 | CHAPTER XIV.
A FRESH CATASTROPHE. Haunted hearts |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
A FRESH CATASTROPHE.
It has been said that the murder of Baultie Rawle,
with the circumstances attending it, constituted the nine
days' wonder of the people of Stein's Plains. What,
nine days only? Surely a subject of such engrossing
interest could not have been laid to rest in so brief a
space of time! By no means: at the expiration of that
period the excitement was still at its height. But now a
diversion was suddenly created in the public mind, for,
on the tenth day, tidings of a fresh catastrophe reached
the plains, — a catastrophe which, if possible, possessed for
the inhabitants a nearer and more vital interest, involving
as it did the fate of one who, unlike the murdered man,
was a universal favorite, — and furnishing a terrible response
to the query, so many times passed from lip to
lip, “What has become of Geordie Rawle?”
“Have you heard the news?” had lately been a common
question at Stein's Plains, where fresh developments,
real or imaginary, were hourly reported; but it
came with renewed force this day from the mouth of the
a little knot of his neighbors, thus mysteriously intimated
to Farmer Rycker, who had suddenly drawn up
his team on the way to mill, the cause and meaning of
such an unusual assembly of idlers on a week day.
“No; what is 't? Speak out, man! Has the whole
thing come ter light? Have they kotched the rascal?”
“O-o-o-h no!” replied the smith, with that prolongation
of tone which gives weight to an assertion, especially
a contradictory one, — “that would be good news, this
is bad — bad.”
“More bad news!” muttered the farmer, commencing
to clamber down from his wagon. “Who's consarned
in 't?” he questioned anxiously, as soon as his feet
touched the ground, and he found himself beside the
smith; “the Britishers ain't in York harbor, I hope.”
“No; it's a family consarn — a sorrer to the whole
neighborhood, but specially to the Rawles, — misfortin's
never come singly. It's about Geordie.”
“What about Geordie?” cried the farmer, advancing
towards the knot of rustics. “What's happened to him?
Where is he?”
For a moment there was no reply to the question.
The smith, who had suffered Rycker to precede him, took
advantage of the shelter from observation afforded by the
farmer's bulky figure, to pass a sooty hand across moistened
eyes, the result of which was, a countenance more
grimy and lugubrious than before.
The farmer looked from face to face, and impatiently
It was easy to see that the little assemblage were filled
with emotions very different from those which had lately
occupied them. There was no anger, no fear, and but
little speculation on their faces — only horror and sadness.
Nobody seemed willing to give utterance to what
was trembling on every lip; at last an old man, leaning
on a stick, solemnly pronounced the words, “He's dead!”
“Dead?”
“Yes, drownded.”
“Good Lord! How did it happen? When? Where?”
There was silence again at this, broken only by a
hysterical sob from the smith's daughter, who turned
and ran into the house, and a groan from her mother,
who likewise sought refuge from observation by suddenly
throwing her apron over her head.
The old man tried to speak again, but his voice
failed him. The children standing by looked up in
their parents' faces sympathetically.
“Nobody likes to say much about it,” whispered the
smith, plucking the farmer by the sleeve and drawing
him back a little towards the wagon. “It may ha' been
an accident; but we're all suspicious as how he made
way with himself, — poor feller!”
Rycker's face now assumed the prevailing look of
horror, instantly succeeded by an expression of eager
curiosity. “Took his own life! Committed suicide!
What, Geordie? Why, I'd as soon ha' believed it of our
received the tidings. “Who brought the news? Have
they found his body? Is't generally cridited?” was
the cross-examination with which he proceeded to sound
his informant.
