was not responsible for the journey; but he would not, because it did not seem manly to shift all the blame upon Coronado.
"I am very, very sorry," was his reply. "It is a frightful journey."
"Oh, frightful, frightful!" sighed Aunt Maria, twisting her aching back.
"But it will soon be over," added the officer. "Only twenty miles more to the river."
"The river! It seems to me that I could live if I could see a river. Oh, this desert! These perpetual rocks! Not a green thing to cool one's eyes. Not a drop of water. I seem to be drying up, like a worm in the sunshine."
"Is there no water in the flasks?" asked Thurstane.
"Yes," said Clara. "But my aunt is feverish with fatigue."
"What I want is the sight of it--and rest," almost whimpered the elder lady.
"Will our horses last?" asked Clara. "Mine seems to suffer a great deal."
"They _must_ last," replied Thurstane, grinding his teeth quite privately. "Oh, yes, they will last," he immediately added. "Even if they don't, we have mules enough."
"But how they moan! It makes me cringe to hear them."
"Twenty miles more," said Thurstane. "Only six hours at the longest. Only half a day."
"It takes less than half a day for a woman to die," muttered the nearly desperate Aunt Maria.
"Yes, when she sets about it," returned the officer. "But we haven't set about it, Mrs. Stanley. And we are not going to."
The weary lady had no response ready for words of cheer; she leaned heavily over the pommel of her saddle and rode on in silence.
"Ain't the same man she was," slyly observed Phineas Glover with a twist of his queer physiognomy.
Thurstane, though not fond of Mrs. Stanley, would not now laugh at her expense, and took no notice of the sarcasm. Glover, fearful lest he had offended, doubled the gravity of his expression and tacked over to a fresh subject.
"Shouldn't know whether to feel proud 'f myself or not, 'f I'd made this country, Capm. Depends on what 'twas meant for. If 'twas meant to live in, it's the poorest outfit I ever did see. If 'twas meant to scare folks, it's jest up to the mark. 'Nuff to frighten a crow into fits. Capm, it fairly seems more than airthly; puts me in mind 'f things in the Pilgrim's Progress--only worse. Sh'd say it was like five thousin' Valleys 'f the Shadow 'f Death tangled together. Tell ye, believe Christian 'd 'a' backed out 'f he'd had to travel through here. Think Mr. Coronado 's all right in his top hamper, Capm? Do, hey? Wal, then I'm all wrong; guess I'm 's crazy's a bedbug. Wouldn't 'a'ketched me steerin' this course of my own free will 'n' foreknowledge. Jest look at the land now. Don't it look like the bottomless pit blowed up 'n' gone to smash? Tell ye, 'f the Old Boy himself sh'd ride up alongside, shouldn't be a mite s'prised to see him. Sh'd reckon he had a much bigger right to be s'prised to ketch me here."
After some further riding, shaking his sandy head, staring about him and whistling, he broke out again.
"Tell ye, Capm, this beats my imagination. Used to think I c'd yarn it pooty consid'able. But never can tell this. Never can do no manner 'f jestice to it. Look a there now. There's a nateral bridge, or 'n unnateral one. There's a hole blowed through a forty foot rock 's clean 's though 'twas done with Satan's own field-piece, sech 's Milton tells about. An' there's a steeple higher 'n our big one in Fair Haven. An' there's a church, 'n' a haystack. If the devil hain't done his biggest celebratin' 'n' carpenterin' 'n' farmin' round here, d'no 's I know where he has done it. Beats _me_, Capm; cleans me out. Can't do no jestice to it. Can't talk about it. Seems to me 's though I was a fool."
Yes, even Phineas Glover's small and sinewy soul (a psyche of the size, muscular force, and agility of a flea) had been seized, oppressed, and in a manner smashed by the hideous sublimity of this wilderness of sandstone, basalt, and granite.
Two hours passed, during which, from the nature of the ground, the travellers could neither see nor be seen by their pursuers. Then came a breathless ascent up another of the monstrous sandstone terraces. Thurstane ordered every man to dismount, so as to spare the beasts as much as possible. He walked by the side of Clara, patting, coaxing, and cheering her suffering horse, and occasionally giving a heave of his solid shoulder against the trembling haunches.
"Let me walk," the girl presently said. "I can't bear to see the poor beast so worried."
"It would be better, if you can do it," he replied, remembering that she might soon have to call upon the animal for speed.
She dismounted, clasped her hands over his arm, and clambered thus. From time to time, when some rocky step was to be surmounted, he lifted her bodily up it.
"How can you be so strong?" she said, looking at him wonderingly and gratefully.
"Miss Van Diemen, you give me strength," he could not help responding.
