University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

Ellen's mind had been so filled with
commiseration for Susan; she was so
much more in the habit of attending to
others' feelings than her own, that until
she had turned her back upon the shaker
village, she did not feel the full weight
of her own disappointment in regard to
Emily. The thought of old Mrs. Allen's
grief, and the most gloomy apprehensions
in relation to the poor girl's destiny, engrossed
her attention, and prevented her
heeding Deborah's profound remarks on
the “pattern people,” as she termed

them. We would not insinuate that
Deborah herself was unmoved by Emily's
sorrowful case: she would have gone
to the ends of the earth to have served
her, or any other fellow-creature in distress,
but it was an inviolable principle
with her `never to cry for spilt milk.'
After expressing some conjecture as to
the uncertain fate of the poor girl—bewailing
alternately her folly and her misfortunes,
and anticipating with compassion
the effect of this last severest stroke
upon the old grandmother—she subsided
into silence, and permitted Ellen to pursue
her sad meditations undisturbed. She
was at length awakened from them by
the deepening of the twilight, and after
a slight observation of the road, she asked
Deborah “if she was quite sure she had
not mistaken her way?”

Deborah was certain she had taken
the road that had been pointed out to her
as the shortest cut to the springs, but she
began to think they should have been

wiser to have remained at the village, or
to have taken the more travelled and
more thickly settled road. “However,”
she said, “it can be, Ellen, but four or
five miles to the pool, and if the daylight
does not last, we have a moon tonight,
and thanks to fortune, neither you
nor I are afraid of any thing.”

“Oh, afraid—no, I trust not,” said
Ellen, assuming a courage she did not
feel, for her dejected mind had coloured
with a melancholy hue the face of nature;
and the hoarse sounds of the brawling
brook on her right, and the deep unbroken
wood on the left, affected her
imagination with an undefined impression
of some possible evil. They proceeded
at a very slow rate, the ground was ascending,
and the jaded old horse lagged
along as if he felt the folly of turning his
back upon the hospitalities of the village.

They had pursued their way for some
time in profound silence. Meanwhile
the last traces of daylight had faded from

the sky, and the stars began to shed their
scanty light upon the grass-grown road.
Deborah's patience was at last quite exhausted.
“Ellen,” she said, “this is
the most tedious lonesome way ever I
travelled, it will never do to creep on this
fashion, our horse, poor fellow, is coming
to a dead stand—let us walk up the
rest of the hill, you always go like a bird,
and a walk will limber my old joints,
and serve to warm me this chilly night.”

Ellen acquiesced—and as they walked
on together, Deborah said, she “had
been thinking of all she had heard Squire
Redwood say of the dangers of the old
countries, and she was thinking it would
be a pretty risky business for two defenceless
women to be travelling alone
at night in any land but our own.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Ellen; “but
here, thank heaven, there can be no
danger;” and as she spoke she drew
nearer to Deborah, for she fancied she
heard a rustling in the woods on her left.

Deborah heard it too, for she stopped
the horse, saying, “hark—what can that
be?” She had hardly uttered the words
when a large dog sprang upon them;
both were startled, and looked anxiously
in the direction from which the dog had
come, but there was neither motion nor
sound there.

“Off, off, you brute!” said Deborah,
and the dog thus harshly repulsed, turned
as if to appeal to Ellen, crouched at
her feet, ran from her, and then returned
yelping—raised himself quite erect,
fawned again on Ellen, wagged his tail,
and expressed over and over again his
mute and painful entreaties.

“Words can't speak no plainer,” said
Debby. “The poor creatur would have us
go with him, but we must drive him away,
this is no place nor time to be hindered.”

“Certainly not—but,”—

“But what, Ellen? speak out girl.”

“Why I cannot bear to turn away
from the poor thing, it seems wicked to

deny him. As she spoke she patted and
caressed the dog: “there may be, I
think there must be some person in distress
in these woods—some one hunting
may have been wounded, such accidents
are common.” The dog seemed to understand
her words or her caresses—he
sprang again towards the wood, again returned,
repeated all his modes of entreaty,
pressing his suit with redoubled vigour,
and Ellen replied to him by turning to
Deborah, and saying with determination,
“I must follow him.”

“Are you clean out of your wits, child,
to think of patroling these woods after
this dog—and in case there should be
any body here, for the Lord's sake, what
could you or I do? Come, come along,
it grows late.” But Ellen still hesitated,
and Deborah added, “we cannot be far
from a house, and we will alarm some men
and send them here, which will be much
the properest way.”

Ellen from her childhood, and ever

since the memorable night when a dog
had aided in her preservation from
the fire, had felt a strong attachment to
the whole race, had studied their instincts
and history; and while she stood looking
at the petitioning animal, a thousand
stories of similar significant actions
glanced through her mind, and confirmed
her resolution.

