University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
RETRIBUTION.

We left Deacon Pinchbeck entering the house of death,
to sit as one of the Coroner's jury upon the body of poor
Margaret Cassady. Had there been any suspicion in the
mind of the Coronor of the Deacon's guilty doings, it
would doubtless have received confirmation from the singular
manner in which he at first conducted himself; but
attributing his agitation to some less criminal cause, the
officer merely noticed it, without making any remark.
Nor was the Deacon's apparent agitation of long duration;
for when he saw the corpse was that of a woman,
and not of the child he expected to find, he so far recovered
himself, as to appear outwardly composed—though
the conscience-lighted fires of guilt were burning within,
and every moment threatening an eruption, like the smothered
flames of a charged volcano.

After due deliberation, the verdict was rendered—as
verdicts generally are, in the absence of any material
facts—that the deceased came to her death by some cause,
or causes, unknown to the jury; and being a poor,
drunken wretch, without friends, and the letter of the law
being thus carried out, the Coroner was satisfied, the
jurors were dismissed, and orders were issued to some
hungry undertaker, to have her body decently deposited
in the burying ground appropriated to poor and friendless
strangers.

The Deacon breathed freer when he found himself

relieved of the unpleasant business in which he had been
compelled to take an active part—but he was still very far
from being a happy man. He had, it seemed to him, only
cleverly got clear of one serious predicament, to find himself
plunged into another. What had become of Ellen
Norbury? Was she living or dead? After all the painful
excitement he had just undergone, he was no wiser now
concerning her fate than he was before. Had the Burglar
really played a trick upon him, and got his money for
nothing? It was a great sum—ten thousand dollars—a
tremendous sum—a sum that, in his usual course of
management, would have made him the fortunate possessor
of several more valuable houses; and as the Deacon
reflected upon it, he groaned at the thought of his loss.
Yes, it was certainly gone, and he would never be benefitted
by it; for if honestly earned, by the commission of
the horrible deed for which he had bargained, then he
himself stood in danger of the gallows; and if not so
earned, then had he been fairly duped by a villain, who
would laugh at him, for an old fool, behind his back, and
spend the money upon himself and his equally villainous
associates. It was a very unpleasant, a very disagreeable,
matter, view it in what light he might; and had the
Deacon been a profane man, he would have indulged in a
few choice oaths, at his own foolish, blundering, criminal
management; but being a worthy church-member, and not
licensed to swear, he merely conned over a few oaths
which he would undoubtedly pronounce, were he only free
to speak his mind like common sinners.

And then that impertinent Dr. Stanhope—that troublesome
meddler in other people's affairs, who should have
been strangled at his birth—he had somehow got the right
clue to his guilty transaction; and he would be round,
punctual to the time, (unwelcome expected visiters are

always punctual,) to know what had become of the girl!
What should he say to him? how manage to put him off?
and, in short, what would be the end of the whole matter?
Something very disagreeable, to say the least—perhaps
something very terrible; and the Deacon shuddered, and
groaned, and wished he were, for the present, beyond the
laws of civilization and the reach of justice. In fact, law
and justice were not so pleasant to contemplate just now,
as they had been whilom, when compelling some poor,
starving wretch, and his starving family, to vacate some
one of his premises, in the dead of winter, at his lordly
bidding. No! law and justice were decidedly not as
honest in their dealings as they used to be; and he began
to entertain some serious misgivings about the profession
of law being exactly suited to the precocious talents of his
wonderful son Nelson.

This last train of reflection brought up a fact, which the
worthy Deacon, owing to recent matters of weighty consideration,
had for a short time quite overlooked; and his
heart fairly leaped to his throat, as the truth suddenly
flashed across his plotting brain. Poor Nelson was at
home, sick—the domestic had said very sick. Goodness!
what if something should happen to him? what if he
should die? The anxious father now felt his hair rise
with a new horror, and his very skin grew moist and
clammy. Such a thing might be! Yes, it was possible!
Children had been known to die, whose parents were as
pious as those of dear Nelson; and therefore there was a
possibility that Nelson might die; and as the Deacon
very suddenly quickened his steps, which had been all
this time tending homeward, he very earnestly and sincerely
invoked the Lord, with whom he still considered
himself on rather good terms, to avert such a dire calamity
from the house of His poor, humble servant.

Somewhat consoled with the idea that the Lord would
hear and answer his prayer, the Deacons thoughts now
very naturally reverted to his amiable wife; and he saw
her in imagination, as he had often seen her in reality,
her face swollen and red with a feeling passion—that would
cling till death, unless tooth or nail should give out—and
calling him to a strict account for disobedience of orders,
or a neglect of duty; while a mean-looking shadow, whose
only redeeming quality was its wonderful resemblance to
himself, could be seen sneaking about behind a chair,
table, or sofa, prepared to dodge the quivering bolts just
shot from Cupid's bow, and which, to one not in love, had
very much the appearance of an outraged woman's hand
or fist. This picture, which very naturally and rapidly
formed itself on the sensorium of the Deacon's cranium,
was but little less pleasant to contemplate, than that of
the gloomy prison, with a criminal in the cell—or that of
the bar of justice, with a felon in the dock—or that of the
gallows, with a murderer hanging by a rope—or that of
the dying boy, with a heart-broken father bending over
him; and, in the absence of all these, it was really a fearful
picture, and sufficient of itself to make a man of very
weak nerves very nervous.

