 | CHAPTER XI.
SEMANTHA'S TEARS. The shadow of Moloch mountain |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
SEMANTHA'S TEARS.
If Miss Rachel had secretly hoped, or perhaps
feared, that the hidden sorrow of her
niece's heart would prevent her from accepting
an invitation which must leave the Old
Garrison House so lonely, she was disappointed,
for Beatrice hardly hesitated a moment
before assuring her uncle that she
should come to him with the greatest pleasure,
and could be quite ready at the end of the
four days he proposed remaining at home.
“And you won't miss the old folks, though
they'll be dull enough without you, lambie,”
said the grandmother, putting her shaking
arm about the stately young figure, and looking
lovingly up in the pale face half turned
from her gaze.
“Indeed, I shall miss you, grandmamma,
and I would never think of going if—if—I
felt that I could stay at home.”
“Can't stay at home! What does the
child mean? Do you suppose we can't support
you, Beatrice? I had to go out to work
when I was a girl, but you haven't any such
call, I'm sure.”
“Oh! no, grandmamma, I never thought
of such a thing,” replied the girl, laughing in
spite of herself. “But I feel as if I must have
a change. That is all.”
“Growing unsteady? Why, Trixie, that's
something new for you,” began the grandmother,
in a tone of gentle reproof; but the
tremulous voice of her husband interposed:
“Don't urge the child too much, mother.
These young things have their own secrets,
and have a right to keep them. Our child
won't go wrong, it isn't in her nature; and
though the lamb stay from the fold for a while,
the Good Shepherd has her in His charge, and
will lead her gently home at last. Come here,
little one.”
And Beatrice, kneeling at the feet of the
good old man, his hand upon her head, his
tears that left a healing behind them, and
soothed as nothing yet had done the agony
of that fresh wound so jealously hidden in
her heart of hearts.
“She'd better go away for a while, wife,”
said the grandfather, when the old couple
were again alone. “Don't say a word to prevent
it, or to make her feel that we shall miss
her too much.”
“No, I won't; but I wish there was time for
me to knit her another set of lamb's-wool
under-vests before she goes. Folks that are
out of spirits and cry are always dreadful
chilly; but I'll send them after her if she
stays all winter. I always thought, if Alice had
worn lamb's-wool, we might have saved her.”
“Deacon Barstow raised his mild eyes to
his wife's face with a quaint smile, but made
no reply; and while she fell into a fit of musing,
he resumed the volume of Fenelon, which
he preferred to all reading, except that of the
great quarto Bible always lying upon the
stand at his elbow.
“What is all this dreadful story about Peleg
Brewster and his little girl, Rachel?”
asked Mr. Israel Barstow, soon after his return
home; and Miss Rachel, nothing loth to expatiate
upon the story to a new listener, proceeded
to narrate it with all the horrible details,
and giving the coroner's verdict at the
end as the solution most generally received
of the mystery that to her mind still hung
about the murder.
Israel Barstow listened attentively. The
murdered man had been his schoolmate and
playfellow in those long-past days when the
prosperous merchant still lay concealed in
the sturdy country boy, predominant in the
republic of the district-school, not through his
father's wealth or position, but his own powers
of combination and command. His wife
also, Ruth's mother, appeared among the
memories of those early days as a fair, gentle
child, grateful to the Deacon's sturdy son
for such small benefits as a coast upon his
sled, a share of his liberal lunch, or permission
to harvest the chestnuts beneath his
father's trees.
“Yes—Mary Williams—I remember her
very well,” said Mr. Barstow, softly drumming
on the window-pane, as he listened to his sister's
story, while his thoughts went swiftly back
to those years so far behind him now, and
touched upon many a half-forgotten memory.
And Peleg was a fine fellow too—a thought
hasty in his temper, and a little dangerous at
times, but a fine, brave fellow always. Yes,
we were boys together; but it is a great many
years ago now, a great many years.”
“Not so very many, Israel. You're not an
old man now,” said his sister, a little jealous
for the brother whom she admired and loved,
far more than she ever showed, even to him.
“But Joe was younger, and I don't remember
him so well,” pursued Israel. “My impression
is, however, that we didn't like him
very well. He was a bit of a sneak, if I remember.”
“He isn't very much thought of, nor Semanthy
either,” said Miss Barstow, breathing
upon the spot dimmed by her brother's finger-tips,
and rubbing it bright with her apron.