“Ay! that 's jest it,” responded the smith. “The
body 's turned up, an' there 's the whole story on the face
on't, yer see;” and here the smith, who had by this
time mastered the emotion he had felt in naming the
subject to a new comer, laid down his finger with emphasis,
and spoke with the oracular air of a man who
had been among the first to be initiated in a weighty
matter. “One o' them officers, what's been back an'
forth so much on Baultie's business, fetched up a city
paper last night an' stood readin it at Stein's bar, smokin'
a pipe atween whiles. There was a lot of us neighbors
loafin' round, talkin' about the affair on the mountain
yonder. `Hullo! what's this 'ere?' says the feller, — an'
he takes the pipe out of his mouth an' reads to himself a
minute, — `this consarns your folks up here,' says he;
`same name anyhow!' Of course we was all wide
awake at that, an' then he out with it. I can't remember
the wordin' on't, but I 've got it here in my hat somewhere;
they wouldn't let the paper out o' the bar-room,
so, as I'm not much of a hand at writin, I sent my darter
up to copy it out. Here it be,” and he produced from
the greasy lining of his hat, where he had been diligently
fumbling, the following advertisement which, in a blundering
way, he contrived to read for his neighbor's
edification.
“The body of a man was yesterday discovered on
Staten Island, where it had undoubtedly been washed
ashore. It was above the ordinary height, hair light, —
apparently the body of a young man. He wore a stout
overcoat, with smooth, metallic buttons, in the pocket of
which was found a silver watch, of English manufacture,
marked on the inside `George Rawle.' The body had
probably been under water a week or more. It has been
deposited at the Catherine Street ferry-house. Friends
will please call at once and identify the same.”
“Good Lud! what are we comin' ter?” cried the
farmer, as the smith finished reading. “Murder and
suicide both in one week! Who'd a thought it?”
“I can tell yer we was pooty well struck up at the
tavern,” remarked the smith, as he folded the paper and
replaced it in his hat.
“Has any body gone down to York to see 'bout it?”
asked the farmer. “Have they told his mother?”
Stein was hesitating last night whether to go himself
or send Peter. But Dick Van Hausen 's gone down; he
ain't one o' yer hesitatin' sort, — Dick ain't. Besides, he
thought the warld o' Geordie? He started off fore daylight.”
“An' the old ocman? Who's goin' to break it to Margery?”
“Nobody round here would undertake it; so they sent
for the dominie. He's jest gone over there. I see his
shay turn round the corner by the tavern a minute or
two 'fore you driv up.”
“Poor creetur!” said the farmer, compassionately;
“poor creetur!”
The smith assented to this, by shaking his head from
side to side in silent sympathy.
“But who knows but it was an accident?” queried
Farmer Rycker, in the hopeful tone of a man unwilling
to believe any thing without sufficient proof, —
“or foul play, mebbe! — we've known enough o' that
sort o' thing lately to credit any amount o' bloody work.
Geordie was a good-natered feller; but somebody might
have owed him a grudge, or he might ha' got washed
overboard, or stepped off some wharf at night, or —”
“O, 't wan't no sich a thing,” interposed the smith,
impatiently. “Might ha' been, to be sure, but it wan't.
Every thing goes to show that he took his own life —
meant ter.”
“Sich as what?” insisted the cautious and sceptical
farmer.
“Wal, his behavior in general is convincin' enough
for me; but there 's written evidence inter the bargain.
If Peter Stein wan't a thick-headed fool, we'd ha' been
sarchin' for the body more'n a week ago.”
“Why; did he give Peter warnin' of his intention?
Do tell, now?” and the farmer's eyes and mouth grew
wide with curiosity.
“'Mounts ter that. It seems Pete 's had an order in
his pocket ever since Geordie was missin', sayin' as how
the mare was lawfully his'n; an yer must know it turns
out Pete had a mortgage on Nancy; an' one o' them fellers
give Pete a bit o' writin' a week ago Saturday night
that would ha' put any other friend o' the lad on the scent
o' mischief; but Pete, like the drunken fool that he is,
never took in any idee, I s'pose, except that he'd got his
grip on the horse-flesh that he's allers had a hankerin'
arter, to my knowledge.”
“An' now, what more's come on it? eh!” cried the
farmer. “Who's seen the letter? what does it say?”
