 | CHAPTER VI.
A GATHERING STORM. The boy of Mount Rhigi |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
A GATHERING STORM.
That nature mingles might be heard around;
But none from man.”
Clapham did not return to his mountain-home till
late in the afternoon of the next day. His
mind was full of the holy scenes he had witnessed.
He had seen death for the first time; and had seen
it, most happily for himself, in the home of the Christian,
where death was received as God's messenger,
sent to take the most loved being in the household
to a happier home, to a higher school, to the instruction
and guidance of Him whose love and wisdom
are infinite. He had seen little Lucy, the sweet
nestler in every heart, given up with calm submission.
The world seemed changed to Clapham; but O,
with what weight it fell back upon him as his own
door-step smoking his pipe. He saw, through the
open door, that his mother was dozing on the bed.
“Ain't you a pretty chap?” said Norman, surlily.
“Where have you been browsing all night, and to
this time of day?”
“At Mr. Davis's,” replied Clapham, quietly.
“That's one lie; now tell another. What have
you been about there?”
“I have been seeing little Lucy die.”
“Do tell?” said Norman, and a human feeling
stirred in his bosom. He knocked the ashes out of
his pipe, and put in fresh tobacco, saying, meanwhile,
“She was the likeliest-looking young one ever born
in Salisbury. Sich as she always die.”
The last words struck on Massy's ear, and waked
her from her dose.
“Who is dead now?” she asked, not more than
half awake.
“Not you, mam; but you might as well be,”
replied her brutal lord, “as lying there, when I told
you I was waiting for a patch on my coat. Up
dead, and our Clap is chief mourner.”
“You have not got no feelings, Norman,” said the
gentler helpmeet; “you're 'tween man and brute —
worse than neither. When is the funeral, Clapham?”
“There is to be no funeral here,” replied Clapham.
“Mrs. Davis wished to lay little Lucy with
her people, and she has taken her down to the
Canaan burying-ground.”
“Who went in the procession?” asked Massy,
who, in common with persons of her caste, was curious
about the minutiæ of funerals.
“They had no procession. Mr. Davis wanted to
have the people collect and go with them, but Mrs.
Davis was very much set on having it quiet; and so
Sheriff Parley offered them his wagon and horses, and
they went, at two o'clock, down to her uncle's, which
is near to the burying-ground.”
“Did they take the corpse, and Harry, and Annie,
all in one wagon?”
“No; only little Lucy. Annie had one of her
sick-headaches, and Harry staid at home with her.”
Norman seemed very attentive, though as yet he
had asked no question. He now, with affected carelessness,
demanded how long they were to be gone.
“Till to-morrow morning,” Clapham replied.
“Good!” muttered Norman; and then, his manner
suddenly changing, he eagerly asked, “Are you
sure of that, Clap?”
“Yes, I am. I went with Harry to get the team;
and his mother bade us tell Sheriff Parley she should
return to-morrow morning; and she never broke her
word in her life.”
“I hope this won't be a first time,” said Norman.
“What time will they be home?”
“I don't know,” replied Clapham, rather impatient
at idle questions, (as he deemed them,) which grated
on his feelings; and he turned to go away, not
caring whither, when his father seized him by the
arm, and jerked him back. “Stand still, can't you?”
said he; “you are as slippery as an eel.” He
hemmed two or three times, then cleared his throat,
and added, “She died in the bed-room, did not
she?”
“Yes; little Lucy and Annie always slept there
in the trundle-bed.”
“I should not think them young folks would like
sleeping in the room where the corpse was,” said
Norman, looking, not at Clapham, but up at the trees.
He paused for a moment, but eliciting no reply from
Clapham, he added, “I say, Clap, what are you so
dumb for? Where are they going to sleep?”
Clapham was incapable of being irritated, and he
replied, quietly, “I don't think they have any fear to
sleep where little Lucy lay, with flowers all around
her, looking like an angel.”
“Well, then, the gal is going to sleep in the
bed-room, is she?”
Had not Clapham's mind been completely preoccupied,
he might have suspected some sinister
motive in all this questioning; but he did not, and
he replied with the particularity his father wished.
“The bed-room window was open in the morning,
while it rained, and the room got damp, and Harry's
mother told him to move the trundle-bed into the kitchen,
and to bring down his bed and sleep by Annie.”
“Will he do it?”
“I rather guess so,” replied Clapham, with a
smile; “the time has not come yet that Harry has
disappointed his mother.”
“I wish all young youth were like him,” murmured
Massy.
“And all old mams, like you,” said Norman; “that
would be a nice fit! But, I say, Clap, you are sure
they sleep in the kitchen?”
“I am sure I helped Harry fix the beds there,
before I came away.”
