University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.
THE MARK OF CAIN.

Finding Brent among his workmen at the
forge, Mrs. Chappelleford called him aside,
and in a few clear phrases told her errand.
He listened attentively, and when she had
finished said:

“Thank you very much. I can guess who
this man must be, and, I hope, his errand.
Certainly I will give him a safe conduct if
his confession is what I think, and I will go
myself to assure him of it. Ruth must be
present at the examination; and if it is not
asking too much of you, I should be glad that
you should give her the support of your presence.”

“Certainly. Arrange the whole as you
think best, and I will do whatever you desire,”
said Beatrice humbly, for since their conversation
upon the mountain-top she felt herself
bitterly humiliated in presence of this man,
and while ardently desiring to escape from it,
found somewhat of comfort in submission and
deference to him in all minor matters—thus asserting,
as it were, that he was not only her
superior in moral strength and worth, but the
superior of all men in all things, and, consequently,
that to be conquered by him was not
so much of a defeat as a necessity. Brent,
whose habit of thought was not analytical,
and who himself felt sorely hurtand troubled
by the conversation into which he had been
betrayed, noticed this manner with annoyance,
and did not seek to fathom its cause. He
felt, however, that renewed intercourse had
done harm both to Beatrice and himself, and
he earnestly wished that it might terminate
before either found deeper cause to regret it.
Perhaps, although he would not think it, he
felt in his inmost heart that the struggle between
his deepest and truest convictions of
right and the natural impulses of a strong and
loving nature was becoming too nearly equal
for safety, and he feared to lose self-respect as
well as peace should the contest continue
longer. “At any rate,” he murmured, striding

along the woodland path toward the old shaft,
“I will tell Ruthie every thing, and if she
can love me then, we will be married.”

And then he sighed, or more nearly groaned,
and frowned and clenched his strong right
hand, muttering:

“Well, Brent, are you a villain or a fool?”

Deep in thought still, he reached the shaft,
and looked about him blankly. Then remembered
his errand, and called aloud:

“Joachim Brewster, where are you?'

At sound of that name, a stir became perceptible
in the bushes beyond the pit, and
presently the haggard face of the man appeared,
as it had done to Ruth, but now wearing
an expression of anxious distrust.

“Hallo, Square! How d'ye know my
name?”

“Guessed it from your errand. Come
out.”

“She said she'd promise for you that I
shouldn't be touched. D'ye agree, Square?”

“Yes, I promise you safe conduct as soon
as you like to depart. That is, if your confession
is worth any thing.”

“It's worth that girl Ruth's neck to her
anyway, and I reckon that makes it worth
something to you, Square, if what they say
is so.”

“Follow me to my house, and I will hear
what you have to say in the presence of witnesses,”
said Brent, staring a moment at the
speaker, and then turning upon his heel and
striding down the path.

Timidly as a wild animal leaving its lair for
the open country, the miserable man to whom
he spoke crept from his shelter and followed,
muttering:

“She said I shouldn't be touched, she did.”

Arrived at the house, Mr. Brent led the way
to a small room set apart as a study, or rather
office for the transaction of both private and
public business, and leaving his somewhat
reluctant guest seated there, went himself to
summon Mrs. Chappelleford, Ruth, and Paul
Freeman to meet him. Entering the room
rather suddenly, the guest was found softly
raising the window and looking to see what
lay beneath.

“You need not trouble yourself to contrive
a way to escape, Mr. Brewster,” said Brent
coldly. “The door is free for you at any
time you choose to use it. You requested this
interview yourself.”

“Yes, yes, Square, I know it. I was only
looking out to see what sort of a place you'd
got. The lady there said I shouldn't be touched
and I allow she knew your mind as well as
her own.”

“You are perfectly safe,” replied Brent contemptuously.
“What have you to say?”

“Where's Ruth? Oh! there she is. Don't
look so scared of me, girl. I a'n't going to
touch you now—and, in fact, I've come all this
way to clear you and set you in your right
place. You can have the farm and all, if
you've a mind to go and get it.”