“'Twas read out in the bar-room last night; all on us
heerd it that was there when the news fust come. Pete
called his father one side, an' showed it to him. Old
Stein would ha' kept pooty quiet about it, seein 'twan't
very flatterin' to father nor son neither; but Dick Van
Hausen had got there by that time — he smelt somethin'
in the wind — he see old Diedrich an' Pete consultin'
together over a scrap o' paper in Geordie's handwritin',
an' he would have it out. By jiminy, you should ha'
heerd him threaten how he'd have the law down on 'em
if they kept any thing back. So they handed it over” —
(a pause, and hesitancy), — an' Dick” (now a great gulp
in the smith's throat), “he — he read —”
“Wall,” encouragingly from the farmer.
“It — it — O, I tell you, farmer” (at last managing to
smallow the bunch in his throat, and so getting voice),
“it was kind o' touchin', seein' it was poor Geordie that
was speakin', an' we all a thinkin' on him, an knowin' he
was dead.”
“Umph,” muttered the farmer; “I s'pose so! — an'
what was the sum on't?”
“Wal, it was about the money fust, and the tarms
atween him an' Pete, — pooty hard tarms, he said they
was, — 'specially as they was most likely to be the last.
Then he went on to say as how he was cornered an' done
fur; that his uncle 'd got the farm pooty nigh, an' Pete had
got Nancy; an' now he hoped they was satisfied, seein'
there wasn't nothin' more to be had out on him. He did
kind o' trust they'd be good to his mother, when she was
left alone, an' poor, an' that Pete 'ud never take a whip to
Nancy, 'cause she wasn't used to it. As fur him, 'twan't
no matter what become of him; they needn't know nor
care. 'Twas enough that he wouldn't never be in any
body's way any more. An' then he bid Pete good-by, an'
said it was for longer than he thought fur, perhaps, but
that 'twas no use lookin' fur him, for he wan't wuth the
sarch, an' wouldn't be found no way.”
The kind-hearted and excitable smith did not enunciate
the above phrases of piteous import, without pausing
several times to brush away a tear, and now and then
whimpering outright. As he finished he lifted his hat,
drew from its crown an old silk handkerchief, and having
wiped his face and forehead energetically, replaced it,
with the resolute air of one who, repenting of a weakness,
meant thus to wipe away every trace of effeminacy, and
be ready to act the man again.
The farmer, whose easy, phlegmatic temperament
saved him from extreme action or sensibility in any
case, merely looked very grave, and ejaculated, — “Sad
piece o' business! altogether a sad piece o' business!”
“I've thought all along,” said the smith, at length,
after a decorous and feeling pause had somewhat expressed
the solemnity both men experienced in view of
the catastrophe, “that there was no accountin' for
Geordie's bein' out o' the way so at such a time as
this.”
The smith was mistaken — he never had thought any
such thing. He, like all his neighbors, had been satisfied
with the report, innocently circulated by Van Hausen,
that George had started the very day after the races, to
once more seek employment at road-making in Virginia;
and such was the distance that, in these days, when railroads
and telegraphs were unknown, nobody expected
that the news of his uncle's death would overtake or
recall him immediately.
Now, however, that this terrible development had
thrown light upon the past, and excited the smith's
imagination to the utmost, he conscientiously believed
that he had all along been haunted by a presentiment
that there was more trouble and mischief brewing for the
Rawles; that he had from the first considered Geordie's
absence mysterious and alarming, and that nothing but
the confidence other people seemed to feel had kept him
silent.
Nor were these presentiments, after the fact, peculiar to
the smith. His imagination in this respect was perhaps
less deceptive, and the intuitions he claimed to have had,
less prophetic than those of most of the men (to say
nothing of the women) of the parish. Foreshadowings of
been universal if one could believe the gossiping egotism
with which each claimed to have been foremost in anticipating
this desperate act of self-destruction; and as to its motive,
there was such clearness of conviction in the popular
mind that to doubt would have been a heresy, certain to
be visited with contempt if too obdurate to be overcome
by argument.