“You're a wise lad, Clap, and no mistake,” said
Norman, with a chuckling laugh in his throat, which
his son well knew was an expression of evil omen;
and he involuntarily fixed his eyes inquiringly on the
bad man. “None of your impudence, you rascal!”
he exclaimed, shaking his fist at Clapham.
“Impudence! I did not speak.”
“Your eyes did, though.”
“And what did they say?” asked Clapham, with
a dim smile.
“You're a fool, boy,” said his father; and then,
he added, quietly, “I am the wrong side of the fence
this time. I am not mad with you, Clap. Mam has
worn me out, waiting here all day for my coat.
Come, old woman, ain't that hole sewed up yet?”
Massy tossed the coat to him, saying, “You are
the onreasonablest man that ever a poor woman-critter
was slave to; my whole life goes waiting on you.”
“That is what you are made for, my dear. You,
and all the rest of the women-folks, are made to
serve their masters; hey, Clap?”
Clapham thought of his dear friend Harry's mother,
and he thought some women-folks were quite equal
to their masters. Norman put on his coat, re-filled
his pipe, and walked off. After going a few paces,
he turned suddenly around, and said, in a voice of
unwonted kindness, “I say, Clap, I started a sight
of partridges up there by the pond, and if you want
to look after them, you may take my gun and some
powder and shot; you'll find it there under my pillow.
But mind and come home this evening. I
shall be home to supper, and do you be here; and,
I want it. Promise me. You're a boy of your word,
I'll say that for you. I never catched you in a lie
yet. Come, promise.”
“Why, father, I would do a'most any thing in
the world for you, if you would speak as you do
now.”
“That's you, Clap. You promise?”
“Yes.”
“It's a bargain, then; and mind you're home to
supper.”
“What has got into father?” said Clapham, as
Norman, entering the wood-path, disappeared.
“It's no good,” said Massy. “Sunshine or thunder-claps,
it's all the same. He's been clean possessed,
ever since yesterday morning, about a rifle on
sale down to the Furnace. He says he never saw
the like on't. He was talking about it in his sleep
last night, though his tongue was so thick I could
not understand more than one word in ten. He'd
clean drained the jug. He would not give me even
one spoonful, to take the bad taste out of my mouth.
my last, dying word I would say so, — I do believe
he'd sell his soul for rum and a rifle. And now,
Clappy,” she continued, in a whining tone, “if you'll
only take this fourpence, and get me a little something
down below.”
Clapham looked earnestly in his mother's face,
and shook his head. “I cannot, mother — I cannot,”
he said; “my hands have been on that good child,
— God's child now, — and I cannot touch that hateful
jug, or any thing that holds that dreadful stuff. I
have had such thoughts these last two days! I have
been with good folks, and I want to be fit to live
among them. Don't ask me, mother.” There was a
quietness in Clapham's tone, a dignity and deep resolve
in his manner, that gave to the boy the power
of manhood. Massy was, for the moment, awed;
and, without renewing her request, she permitted him
to take the gun, &c., and go up the mountain-path.
Her eye followed him till he was out of sight.
She then sat down, whimpering, on the door-step
“Well,” she said, talking to herself, “if this don't
is too good. It does give feelings, though, to hear
my child talk that way — Norman Dunn's boy too!
Where did he larn it? He has never been justly
one of us; but now he's clean changed. I felt as
underval'ed as if a judge was talking to me. Well,
well, it did go to the spot. He wants to do right;
he wants to be fit to live with good folks; he must
not stay with us then!” The poor woman began to
cry heartily. She was a mother; and ignorant, abject,
drunken, drabbish, as she was, sunken to the
very lowest depths of sordid wretchedness, there was
yet that in her heart which answered to her boy's
heaven-born desire for something better than his evil
home. God's image is never wholly effaced from the
soul. No man or woman is irreclaimable.
Twilight was breathing its sweet peace over the
earth; the last lingering birds were singing their
good-night notes; and every woodland thing was
giving out its odor, when Clapham, with a string of
game over his shoulder, came down the Rhigi road.
This game was converted into a savory stew, and
came home from the Furnace. He was silent and
sulky, and had evidently been drinking. There was,
in those days, always more or less drinking going
on among the loungers about the Furnace Tavern.
The supper was such as sportsmen most relish, but
no word of praise did he bestow on it; and, when
Clapham fished up from the mess the quarters of a
large grey squirrel, and told him of the very spot
he found him, and how he treed him, Norman gave
no sign that he heard him. “You don't seem sharp
set,” said his wife; “I guess you've been feeding at
the Furance.”
“Feeding on air, then, for I have not eaten a
mouthful since breakfast.”
“Then dad has had a plenty of something else,
I guess,” said Massy to Clapham, with a wink — “what
takes the wire-edge off from hunger.”