Ruth, shivering with terror, and crouching
upon a low stool almost behind Mrs. Chappelleford,
made no reply, and Brent, seating
himself at his desk with pen and paper,
somewhat sternly said:

“Now, Mr. Brewster, if you have a deposition
to make, I am ready to take it, and wish
it given regularly and in order. You, of
course, are willing to swear to its truth, and
set your name, properly witnessed, at the
foot.”

“On conditions, Square—on conditions that
I a'n't a going to be touched for it. I'm a sick
man, Square—I won't say but what I'm a dying
man, and all I ask is to go off and lose
myself somewheres and die in peace. If so
be you can't promise that, why l'd rather not
put my name to nothing that's going to be
used agin me, maybe.”

“I shall take no proceedings against you, as
I have repeatedly promised you; and although
I shall use your confession to clear Ruth's
character of the horrible stain you have thrown
upon it, you will have ample time to escape,
and, if you are at all wise, to hide yourself so
well that you will never be heard from again
east of the Rocky Mountains at least.”

“Well, Square, it a'n't just as I meant to
have it, but I'm about tired out, and I a'n't
a well man, nor a cheerful man, and I don't
know as I care how it turns out. I'll go ahead
and do the right thing anyway. So this is
what I've got to say, and you can take it down
as fast as you've a mind to:

“Me and Peleg Brewster were brothers, but
after he married Semanthy the brother part
on't seemed to die out. I a'n't a going to tell
all about it now, for it don't matter much one
way or t'other, but I don't deny that Peleg
had his trials, and like enough we didn't do
jest right by him, me and Semanthy didn't.
And then Semanthy hated the child, Ruth
there—oh! how Semanthy did hate her—and

[ILLUSTRATION]

Joachim Brewster waiting for his brother.

[Description: 454EAF. Page 127. In-line image of Joachim Brewster waiting behind a tree, holding a gun at ready, while his brother approaches in a horse-driven wagon.] treated her bad most every way that she could
think of. The worst was, setting her father
against her; but she did that for a reason she
had—two reasons, in fact. One was that Ruth
saw and told things that went on while Peleg
was away—that made him awful mad with us;
and another was that when Mary—that was his
first wife, you know—died, he made a will and
left all the money to Ruth—farm, house, stuff,
and every thing—and he hadn't never changed
that will, though Semanthy had asked him
often enough. But at last one night there
was an awful row in the house—no matter
what it was now—but Ruth she up and told
something to her father, and Semanthy said
she lied, and she told her own story, that put
all the blame onto Ruth, and I helped her out
in it, for Peleg had a knife in his hand, and
would have put it into me quicker'n a flash if
Semanthy and me hadn't stood it out that
Ruth was the liar and something worse.”

“Oh! it was so cruel, so cruel to make my
own father believe such things of me; and he
died, and never knew —” burst out Ruth;
and then hiding her face upon Beatrice's lap,
she fell into a passion of sobs and tears.

“Go on, Brewster,” said Brent sternly, and
never glancing toward the corner where the
women sat.

“Well, Peleg was awful mad, and the worst
of it to him was that he didn't know who to
believe or what to think, and finally he fixed
it that we was all banded together against
him, and that Ruth was jealous of Semanthy,
and so complained against her; for Semanthy
made it out that the girl, young as she was,
liked me most too well, and Ruth didn't know
enough about it to lay her in a lie, as she
might have easy enough. So, Peleg settled it
that we were a bad lot, the whole of us, and
he swore he would just quit for good and all,
sell out the farm, put Ruth to service, take
Semanthy home to her mother, and let me
shirk for myself. That was at night, and in
the morning, sure enough, Semanthy saw him
get the will he'd made out of his old secretary
and put it in his pocket with a lot of other
papers—the deeds of the homestead, and such
like, they turned out to be. Then he got up
the horse and harnessed him, and called Ruth
to come along.

“It was while he was sitting in the wagon
a waiting for her that he tied the rope round
his own neck, for he told Semanthy that he
was going to Bloom, or Milvorhaven, I most
forget which, for to sell the farm and all the
stock just as it stood, and that neither she nor
me nor Ruth was to have the money, if he
had to throw it away to keep it from us. And
he told her he'd carry her home next day, and
tell her folks the reason why; and he said a
lot of other things, some to her and some to
me, that was dreadful irritating, and dangerous
too, if he did as he said—and Peleg was a
man that was dreadful apt to hold to one
mind for quite a long spell.