“Semanthy? I don't remember her,” said
Israel.
“No, I guess you never knew her. When
Mary Brewster was taken sick, or rather after
she got too feeble to do her work, Peleg got
Semanthy Whitredge to help her, and finally
to do all the work. She belongs to a family
over at the 'haven, and I rather think they are
poor sort of people anyway. Then, after
Mary died, Semanthy stayed on, and after a
while Peleg married her. She isn't very
well spoken of.”
“I think I shall go and have a talk with
Joe Brewster. I want to hear more about
poor Peleg, and what grounds they have for
accusing that child,” said Israel at length;
and Miss Rachel, after a moment's hesitation,
replied:
“Well, I believe I will go too.”
The next afternoon accordingly, as brother
and sister returned from an excursion to Milvorhaven,
where they had dined with some
family friends, Israel turned the horse into
the sandy by-road leading past the Brewster
place, and presently checked him at the very
spot where Peleg Brewster had sat a week
before, and unconsciously looked his last upon
the familiar scenes of his boyhood.
Following the simple country fashion, the
visitors entered the open door without the
ceremony of knocking, and passed into a
small entry with a door opening at either
hand, and a square staircase filling the middle
space.
“Knock on that door, Israel—I believe it is
the sitting-room,” said Miss Rachel audibly;
and as she spoke, both visitors were startled
"The figure of a man beside a high stone wall."
[Description: 454EAF. Page 031. In-line image of a man cowering beside a stone wall, with trees in the background and flowers in the foreground.] by the apparition of a white face peering atthem from over the banister, and a sound of
hurrying footsteps and hastily closing doors
in the room at their left hand.
“Is Mrs. Brewster at home?” asked Miss
Rachel, throwing the question at random up
the stairs; but the face had been withdrawn
as soon as seen, and no reply followed.
“Knock, Israel!” said his sister; and while
Mr. Barstow obeyed, Miss Rachel glanced out
at the door.
“See there!” whispered she, laying her
hand upon her brother's arm, and pointing to
a field at the corner of the house. Mr. Barstow
looked, and distinguished the figure of a
man crouching beside a high stone wall, and
pursuing its line toward the woods.
“It is Joe Brewster, and he was in that
room and heard us when we came in, and he's
running away,” whispered Miss Rachel with
emphasis; but before her brother could reply
the door at their right suddenly opened, and
the crafty face of Semantha appeared in the
opening.
“Oh! excuse me, Miss Barstow,” said she,
after a moment of apparent surprise; “I was
out behind the house looking after my bleach
ing, and I did not know that any one was
here. Have you waited long?”
“Not very. Are you all alone in the
house?” asked Miss Rachel, fixing her severe
gray eyes upon the false and faltering green
orbs of the other.
“Yes. Joachim he's been away since noon.
I rather guess he's over at the 'haven; and
there's no one but us two left of the family
now, you know. Won't you come in?” asked
Semantha, reluctantly opening the door a little
wider.
“Thank you. We'll stop a few moments.
This is my brother, Mr. Barstow, Mrs. Brewster.
He used to know Peleg and his first
wife very well when they were all young.”
“Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr.
Barstow,” said Semantha, in the stereotyped
phrase of Milvor introductions, and extending
a clammy hand, which Israel somewhat reluctantly
enfolded in his large, warm grasp.
“Sit down, won't you? How's your folks,
Miss Rachel?” continued the hostess, putting
forward two wooden rocking-chairs fitted with
feather cushions in patchwork covers.
“Very well, I thank you. Are you going
to stay here alone?” asked Miss Rachel, seating
herself with an air of reserve.
“Yes, I suppose so. Joachim calculates to
stay and carry on the farm.”
“You and he alone?”
“Why, yes; I don't seem to see any other
way,” said Semantha, nervously stooping to
pick some threads from the not over-clean
floor. “I don't know what folks will say.”
“I suppose they'll say a good deal; but
when any body's doing just what's right, I
don't know that they need ask what folks
say,” replied Rachel significantly.
“No, I suppose not,” replied Semantha,
turning very red; and then followed an awkward
pause, broken by Israel:
“I was very much shocked at hearing of
my friend Peleg's death, and especially at
the manner of it, Mrs. Brewster,” said he
kindly.