“I must follow him, Deborah,” she
repeated, “wait for me here a few moments,
I will not go beyond call;” and
she turned quickly away to avoid Debby's
remonstrance.

“Stop, Ellen—stop girl—do you
think I will let you go alone after this
jack-o'-lantern? if you wont hear to
reason, why there's an end on't—I must
go with you.”

Ellen waited while Deborah secured
the horse, and they then plunged into
the wood after the dog, who trotted
along the narrow foot path, turning
round often as if to assure himself they

still followed him. “Well,” said Deborah,
“I don't speak from any fear—
I never was afraid in my life, for I never
saw danger; if I had, I might have
been as scared as other people; but I
think for two rational women, we ar e i
an odd place, and following a strange
leader.”

“And that is as it should be,” replied
Ellen, in an encouraging tone; “two
errant damsels as we are, in quest of
adventures—danger there is not, cannot
be here, and we will not go much farther.”

“No, that we will not; there is reason
in all things—and as old Gilpin says,

“Certainly,” replied Ellen, smiling,
“only go a little way farther, the moon
is rising, there is a cleared place before
us, and if we see nothing there, I will
consent to return.”

Ellen's benevolent purpose had conquered

her womanish timidity: her
tender and youthful spirit was susceptible
to romantic influences that her
companion could neither feel nor comprehend,
and she pressed eagerly on,
even in advance of Deborah, till on
issuing from the wood, the dog bounded
before her, and with one desperate howl
threw himself beside a lifeless body.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Ellen,
involuntarily shrinking back and seizing
Deborah's arm, and pointing to the
figure, which by the dusky light she
could only discern to be that of a man,
whether dead or living she knew not.

Deborah, without speaking, without
faltering or hesitating in the least, walked
rapidly forward to the body, and stooping
down, eagerly gazed on it for a
moment, and then raising both her hands
in token of astonishment to Ellen, who
was timidly approaching, she exclaimed,
“a dead Indian,—as sure as I am a
living woman, a dead Indian.”

“Is he certainly dead?” asked Ellen,
compassionately bending over him.

“Dead, child! look at his fallen jaw,
his stark stiff limbs—poor soul! he is as
dead as Christopher Columbus.”

Ellen sate down on a prostrate trunk
of a tree beside which the body lay,
while Deborah examined it for the purpose
of ascertaining the cause of the
poor wretch's death. There was a
wound on the temple from which the
blood had flowed freely, and which Deborah
thought might have been occasioned
by his fall, as there was a stone
lying near his head which it had probably
first struck. Fragments of an
earthen jug were lying about the body,
and Deborah pointing to them said, “he
has died Indian-fashion, Ellen, his dog
and his jug by him; but after all, for
aught we know, he may have died of old
age, for he looks as old as Methusalem.”

“Poor creature,” said Ellen; “and

to die at last without a being to care
for him.”

“Oh, as to that, that is nothing,” said
Debby, “and if it were, just look at
that dog”—the dog was licking his
master's face and breast—“there's many
a one, Ellen, that dies on a feather bed,
and them too that have houses and
lands, without so true a friend and
mourner as that poor brute. But come,
Ellen, we can do no good here sermonizing
the matter, we had best make our
way back, and give notice of the man's
death, that somebody may come and
put him under ground, which is fitting
should be done, seeing he is a human
being, though an old Indian.”

They rose to depart, and looking
around they both perceived at the same
moment the hut of Sooduck, (our readers
no doubt have anticipated that this Indian
was none other) which till now had
been hidden from them by the deep shadows

of the wood. “His wigwam, I
declare!” exclaimed Deborah: “we'll get
the poor carr'on into it; for I should be
loath, for his dog's sake, that anything
should happen to it till we can get it
honourable burial. Do you, Ellen,
open the door of the hut, and I will
manage to drag the old carcass in.”

Deborah made this division of labour to
save Ellen the painful necessity of touching
the dead body, and Ellen hastened
to execute her appointed task. The
door was fastened with a rope, and she
found so much difficulty in extricating
the knots, that Deborah came up with
the body before she had effected it.
Suddenly she stopped, and whispering to
Debby, “Hark,” she said, “do you not
hear a sound—a low moaning?”

“Pooh, child, you are vapoury—it is
nothing but a kitten,” replied Deborah:
and laying down the body, she drew
from her pocket a knife, with which she
cut the cord that had fallen from Ellen's

trembling hands—the door flew open,
and a loud shriek from within startled
even Deborah. She however stepped
boldly forward, and saw before her, in
the farthest corner of the hut, a terrified
girl, who had sunk upon her knees, and
covered her face with her hands in apparent
expectation of some dreadful evil.