“So he drove away from the door, and Semanthy
she stood ever so long looking at me
with the awfullest look that ever you see on
her face, and at last she said sort of quiet:

“`Joe Brewster, if that man gets to 'Haven
alive, it's all up with you and me.'

“`Maybe 'tis, but how am I going to help
it?' says I, feeling the goose-flesh rising up
all over me as she spoke, it was so sort of solemn.
Then she smiled, and that was worse
than all, and she said, pointing to my gun:

“`A'n't you going shooting to-day, Joe?'

“`O Lord! Semanthy,' says I, `you don't
mean that, do you?'

“And she says just in the same way:

“`If you don't, I'll drown myself in the well
before that 'ere sun sets—I swear I will.'

“And she'd ha' done it—I know she would.

“So I cut across the wood-lot, and I waited
just where the road turns sudden and runs
by Blackbrier pond, and—and there I done it.”

And with the first touch of feeling he had
yet shown, the miserable man wiped his
clammy forehead, moistened his lips, and
glared about him as if he dreaded to see the
hangman approaching.

“Be more specific. What did you do?” demanded
Brent, fixing his eyes upon the wretch
before him with undisguised abhorrence.

“I shot him in the back from behind a tree,
and then I jumped into the wagon and held a
knife at the child's throat, and told her that
she'd killed her father, and I see her do it,
and I'd carry her straight on to Bloom and
put her in jail, and she'd be hung. The poor
little fool was so scared she didn't know at
first but what she had done it, and didn't
hardly know what to say, and then I made
her get down on her knees and swear solemn
that she never would say a word to man,
woman, nor child about the matter, nor an
swer any questions, nor even say yes or no if
she was asked if she'd done it.

“She took the oath, and she was just the
child that I knew would keep it if you skinned
her alive to get the story out of her; but
for all that I was calculating to take her right
off to the city and put her in an orphan asylum,
or lose her in the street, or some way get
rid of her. That was Semanthy's planning,
mind you, not mine, for I always liked the child
first-rate. I was always good to you, Ruth,
wasn't I now?”

The fawning, wheedling tone of the last
words was even more odious than the callous
brutality of the first part of the narrative, and
while Ruth shrank silently into her corner,
Brent peremptorily said:

“Go on with your story, Brewster, and address
yourself only to me.”

“Well, Square, there a'n't much more to
tell. When I'd got the gal's promise, I left
her and took the body and pitched it over into
the pool, thinking folks would say it had fell
there, and maybe it wouldn't be found at all. I
hardly seem to remember now how we did
plan it. Semanthy was to the head on't all,
and I only did as she told me. You see,
Square, I wa'n't nigh so much to blame as she
all along.”

“Go on with your story, Brewster.”

“Well, as I was saying, I hove the body
into the pool, and I fired off the gun, as Semanthy
told me—that is, Peleg's gun, for I had
my own beside—and I give the horses a good
cut, and set 'em off down the road—that nigh
one was always skittish enough, and I knew
it wouldn't be a trifle that would stop him—
and then I turned round to look after the
child, and she was gone. Look high and look
low, not a sign of her was to be seen, and,
Square, I wisht you'd just ask her yourself,
sence you won't let me speak to her, where did
she go that time?”

“Do you want to tell him, Ruth?”

“I crawled into a great hollow tree and
waited until he was gone, and then I came
out and ran ever so far, and fell down. I don't
know what happened afterward—I think I was
sort of crazy for a while; and the next I knew
Paul Freeman was with me, and crying as
hard as he could cry, and then he hid me in a
barn, and next day took me over to Bloom
and dressed me like a boy, and kept me at the
tavern till you were ready to go West.”

“You hear? Brewster,” said Mr. Brent, to
whom this hurried narrative was as new as to
any other of its auditors.

“Yes, Square, I hear; and it does beat all
what hindred me from looking into that holler
tree. Seems curious that I didn't,” replied
Joachim with an air of meditative regret.