Thus there was scarce an instance of non-conformity
to the general opinion, and the sentiments expressed by
Farmer Rycker and the blacksmith, as they continued their
dialogue, were a fair sample of those which went the
rounds of the neighborhood.
“'Twas kind o' strange,” said Farmer Rycker, musingly,
in reply to the smith's suggestion, that Geordie's
absence had been mysterious from the beginning; then
the idea which had struck the farmer as a novel one
growing familiar while he reflected on it, he added, confidently,
“I thought so from the fust.”
“Why,” said the blacksmith, “the mornin' I came
down from the mountain, 'fore I'd half finished tellin' my
wife 'bout the murder, an' the rope, an' the tracks, an'
the crowd there was there, and all — `Where's Geordie?'
says she, `warn't he there?' `No, he warn't,' says I;
and then I scratched my head, and thought a minute —
`Queer!' says I, `but he warn't.”'
“An' he warn't to the ball at Stein's,” remarked the
farmer. “I missed him there.”
“No,” replied the smith, “he was so took down about
other kind o' frolickin'. I shod the mare myself, an' I
was as sure as a dollar she'd win. 'Twas a plaguy
shame and an awful disappintment to the lad.”
“So I heerd tell,” said the farmer, “but 'twas a kind
o' thing he'd no business to calkerlate on, any way.”
“True nuf, and he wouldn't have,” said the smith,
apologetically, “only he'd been gettin' pooty desprate
afore that. I'd seen it workin' in his face. I thought
what 'twould come ter.”
“Do tell!” exclaimed the farmer, “there hain't never
been sich a thing in the Rawle family afore, has there?”
“Not as I know on,” was the curt reply, “but there
must allers be a fust.”
“It's a dreadful end for a man to come ter.”
“O, dreadful! the wust kind.”
“It's an awful sin,” said the farmer. “How will he
ever dare stand before God at the judgment bar?” he
added, in a tone which excluded all hope of heavenly
mercy; for, like most men of his day, a day when the
causes and nature of suicide, with the aberration of mind
which almost invariably precedes the act, were but little
understood, the farmer looked upon the crime as one for
which there was no atonement, and which even the gentle
virtue of charity must steel herself against immovably.
“Poor feller! poor Geordie! I'm sorry for him anyhow,”
said the smith, giving way to an irresistible impulse
of humanity.
“It don't do to give in to your feelin's in these 'ere
in a young man that's had pious parents an' a good bringin'
up.”
“Mebbe so,” replied the smith, “but I can't help
thinkin' what a horrid state o' mind the poor lad must ha'
been in 'fore he got worked up to 't. He's had lots o'
crosses and disappintments, — Geordie has, — lots —
an' now this is the windin' up. The lad may ha' been
to blame, but I can't help pityin' him. I hain't a grain o'
pity, though, for them that's got this thing to lay at their
door, not a grain,” — and the smith became excited as
he spoke. “I'd as soon take Geordie's chance at the
judgment bar, any day, as that o' them that hurried him
there.”
“Wal, I couldn't say as I'd ventur' on any sich risk as
that,” argued the prudent farmer. “There's a door o'
salvation allers left open to them the Lord spares; them
that flies in his face shuts it behind 'em, to my thinkin'.”
“That's good reasonin',” replied the smith, “but when
a feller's driv' past reasonin', he ain't more'n half responsible
— that's my way of argufyin', an' I'd as soon
stand before God's bar this day in Geordie's place as behind
the tavern bar in Stein's; that's jest my notion o'
things now.”
“Stein's been hard on the boy, I dare say?” The
farmer put this remark interrogatively. The farmer was
a gossip, and, though cautious himself, was anxious to
draw his companion out.
“Hard! he's hard on every body's boy. I can't keep
my own boy nuther, as to that,” muttered the smith. “I
tell yer,” he continued vehemently, “that Stein's a fox, and
that tavern bar's a nuisance. What else brings all the
rogues out of York to beat out old men's brains and turn
young men's topsy-turvey?”