At last they were at the summit of the rugged slope. The animals were trembling and covered with sweat; some of them uttered piteous whinnyings, or rather bleatings, like distressed sheep; five or six lay down with hollow moans and rumblings. It was absolutely necessary to take a short rest.
Looking ahead, Thurstane saw that they had reached the top of the tableland which lies south of the San Juan, and that nothing was before them for the rest of the day but a rolling plateau seamed with meandering fissures of undiscoverable depth. Traversable as the country was, however, there was one reason for extreme anxiety. If they should lose the trail, if they should get on the wrong side of one of those profound and endless chasms, they might reach the river at a point where descent to it would be impossible, and might die of thirst within sight of water. For undoubtedly the San Juan flowed at the bottom of one of those amazing cañons which gully this Mer de Glace in stone.
An error of direction once committed, the enemy would not give them time to retrieve it, and they would be slaughtered like mad dogs with the foam on their mouths.
Thurstane remembered that it would be his terrible duty in the last extremity to send a bullet through the heart of the woman he worshipped, rather than let her fall into the hands of brutes who would only grant her a death of torture and dishonor. Even his steady soul failed for a moment, and tears of desperation gathered in his eyes. For the first time in years he looked up to heaven and prayed fervently.
From the unknown destiny ahead he turned to look for the fate which pursued. Walking with Coronado to the brink of the colossal terrace, and sheltering himself from the view of the rest of the party, he scanned the trail with his glass. The dark line had now become a series of dark specks, more than a hundred and fifty in number, creeping along the arid floor of the lower plateau, and reminding him of venomous insects.
"They are not five miles from us," shuddered the Mexican. "Cursed beasts! Devils of hell!"
"They have this hill to climb," said Thurstane, "and, if I am not mistaken, they will have to halt here, as we have done. Their ponies must be pretty well fagged by this time."
"They will get a last canter out of them," murmured Coronado. His soul was giving way under his hardships, and it would have been a solace to him to weep aloud. As it was, he relieved himself with a storm of blasphemies. Oaths often serve to a man as tears do to a woman.
"We must trot now," he said presently.
"Not yet. Not till they are within half a mile of us. We must spare our wind up to the last minute."
They were interrupted by a cry of surprise and alarm. Several of the muleteers had strayed to the edge of the declivity, and had discovered with their unaided eyesight the little cloud of death in the distance. Texas Smith approached, looked from under his shading hand, muttered a single curse, walked back to his horse, inspected his girths, and recapped his rifle. In a minute it was known throughout the train that Apaches were in the rear. Without a word of direction, and in a gloomy silence which showed the general despair, the march was resumed. There was a disposition to force a trot, which was promptly and sternly checked by Thurstane. His voice was loud and firm; he had instinctively assumed responsibility and command; no one disputed him or thought of it.
Three mules which could not rise were left where they lay, feebly struggling to regain their feet and follow their comrades, but falling back with hollow groanings and a kind of human despair in their faces. Mile after mile the retreat continued, always at a walk, but without halting. It was long before the Apaches were seen again, for the ascent of the plateau lost them a considerable space, and after that they were hidden for a time by its undulations. But about four in the afternoon, while the emigrants were still at least five miles from the river, a group of savage horsemen rose on a knoll not more than three miles behind, and uttered a yell of triumph. There was a brief panic, and another attempt to push the animals, which Thurstane checked with levelled pistol.
The train had already entered a gully. As this gully advanced it rapidly broadened and deepened into a cañon. It was the track of an extinct river which had once flowed into the San Juan on its way to the distant Pacific. Its windings hid the desired goal; the fugitives must plunge into it blindfold; whatever fate it brought them, they must accept it. They were like men who should enter the cavern of unknown goblins to escape from demons who were following visibly on their footsteps.
From time to time they heard ferocious yells in their rear, and beheld their fiendish pursuers, now also in the cañon. It was like Christian tracking the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and listening to the screams and curses of devils. At every reappearance of the Apaches they had diminished the distance between themselves and their expected prey, and at last they were evidently not more than a mile behind. But there in sight was the river; there, enclosed in one of its bends, was an alluvial plain; rising from the extreme verge of the plain, and overhanging the stream, was a bluff; and on this bluff was what seemed to be a fortress.
Thurstane sent all the horsemen to the rear of the train, took post himself as the rearmost man, measured once more with his eye the space between his charge and the enemy, cast an anxious glance at the reeling beast which bore Clara, and in a firm ringing voice commanded a trot.
The order and the movement which followed it were answered by the Indians with a yell. The monstrous and precipitous walls of the cañon clamored back a fiendish mockery of echoes which seemed to call for the prowlers of the air to arrive quickly and devour their carrion.
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{
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