“Guess again, mam. I have not drank the value
of half a pint to-day.”
“Well, then, I guess you had bad luck about the
rifle.”
“That's another of your eternal guesses. I've
bargained for it, and am to have possession when
I've paid ten dollars.”
“You pay ten dollars! That will be when the
sky falls, and we catch larks. Hey, Clappy?”
Clapham made no reply. He had a more than
usual dread of a storm, and, having satisfied his
hunger, he lay down on his forlorn little bed, and
was soon in a sleep that many a king would have
envied. Does the hearty boy, or the temperate laboring
man, who lies down to sweet sleep, know
what a blessing is “this chief nourisher at life's
feast”? Surely labor is no evil, plain fare is none,
if they bring with them a good which no money and
no greatness can buy.
Norman did not sleep. He did not close his eyes.
Poverty must have the attending angel, a good conscience;
it cannot alone bring sleep. Clapham was
dreaming now of little Lucy. He saw again the
plaited ruffle of her night dress, around her white
bosom, the rose-buds lying on it, and a smile on
those pretty lips. Then he was with Harry, on
game. Suddenly, it seemed to him that Harry grasped
his arm. He awoke. It was not Harry, but his father,
who said, “Hush, Clap; it's me. What are you so
scared for? Get up. Don't wake mam; let her snore
her soul out.”
“Why! what is the matter, father?”
“Nothing. Do as I bid you. Dress you, put your
cap on, and come out with me.”
“It is not yet day.”
“No, nor won't be this three hours; mind me,
and be still about it.”
Clapham augured no good from this movement
of his father. He knew too well the object of his
night-prowlings, and he had resolved never again to be
the companion of them. “I am sleepy, father,” he
said; “I was awake all last night, and I don't want
to get up.”
“Remember our bargain,” replied his father. “Remember
your promise. You're bound. Come, come
along.”
Clapham rose, dressed, and followed Norman.
made a dead stop, and said, “Now, father, I'll tell
you what it is. I have been thinking a good deal
lately, and I have determined to make an end of
this night-work. I'm tired on it. I hate it.” His
father seized him by the collar; but Clapham, undaunted,
added, “I won't do it.”
Norman stood for a moment, glaring fiercely at
the boy, his hand still grasping his collar. Clapham
did not flinch; he stood as firmly braced as if he were
a match for the tall, strong man; and the spirit of
the boy, even in that slight and powerless frame,
awed, for a moment, the bad man.
The moon was in her second quarter. There
was a strong south wind, and clouds scudding over
the sky. At this moment they rolled off the moon,
and it shone brightly in Clapham's face. It was
deadly pale, but calm and determined.
Norman hesitated; his eye fell. A spirit good and
strong, a spirit of truth, was looking out of the boy's
clear eye.
Norman's tone changed. “Now, Clap,” he said,
you to come along with me. One person may lead a
horse to the water, you know, but it takes two to make
him drink. Keep quiet, can't you? till I ask you to
do something more than walk down to the Furnace
with me. I'm after that rifle, and if I ain't down
there by daylight, I lose it. There's one of them
New York sparks that's up here a gunning. He's
out afore the sun is up. Bill Haskins says he told
him about the rifle, and he said he'd go down and see
it this morning early, and I mean to be ahead on him.”
“O, if that's all, father!” said Clapham, cheerfully.
“You've come to your milk, have you? Make
tracks a little faster, then, will you?” On they
went. The path they were in passed Davis's house
at the distance of a few rods. When at the point
nearest to it, another path diverged from it, and led
directly to Davis's door-step. Into this path Norman
turned, and walked on rapidly ahead of Clapham. They
were within a few yards of the house when Clapham's
heart sank. He caught his father by the sleeve,
and, said “Father, what are you coming here for?”
“Hush!” said Norman, in a low tone, that went
like a sharp whistle through the boy's head. And
he half carried, half dragged Clapham along, till they
stood at the only window of that consecrated bed-room,
at the very spot where Clapham had lain on the
ground the preceding night. It was a small sliding
window, and not secured by any fastening whatever.
“In there, in a bureau drawer, — you know just where,”
whispered Norman, “is a purse. I must have it, and
you must get it. No holding back now.” He softly
drew the window open. “Come, snake in, and done
with it.”
“I'll die first,” answered Clapham.
“No!” muttered Norman, with a horrid oath.
“You do it, or Harry Davis dies.” He drew a knife
from beneath his coat, and, Clapham still immovable,
he added, “I swear I'll kill him with this knife if
you don't do as I bid you.”
“Father! father!” said Clapham, laying both hands
on his father's arm.
“I swear I will,” repeated Norman. “I will, if
the business is not done as I bid you. If you speak
will break open the door, and do it for him and
the gal too. I had as lief as stick a pig, and then
burn the house down; and who's the wiser? I have
determined on't aforehand. Will you mind me now?”