“It's a bad consarn,” responded Rycker, “but there's
temptations every where; young folks must keep out o'
the way on 'em, that's all; must go round the stump, as
I tell my Joe. But, speakin' o' Baultie, they say he was
mighty tight-fisted with Geordie. I don't mean to say
no ill o' the dead, but I've heern tell as how he an' Stein
together were pooty aggravatin' in that Virginny road-buildin'
business. I don't mean to say 'twas so — I've
merely heern tell on't.”
“There ain't no question 'twas jest so,” replied the
smith; “they all pulled one way, and that was agin poor
Geordie. Why, you see how 'twas; even Peter, Peter
Stein, thick-skulled ninny as he is, could come it over
Geordie in money matters.”
“Take it all together 'twas pooty discouragin”' commented
the farmer, in a sympathetic voice; then, as if
fearing that he might fall into the weakness of apologizing
for crime, he added, in an implacable tone, “'tain't no
excuse though for sich a cryin' sin an' shame as Geordie's
been guilty on now — 'tain't no excuse, I say.”
“Law, farmer,” said the smith, emphatically, “'twan't
any o' them things did the business. What's the use o'
mincin' matters, goin' round and round the stump, as you
reached the vital point in his argument, he continued,
“Them things was irritatin', an' got him worked up to a red
heat; but the t'other was the blow”—and he brought his
hand down on the back of the farmer's horse with the
same swing, if not the same force, with which he
would have struck his anvil. The horse started. The
smith was thrown off his balance.
“Who? what!” cried the farmer to the smith.
“Whoa! whoa!” to his horse.
“Why, that confounded gal o' Cousinses,” answered the
smith, recovering himself; “if any livin' bein's out and
out responsible for the end the lad's come ter, it's her.”
The smith spoke in a tone of assurance, from which
there was no appeal. The farmer, without questioning
the fact, responded, “Wal, I've heerd our folks say
Geordie was soft in that 'ere quarter — has been allers.
What's been to pay there? I want to know? Did she
give him the slip, or what?”
“Hang her! I only wish she'd done that long ago, an'
made a free man on him; but stead o' that she's blown
hot an' blown cold for this dozen year, drivin' the poor
feller from fevers to agur-fits only to give him a death-blow
at last. If that gal's conscience don't gnaw on her
when she gits this day's news — wal, it's because her
heart 's as hard as my anvil yonder.”
“She's got another sweetheart, they say,” said Rycker,
— “been keepin' company with that young cap'n up at
the tavern.”
“'Course she has,” replied the smith; “didn't you see
'em sparkin' the night o' the ball? `What 'ud Geordie say
to that?' says I to my old 'ooman? `The consated thing,'
says she; `there won't no good come on't; now you mark
my words, husband, there won't no good come of Angie
Cousin's cuttin' such shines with that 'ere stranger chap.”'
“Geordie wan't there to hold his own,” remarked the
farmer. “Geordie kept out o' the way and give her a
clean swing that night.”
“'Cause why? Cause he was cut out, and he know'd
it. Time has been when Geordie wouldn't a gin in to
nobody; but whar's the use o' fightin' agin luck? and all
Geordie's good luck's desarted him o' late. I was glad
he wan't gawkin' round at the ball, for my part. A
pooty figur' he'd a made playin' second fiddle to that 'ere
furrin monkey. I wish he'd had the spunk to give him
a drubbin' next day, and tell Angie Cousin to go to
the devil with her airs. Most any on us would ha'
backed him up in that 'ere. Howsomever, if he must
needs complain to her like a baby, an' then go drown
himself like a dog, — wal I — I — I wish he'd been more
of a man, I do; but I can't help pityin' him, nuther.”