“Merciful heaven, save me, save me!”
she cried, as Deborah approached her.

“What in the world is the matter
with you, child?” said Deborah, “there
is no one here that will hurt a hair of
your head.”

“We are friends—look at us, come to
the light,” said Ellen.

At the sound of Ellen's kind and gentle
voice the spirit of fear departed from the
half frantic girl: she rose, and looked
with trembling hope at her deliverers:
they all advanced to the door, the light
fell on their faces, and an instant recognition
followed.

“Ellen!”—“Emily!”—“Deborah!”

—“Is it possible?”—“It cannot be!”—
they exclaimed in one breath.

The joyful sense of hope, of protection,
of safety, was almost too much for Emily.
She threw her arms around Ellen's
neck, and nearly fainted on her bosom.
Her friends drew her to a little distance
from the hut, and far enough to avoid
her observation of the Indian: there Deborah
left her to the soothing efforts of
Ellen, while she returned to finish the
arrangements for Sooduck's body.

`An evil creature he was, no doubt,'
thought Deborah, (for the discovery of
Emily had thrown a strong light on Sooduck's
character,) `an evil creature, but
it is all passed to his own account now,
poor wretch!'

These and similar reflections of a compassionate
nature filled Deborah's mind
while she dragged in the body, composed
it decently on the straw, and covered it
with a blanket. The faithful dog took
his station beside it, and there Deborah

left him to keep guard, until she could
send some persons to perform the last
offices for his master.

These arrangements occupied but a
few moments, but they gave Emily time
to recover a sufficient degree of strength
and calmness to accompany her friends
back to the chaise. The tide of joy that
comes from a sense of deliverance from
great danger is prompt and powerful in
its operation. The timid despairing girl,
released from her captivity, and in the
presence of her friends, felt as if she had
been translated to another world, and
before they reached the chaise, she relieved
their worst apprehensions, by giving
them a sufficiently clear account of
Reuben's treachery.

From them she first learned Sooduck's
death, and could afford no clue to its
cause. He had left her as usual in the
morning, and she had heard nothing
since but the terrible uproar made by
the dog, when (as she now conjectured)

on seeing his fallen master, he had struggled,
and at last successfully, to release
himself from his confinement.

It seemed probable that Sooduck,
tempted by the superior quality of the
liquor furnished by Harrington, or by its
abundance, had indulged his appetite to
such excess as to extinguish his feeble
spark of life; or, as Deborah concluded,
his fall had occasioned his death. After
quite as much consideration as the miserable
subject merited, the verdict of our
fair jury was `accidental death.' Emily
accounted for her terrors on the appearance
of her friends, by saying that her
fear of Harrington had converted every
sound into a notice of his return. It
seemed utterly impossible for the poor
girl to express her joy that she had been
rescued from him, and her gratitude to
her deliverers. She had not once mentioned
the elder sister's name in her brief
relation of her flight, but Ellen, ever considerate
of others, proposed as they

reached the chaise, that they should return
to the village, and relieve Susan at
once from her painful apprehensions.
Emily said nothing, for she hesitated
between her wish to see and to relieve
her kind friend, and her reluctance to
venture within her prison bounds.

Deborah cut the deliberation short by
saying, `No, no, Ellen, you have had
your way once, and a good way it proved,
and I shall think to my dying day
that the Lord led you up through them
woods — but now I must have mine.
There is no knowing,” she whispered to
Ellen, “what might happen if we went
back; `a bird in the hand,' you know —
Come, jump in, Ellen—jump in, Emily,
my little god-send, and we'll on as fast
as possible.”

Ellen acquiesced, secretly resolving
with the morning dawn to despatch a
messenger with the good news to Susan:
a resolution she exactly performed. The
travellers then proceeded at good speed

to Lebanon springs, and arrived there before
midnight, without any other interruption
than that occasioned by Deborah's
`keeping good faith with the dog,'
as she termed it, by stopping at the first
house on their way to give information
of Sooduck's death.

As Emily Allen's connexion ceased
from this time for ever with the shaker
society, it may be best to inform our
readers, without troubling them again to
recur to the subject, with the result of
Harrington's expedition to Albany. Harrington
had received from Freeborn, the
ruling elder of the society at Hancock, a
check for five thousand dollars, which
was the principal part of a sum lodged
to the credit of the society in a bank in
Albany, where they were in the habit of
depositing the surplus money which they
received from the sale of their productions
of agriculture and manufactures.
This money had been at various times
received in the market of Albany, and

deposited in the bank for safe keeping;
and these five thousand dollars were now
wanted to pay the purchase-money of an
adjoining farm, which the elders had
determined to add to their possessions.
It was however designed by Harrington
for a very different application. Eager
to secure the money, he went to the
bank immediately upon its being opened
in the morning, and presented the check
for payment.