“Yes, every one was, I expect,” replied Semantha,
with her apron at her eyes. “He
was a good man, a real nice man, and he and
me were dreadful fond of each other always.
And then, as you say, Mr. Barstow, it makes
it so much harder to bear when we think that
it was his own child did it—”
“I don't think his own child did it, and I
didn't understand my brother to say that he
with considerable emphasis.
“Why, the coroner said so, and he'd ought
to know,” disconsolately replied the widow.
“Coroners may know, and they may not
know; but there's One that does know, and,
for my part, I'm not going to doubt that some
time or other He'll bring this and every other
hidden sin to light. And when that day
comes, I don't believe it will be Mary Brewster's
child that will be found guilty of Peleg
Brewster's murder,” replied Rachel with emphasis.
“Well, I'm sure I hope not; but if she didn't,
I don't know who did do it,” said Semantha,
wiping her eyes, and looking first at the one
and then at the other of her guests.
“What sort of disposition had the little
girl? Her mother, I remember, was very
mild,” asked Israel in a conciliatory tone.
“Well, sir, I don't want to say any harm of
the child, for her father was a good man to me
always, but since you ask it, I must own that
of all the deceitful pieces that ever stepped.
Ruth Brewster was the deceitfulest. She was
so smooth and soft when any one was here
that you'd think butter wouldn't melt in her
mouth, and then when we were alone, if she
got mad, it was enough to make any one's
blood run cold to hear the way she'd talk.
To say she threatened to poison me is no
more than a beginning—”
“And it had better be an ending too, for I
don't believe a word of it, and I don't want to
hear any more,” said Miss Rachel, rising and
pulling her shawl vehemently about her. “I've
seen that child, and I'm not a fool; and I knew
her mother and her father too, and I'm not a
fool. Come, Israel.”
“Softly, Rachel,” interposed Israel. “You
have no right to speak in this manner to Mrs.
Brewster. We cannot suppose that any person
suffering under the affliction that has
overtaken her could tell other than the truth,
or would slander the character of even a
child who is not here to defend herself. Mrs.
Brewster, I am very sorry to hear such an account
of your step-daughter; but if it is not
too painful a subject, will you be so good as to
tell me what motive could have led her to
commit so frightful a deed?”
“Clear ugliness of temper,” replied Semantha
with decision. “She and her father
didn't live happily together, and he had
threatened more than once to put her out to
service. At last they had a quarrel worse
than any that came before, and he took her off
that morning, and told her in my hearing
that she never should touch a cent of his
money, or a stitch of her mother's clothes, or
come under his roof again till she had turned
a square corner, and was a different girl from
what she had been. He talked pretty ha'sh,
and she didn't say much; but there was a look
in her eye that made my flesh creep on my
bones. Then they set off, and he, without
thinking, I suppose, put his loaded rifle right
down beside the trunk where she was sitting,
and I suppose when they got away from
houses and out in the woods there, she thought
nobody would see, and—”
“Israel Barstow, if you're a mind to stay
here any longer, you may stay alone. I wish
you good-afternoon, Mrs. Brewster; and the
next time you peek over your banisters and
see me in your front entry, I'll believe any
story you're a mind to tell me.”
And Miss Rachel, urged far beyond her
wont by the indignation and disgust rising in
her bosom, marched grandly from the house,
and climbed into the chaise without assistance.
“You don't believe I'm a liar and a slanderer,
Mr. Barstow?” whispered Semantha,
rising and approaching her remaining guest,
one hand covering her eyes and the other outstretched
in farewell. When a woman is poor
and alone in the world, and them that should
stand up for her and take care of her is dead
and gone, there's enough that'll turn against
her, and trample her into the dirt; but Israel
Barstow isn't one of that sort—I know it, and
I'll always say it.”
“Thank you. No, I never want to add to
any body's trouble, I'm sure. I am sorry
Rachel spoke so harshly; but she's a woman
of strong feelings, and she was very fond of
Peleg's first wife; but she should not have
hurt your feelings so; and—there, there, don't
cry, now don't, and if you would not be affronted—”
And the successful merchant, to whom experience
had thoroughly taught the power of
money, whether as a consoler or a mediator,
laid a bank-note of considerable value upon
the table, and then hastily joined his sister
who preserved a grim silence during nearly
the entire journey home.
| CHAPTER XI.
SEMANTHA'S TEARS. The shadow of Moloch mountain | |