It was therefore in no very enviable state of mind, that
Deacon Absalom Pinchbeck, for the second time that
night, reached the steps of his dwelling, on his second
return from the Infected District, and this time at a
rather late hour. Though prepared for something of a
rather serious nature, as we have shown, even supposing
all matters to appear in their most favorable aspect, the
Deacon was certainly not prepared for the awful reality
which awaited him. On reaching the steps of his dwelling,
as already mentioned, his first surprise was to find
the outside door standing wide open; and his second, to

hear several voices within, all speaking in excited tones,
several feet moving and shuffling about, and the sounds as
of persons running up and down stairs at the same time.

“Goodness! mercy!” thought the Deacon; “what can
be the matter here? what can have happened?”

Pale and agitated by the wildest fears, he stumbled up the
steps, his knees fairly knocking together in terror. At the
door he was met by a neighbor, who was hurrying out.

“Why, is this you, Deacon?” cried the neighbor, in an
excited tone.

“Ye-ye-yes!” gasped Pinchbeck; “wha-what's the matter?”

“Where is the doctor? is he coming?”

“Wha-what doctor?” exclaimed the Deacon, thinking
the other might have reference to young Stanhope.

“Any doctor, my dear sir! Why, have you not been
for a physician? your girl told me so.”

“Wha-what is it? who's sick, Mr. Bentley?”

“Why, your little boy. Heavens! I thought you knew
it!”

“Me! yes—so I did—knew he was ailing; but—but—I
didn't know as it was any thing very serious. I had some
business—I was called away—I—ah—good Lord support
me! is he very sick?”

“He is, Deacon—dangerously—we fear the worst—and
I am hastening to get another physician. Who will you
have?”

“Oh! anybody—anybody!” groaned the Deacon. “Oh!
good Lord! what terrible news! Why didn't some one go
for a doctor sooner?”

“There is one up stairs, a young man, whom one of our
neighbors chanced to see passing, and called in; and we
should have hastened for your family physician, only it
was supposed you had gone for him yourself, and we have

been expecting your return every moment; but the case
being so bad, the young man advised us not to wait any
longer, but get one of more experience than himself, as
quick as we could. Shall I call Dr. Jennings?”

“Oh! yes—yes—anybody!” cried the Deacon, leaning
against the wall for support.

As Mr. Bentley hurried away, a female voice, from the
top of the stairs, called out:

“Have you arrived, Deacon?”

“Ye-yes, ma'am—I—I—I'm here,” was the reply.

“Please come up, quick, if you wish to see your child
alive!”

The Deacon nerved himself for something awful, and
rushed up stairs like a madman. In the front room of
the second story, he found his wife seated in the middle of
the apartment, with her boy in her arms; and, standing
around her, some half-a-dozen persons, all females except
the physician. The Deacon, taking no notice of any one,
sprung forward to the side of his boy, and gazed upon him,
for a moment, in speechless horror; then staggering back,
he sunk down on a seat, buried his face in his hands, and
groaned out the agony he could not speak.

It was certainly a sight to rend the soul of a parent.
The face of the boy was livid, his features distorted, his
eyes rolled upward, and he was gasping for breath, grasping
at the air and choking and groaning alternately. His
mother held him in her arms, and gazed down upon him
with a tearless, marble face—for so intense was her anguish,
that the fountain of tears was choked, and could not flow
to give her relief. She persisted in holding him, and no
entreaty could induce her to resign him to another. Every
thing had been done for the boy, that any one present had
ever heard of being efficacious in such cases; and as an experiment,
with the consent of the young physican, one of

the party was now applying a linen cloth, dipped in turpentine,
to his breast and neck—while the others stood
looking on, some of them weeping from pure sympathy.

“O Lord! O Lord!” cried the Deacon, springing up
suddenly—“must he die? must he die?”

He turned a wild, agonized look upon the young physician,
whom he had not before noticed, and felt an electric
shock through his system, as his eyes encountered the
steady gaze of Dr. Newton Stanhope.

“You are surprised to see me here, Deacon Pinchbeck!”
the young man hastened to say; “but I chanced to be
passing your door, on my way to visit a patient, when I
was hailed, and so urgently entreated to enter, that I felt
I must outrage all feelings of humanity not to comply. I
have done what I could for your son; but I fear it will be
of no avail; and as another physician will soon be here, I
trust I may now be permitted to take my leave!”

“No! no! no!” cried the Deacon, wildly; “you must
not go, Doctor! you must stay! you must save him!
and you shall have gold—gold, sir—any amount you may
name—only save him!”

“If I could save him, Deacon Pinchbeck,” replied the
other, somewhat sternly, “I would do so, for humanity's
sake—not for your gold—which I do not want, and would
not touch. But, sir, so far as my skill is concerned, my
stay here is needless.”