The clerk who received it, observed
that the check was payable not to bearer,
but to order, and that it must be endorsed
before it could be paid. Harrington
said that he would endorse it,
which he immediately did, and presented
it again for payment. This delay and
conversation attracted the notice of the
cashier, who took up and examined the
draft as the clerk was counting out the
money to Harrington.

“Stop,” said he, “the check is payable
to the order of Reuben Harrington

and John Jacobs, and must be endorsed
by them both. Elder Freeborn is a very
particular man about worldly matters,
and as he has made his check payable
to the order of two people, we must
have the order of both of them.”

Harrington could not restrain the expression
of a little more impatience than
became his garb and assumed character:
he, however, received back the check,
and said that he would step to friend
Jacobs who lived in the next street, and
procure his endorsement. He then
called on Jacobs and requested him to
endorse the check. This Jacobs was a
sober staid citizen, who had often had
dealings with the shaker society, and
had contracted some acquaintance with
the elders, and particularly elder Freeborn.

When Harrington had explained the
business, Jacobs, after a little reflection,
said that he saw no harm which could
come to him from endorsing the check,

which he accordingly did. “Friend
Freeborn,” said he, “is a careful man,
and likes to have his business done
right. I will step and get the money
for you myself.” He went out, and returned
after a few minutes with bank
notes to the amount of the check. He
then entered into some general conversation
with Harrington, who restrained
his impatience for the actual possession
of the prize as much as possible: at last,
however, he observed that he must be
going, as he had business to do in the
city that day before he returned home.
Jacobs took no notice of this hint, but
continued the conversation upon the
subject of some shaker ploughs which
he had for sale on commission. At last
Harrington asked him directly for the
money.

“You shall have it,” replied Jacobs,
“as soon as you give me elder Freeborn's
order for it.” Harrington said that
he had no such order, and that none

was necessary; that the check was in
his favour as well as in that of Jacobs,
and that he was an elder as well as Freeborn.

“Elder Freeborn,” said Jacobs, “has
the care of the prudentials. At any
rate, I have received this money upon
his check, and I must have his order
before I pay it away to any body.”

Harrington entreated and remonstrated,
but the man of business seemed inclined
to adhere to his punctilio. Harrington
had before entertained some apprehension
that his fraudulent designs were
not wholly unsuspected by the shrewd
and cautious Freeborn, and it now occurred
to him that the embarrassment
in which he was placed might not be
wholly accidental. His threats and flatteries
only served to confirm the cool
and wary Jacobs in his suspicion of Harrington's
dishonest intentions—at last,
quite discouraged, Harrington left the
impracticable trader, cursing the superior

cunning that had baffled his well-concerted
project.

His next concern was in regard to
Emily. It appeared easiest, and would
certainly be safest to abandon the wreck
—to give up the ship; but he had so
long flattered himself with the possession
of this young creature, he so thirsted
for revenge against Susan, and his pride
was so much interested in at least a
partial success, that after some anxious
deliberation with himself, he determined
to return to Emily, not doubting that
she would accept her liberty on any
terms he should vouchsafe to offer. Accordingly
he left Albany late in the afternoon,
and having travelled all night, he
arrived at Sooduck's hut just at the
break of day on the morning after Emily's
escape. It is not necessary, and certainly
would be difficult to paint his
consternation at the sight that there
greeted him. But there was no time
for inquiry or delay. It was important

to him that he should not be recognised
in that neighbourhood. He was not
however destined to escape without farther
mortification. On re-entering the
public road he was met by some men,
who had collected in consequence of
Deborah's notice, to dispose of Sooduck's
body. They had heard the story of his
villainy which was already in general
circulation. They knew him well, and
moved by an intuitive love of justice, as
well as by a friendly feeling to the society,
they stopped his horses, bound
him hand and foot, and drove him in
triumph back to his shaker brethren.

The messenger despatched by Ellen
arrived about the same time; and Susan,
thus relieved from her anxiety, and rejoicing
in the innocence and safety of
Emily, was able to assist at the council
that was called to deliberate on the proper
measures to be taken in regard to
the culprit. The result of a short conference
was equivalent to the sentence

of the quaker against his dog. `I will
not myself kill thee,' he said, `but I'll
turn thee on the world and give thee a
bad name.' Reuben Harrington was
dispossessed of every thing he held belonging
to the society but the clothes
that covered him, and sent out to wander
upon the earth, despised and avoided,
enduring all the misery of unsuccessful
and unrepented guilt.