“That's it; he's died like a dog,” said the farmer,
catching at that portion of the smith's commentary which
coincided most closely with his notions of the nature of
George's crime and its consequences. “An' what's
more, he'll be buried like a dog; an' the door o' marcy's
shut on his soul same as it would be on what's left of a
dead beast. An' so ends that branch o' the Rawle stock!
had hopes o' the lad an' a good word to speak for him;
can't say as I had. See now who was right. It's a disgraceful
thing to ha' happened in an honest neighborhood,
an' a warnin' to all young men that's a runnin' down hill.
I shall hold it over our Joe's head if ever I see him a
gettin' unstiddy. But as you say, neighbor,” in a qualifying
tone, “the young 'ooman's to blame. What did
she want to be smirkin' with the aristocrisy fur, an' jiltin'
a clever Jarsey feller that she's known all her life. Farmers'
sons is good enough for my gals; what's Cousinses'
darter got to boast of that she should be allers apin' city
gentry. I reckon that 'ere brass-buttoned chap of a Britisher's
only been makin' a fool on her. He'll desart her
in a twinklin', like enough, an' sarve her right.”
“Has so!” exclaimed the smith; “was off like a
rocket, an' never staid to bid her good-by as I've heern
tell. Angie Cousin's allers held her head pooty high.
Somehow she had Frenchy kind o' ways like the old man,
an' couldn't help bein' genteel. Nobody 'd ha' liked her
the wuss for 't if she'd only behaved herself; indeed, she's
been a pop'ler kind of a gal. But she'll be pinted at now
all her days, an' she richly desarves it.”
“Geordie's relations 'll all be down on her,” suggested
Rycker; “it 'll help to clear him, yer see, so it 'll be
nateral.”
“It 'll be nateral enough they should owe her a
grudge. Van Hausen was a cussin' her last night at the
tavern; the last words I heerd him kind o' mutterin' in
his throat was, `Cuss that gal.”'
“He knew consid'able 'bout it, then? How should
he, I wonder? he hain't no family, an' he ain't round
much to see what's goin' on 'mong the young folks.”
“Wal, it seems Angie owned up to him the mornin'
arter Baultie's affair, that she an' Geordie 'd quarrelled
the day before, an' she hadn't seen him since, an' didn't
expect to. 'Twas that made him so sure the lad had
started off for Virginny in a huff. O, Van Hausen
never minces matters; when he heerd o' this thing he
laid it all to her door, same 's I do — same as every body
will, allers.”
“She's got a great load to bear, then,” remarked
Rycker.
Apparently Rycker's horse, which, since he had become
quieted after the smith's blow, had stood with tolerable
patience waiting for the conclusion of this dialogue, had
come to the conviction that he had a great load to bear
too. The smith, always a lounger when not at work at
his forge, was hanging his whole weight on the horse's
neck. The weight of the wagon was pressing on him
too from behind. He now made a restless motion, dislodged
the smith, and reminded his master of business.
“Time I was off,” said the latter; “whoa! whoa,
there! won't you?” and having slowly mounted his
wagon, and checked the restlessness of the horse, he
looked back at the smith with an eye longing for more
of the late exciting gossip. “Sad story I've got to carry
back with me to the farm — enough fur one day!”
Then, with a quick after-thought, “P'raps if I come
to the cottage; how Margery bears it; what Baultie's
widder has to say to the dominie; an' whether Angie
Cousin 's consid'able took down. Sorry I've got to go
to mill this mornin' — out o' the way place; however,
the boss 'll be glad to hear the news. Whoa!” — to
the horse, which had gone on several paces. “Look
here,” — leaning back, and speaking in a raised voice
to the smith, who was standing deserted in the middle
of the road, “you'll be down to the tavern, an' seein' the
neighbors; you'll pick up all there is goin'! I'll come
back this way, anyhow, — d'yer hear?” — screaming out
the question. “Find out all yer can!” then in a louder
voice yet, as he moved off, “d'yer hear?”
| CHAPTER XIV.
A FRESH CATASTROPHE. Haunted hearts | |