“Oh! no! no! say not so! say not so! Give me some
hope, Doctor—do! oh! give me some hope! He is my
only son—my only child—do not say he must die!”

“You plead, Deacon, as if his life were in my hands,”
answered the other; “but you should look to God, not to
man, for hope.”

“O Lord, save him! O Lord, save him!” cried the
Deacon, clasping his hands. “Nelson! Nelson! my dear,

sweet child!” he continued, addressing the sufferer; “don't
you know me, son? don't you know your father?”

The child took no notice of him; but continued to gasp,
and choke, and clutch, and groan, with his eyes rolled upward,
so that little more than the whites were visible;
while the mother sat holding him, and looking down upon
him, her eyes glaring, her features rigid, her lips bloodless,
and her very limbs motionless, save when the boy moved
them in his struggles for breath.

“Ladies,” said Stanhope, addressing the company, “you
will, I trust, excuse me, if I leave now! I have done all
I can here, and I have a patient I must visit immediately.”

Saying this, he bowed himself out—but the Deacon
sprung after him.

“Doctor,” he said, “in Heaven's name! can't you save
my child?”

“I can not—I have already told you so,” was the reply.

“Must he die?”

“I see no hope for him.”

“Oh! this is more than I can bear!”

“The hand of God falls heavy on the worker of iniquity,
because he wants the faith and hope of the Christian to
sustain him!” replied Stanhope, sternly. “Good-night,
Deacon Pinchbeck.”

“Stay! one moment!” exclaimed Pinchbeck. “Do—do
you—you still—still—a—ah—think me guilty, Doctor?”

“Do you dare deny your guilt, with your child lying at
the point of death? Speak!”

“Yes! yes! I'll deny any thing—if the Lord will only
save my poor, dear child!” replied the wretched father,
scarcely conscious of what he was saying. “You say you
are coming to-morrow night,” he continued, “to give me
fresh trouble; but, on my soul! I don't know what has
become of that child, any more than you do.”

Truth, earnestly spoken, seldom fails to carry conviction;
and the Deacon now spoke the truth; and his words
began to create a doubt in the mind of the young man,
that his suspicions had been properly founded. At all
events, he had the noble feelings of humanity too well
developed, to wish to press home, too heavily, his mere
suspicions, upon a father so deeply afflicted; and so, after
a moment of thoughtful silence, he replied:

“Well, God knows whether you have had any hand in
this dark matter or not! If you are innocent, I would
recall my words, and crave your pardon; but if you are
guilty, beware! for you are as much in the presence of
your God now, as you will be at the Great Day of Judgment,
and can not escape the doom which will be pronounced
upon the workers of iniquity!”

“O Lord! O Lord!” groaned the wretched and guilty
man—“what will become of me? Oh! do—do try and
save that child—my only son—my only hope!”

“I will go back, if you insist upon it; but I tell you,
most seriously, I can do nothing for him—nor do I believe
it is in the power of mortal man to help him!” rejoined
Stanhope, who could not help feeling pity for one so deeply
distressed. At this moment, quick steps were heard in the
entry; and looking down the stairs, the young man hastened
to add: “But here comes a physician of more experience
than myself, and therefore my services will not be
required. Good night!”

He turned away as he spoke, and passed the second
physician and Mr. Bentley on the stairs.

“Quick! quick! Doctor!” called the Deacon to the
new-comer, speaking in a wild, excited tone. “Oh! I'm
so glad you've come! You can save him—you can save
him—yes, you can save him!”

“Where is he?” asked Dr. Jennings, hurriedly, a man
of venerable appearance.

“This way—this way, Doctor!” and the Deacon darted
before him into the apartment of the dying boy. “There
he is, Doctor—there he is, poor child!”

The moment the glance of the physician fell upon the
strangling boy, he gravely shook his head.

“Well, Doctor?—well? well? well?” cried the nearly
distracted father.

“It is too late!” replied the physician, feeling his pulse.

“No! no! no! don't say so! don't say it's too late!”
almost shrieked the Deacon. “He lives—he breathes yet
—he will, he must, recover!”

The mother still held the child—still kept her eyes
riveted upon him—but spoke not, stirred not, seemed not
to hear what was said.

“You are a man,” said the Doctor to the Deacon, “and
it would be worse than folly for me to hold out any false
hopes to you. Your child is in the last agonies of death—
he can not live an hour.”

“Oh! my God! what will become of me?” groaned
the Deacon, sinking heavily upon a seat.

At this moment, the child gave a loud, piercing shriek,
and became terribly convulsed. In his awful struggles, he
would have fallen to the floor, if one of the females present
had not afforded timely aid. The mother seemed paralyzed.
All gathered around the little sufferer, the father
among the rest. A few more struggles—another shriek,
but not so loud—a quick, shivering spasm—and the poor
boy lay perfectly still.

“He is dead!” said the Doctor, solemnly.

And “He is dead,” like a blast from the trump of woe,
went echoing through all the recesses of Deacon Pinchbeck's
guilty soul; and he sunk down on the ground, and moaned.