Clapham knew his father's savage temper, his iron
will. He fully believed he would do as he threatened;
and the image of Harry and of Annie murdered
— murdered by his father's hand — was before
him. He listened — he heard no human sound. He
looked around on every side; there was no human
creature stirring — no help. “Will you do it? Speak,”
said Norman, pointing his knife to the door.
Clapham, forced to the decision, said, “I will;”
and he mounted to the window. The opening was
but just large enough to admit his body. As he
slid down into the room, his foot touched a footstool
that had been left standing there, and, turning
over on the bare floor, it made a loud noise. Norman's
head was at the open window. “Damnation!”
he muttered in a suppressed voice.
“I did not mean it,” whispered Clapham, who was
on his executing well his father's purpose. He heard
a movement in the next room. The sleepers were
awakened. He stood stock still, and heard Annie
ask, “What is that noise, Harry?”
“I don't know. Shall I jump up and see?” replied
Harry.
“Shall I give him notice, or what shall I do?”
thought Clapham, when Annie again spoke, saying,
“No, don't get up, Harry. It's no matter. It's only
Tom.”
“Yes. It must be. The window was open when
little Lucy was lying there, and we all forgot to shut
it; so puss has jumped in.”
“You think it certainly is the cat, Harry?”
“Yes, Annie; but, cat or no cat, there's nothing to
hurt us; so go to sleep, Annie.”
“I will; but when I am asleep, don't you get up
and leave me, Harry.” She spoke drowsily; and he
answered, “Never fear. I shall be asleep myself.”
Cold chills were running over Clapham. Those
dear, familiar voices; the danger so near to them;
stood on that very spot, and looked on little Lucy for
the last time, — altogether paralyzed him, till his father,
in a voice, though not above a whisper, expressing
rage and impatience, said, “Do it.” Clapham drew
open the drawer in which he knew all Mrs. Davis's
little store was deposited, took out the purse, threw
it to his father, reclosed the drawer, and withdrew
through the window. Harry was listening. The partition
was so thin that he could scarcely persuade
himself that he did not hear a drawer open and shut.
He thought of his mother's money, and was impulsively
springing up, when Annie, aroused too, caught
him by the arm, saying, “Stop a minute.” Before the
minute passed, all was again quiet, and Norman and
Clapham were out of hearing, and, in a little while,
Harry and Annie were again asleep. Norman silently
strode homeward. Clapham followed, his heart as
heavy as lead. When they were within a few paces
of their own door, Norman stopped, and turning short
round upon Clapham, he said, “I'll tell you the case,
Clap. You've got some new notions into you, and it's
should we care for any body? I ask no favors, and
I'll grant none. As we brew, so we must bake.
As we've begun, so we must end. Nobody is friends
to us, and we'll be friends to nobody.”
“I have friends,” said Clapham, “and I'll be true
to them; and if I live another day —”
“Hush up, square!” interrupted his father, “and
hear me out; as sure as you blab, I'll be the death
of you.”
“I don't care a straw,” answered Clapham; “I
wish I were dead, and under ground, now; and, if
killing me is the worst you can do, you are welcome.
Now, hear me. I swear, — not as you do,
but as the folks swear in court, — I swear, and hold
up my hand to it, so help me God, come what come
may, I'll tell the truth.”
“You will, will you?” answered Norman, his voice
trembling with rage; “then we'll see which will be
master. I'll swear — and hold my hand up to it, too
— if you let on, by word or sign, of what we've
done to-night, I'll burn down Davis's house in the
help me —.” The name he would have impiously
invoked stuck in his throat. “Are you afeard of
me now?” he added.
“I am! I am!” replied Clapham; and the poor
boy threw himself on the ground, and cried with a
sense of utter helplessness and misery. Norman
seized him, raised him to his feet, and dragged him
onward to their hut. “Be still,” he said; “shut up;
go to bed, and go to sleep. If you mind me, all
is right.” Clapham stumbled in, and on to his straw
bed; and, burying his face in it, he sobbed till,
nature overpowered, he fell asleep.
Norman did not sleep. His mind was busy with
plans to evade justice and secure his ill-gotten gains.
After revolving various plans, he determined that he
would be early at the furnace, buy the rifle, “get
over the line,” and go roaming. Bad as he was,
Clapham had made some impression on him; and
he was willing, if he could provide for his own
safety, to bear the imputation of the theft and save
Clapham. As his passion subsided, there rose a
feared nothing,” thought Norman; “but, as he stood
there with his hand raised, he made my heart beat.
All the witnesses on earth, swearing agin me in
court, could not do it.”
| CHAPTER VI.
A GATHERING STORM. The boy of Mount Rhigi | |