 | CHAPTER THIRD.
THE FARM-HOUSE. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
3. CHAPTER THIRD.
THE FARM-HOUSE.
“Come, folks, help yourselves! It's the last night of the Old Year,
and we'll send the dull old fellow to his grave, with a hearty store of
good things under his belt, and a bowl of good liquor to make him sleep
easy! Some of the turkey, Parson? Hey! How are you comin' on
down there, at 'tother end of the table? Try a slice of this ham, neighbor
Spurtzelditscher?—a-h! There's fat and lean! By Thun-der!
You see, neighbor, I swear in English! I sometimes wish I could swear
in Dutch. There's something that stirs the heart, in a solid, deep-chested
Dutch oath! Now then, who's for the cider?—a-h, that's the stuff!
hisses and froths like an old maid, who has been caught lying about her
neighbors—the rale October juice of the red-streaked Spitzenberger, as
I'm an honest man!”
The old man, at the head of the table, raised the hot poker with one
hand, while the other rested upon the edge of the broad bowl, which was
filled to the brim with the steaming cider. It was a curious-looking
bowl, fashioned of some strange wood, hard as iron, with an uncouth
name, and crowded all around its capacious sides with carvings of the
most grotesque character.
He was an old man, but you must not picture to yourself a spare form,
or lantern jaws, or eyes bleared and glassy.
Beneath the ample folds of his brown waistcoat, a rotundity that would
have made the fortunes of a dozen Aldermen, was hidden; his hair, eyebrows
and long beard, were all white as snow, yet his round cheeks
glowed with tints as warm and rosy, as those which make an unbroiled
sirloin steak look lovely in the eyes of a good liver. The eyebrows
were white, as though the snow had fallen on his forehead, and hung
there for a moment, ere it melted before the summer of his cheeks. And
yet, from beneath those shaggy outlines, two eyes, very small, very black,
and piercing as daggers' points, glittered like newly lighted coals. Altogether
it was a face that would have warmed a hungry man, with its
plump outline, and unctuous look, to say nothing of the nose, which shone
like a huge red pear, ripening in the autumnal sun.
As to the form of the old man, it would have scared a famine into
nothingness, by its very picture of eloquent fatness. His broad shoulders,
his sinewy arms, his chest that shook with laughter, deep and sonorous,
beneath the lace ruffles of his shirt, his hands round and plump,
glowing to the very finger tips with corpulence,—ah, he was a hale old
fellow, who seemed to grow younger with time, and catch new bloom on
his cheeks, from the very icicles of age.
He was seated in his great arm-chair, at the head of the table, which
extended along the sanded floor, from the fire-place to the doorway. In
one hand he raised the poker, with its blazing point; in the other he
grasped the corpulent bowl, frothing to the brim with fragrant cider.
“Your health, my good folks! A-a-h!” with a sigh of deep satisfaction—“That's
the stuff to warm the heart and set the brain a-fire! And,
while I think o't, here's a health to his Majesty, King George!”
As he set down the bowl, he slightly inclined his head to one side, and
smoothing down his white beard, with his plump fingers, he glanced with
one eye half-closed, along the well-filled board.
It was an interesting scene. In the foreground, a huge turkey, brown
and smoking; the view was lengthened out with a savory panorama of
boiled ham, chickens and venison, interspersed with white pyramids of
home-made bread, and bowls of steaming cider. This long table, groaning
under the weight of substantial cheer, was framed by the faces of
some twenty-five or thirty guests. Here the parson, with his red face
glowing between his black cap and blacker gown: there the portly
farmer, with bony hands and iron frame; yonder a group of rosy-cheeked
country girls, and beyond them, a Philadelphia lawyer, lank as a bean-pole
and devouring as a Famine. The clatter of knives and forks deafened
the ears, and was only interrupted by a chorus, something like this:
“A little more of the ham!” cried the Parson; “red lean and white
fat—very—”
“Some of the chicken, Dolly?” exclaimed a gallant country beau—
“legs or breast?”
“Cider? Your health, neighbor! Royal stuff, that!” was the remark
of a city merchant, whose broadcloth shone beside the country
home-spun—“Did you say, you would like a piece of this chicken?”
“The salt, if you please. A little ham. There. Some turkey. A
touch of that rabbit. Thank you for the corn-beef. Pass the venison.
Cider—yes, sir, cider. Health, sir. Little more ham! Pass the pepper.
Some more turkey—no! Just a hint of that 'possum.”
This was the Philadelphia lawyer, whose knife and fork seemed impelled
by a mechanical power of unknown capacities, while his plate
went round the orbit of the table like a planet, somewhat hasty and
irregular in its motions. His lank jaws were never still. He seemed to
have been placed upon this earth, only to solve a great problem, to wit,
how much can a man devour whose body resembles a lath or a bean-pole,
and how long will it require for him to eat himself into an apoplexy?
“Dat rabbit ish nish! Mein Gott! Neighbor Perkenpine!” was
the remark of Neighbor Spurtzelditscher, a short, thick, brown-faced
farmer, in linsey-wolsey, who was commonly called “Spurtz” for the
sake of brevity and an easy life.
Two farmers sat beside each other, engaged in earnest conversation,
which it must be confessed was carried on with perseverance and ingenuity,
worthy of a wider field. You may see them, near the lower end of
the table, both very old men, alike thin, withered and greyhaired, and
attired in linsey-wolsey. The one this way, cannot speak a syllable of
any language but English, and his friend understands never a word, that
is not spoken in German. But still, with all these obstacles, which to
the vulgar mind might appear insurmountable, they maintain a very intelligible,
nay, interesting conversation.
Neighbor Wampole, the farmer who speaks English and English only,
poises the white breast of a chicken on his fork, gazes intently in his
neighbor's face, and utters distinctly his condensed opinion—
“Good!” he cries, and the chicken disappears.
To this emphatic remark, neighbor Schneider, who cannot speak a
word, that is not German, replies by elevating a savory slice of the
opossum, and displaying it for a moment before his neighbor's eyes;
after which he significantly remarks—
“Goot!” and the opossum vanishes.
The bowls are touched; one drinks to the other's health; again that
significant glance, and again that interesting interchange of thought—
“Good!”
“Goot!”
Near these intelligent and communicative neighbours, and opposite the
parson, was seen a gentleman of some forty years, remarkable for his
and prominent nose, curved like a parrot's beak. This was the
Doctor of the country-side, famous for the potency of his “hum—ha!”
which was supposed to comprise a whole encyclopædia of medical knowledge,
and for the peculiarly dexterous application of his gold-headed cane
to the side of his nose.
He never had much to say, and on the present occasion, merely interrupted
the important duty of supper, with such remarks as—“Soberly
and in verity, this stewed rabbit is a tooth-some dish!”
For his almost unbroken silence, he seemed to continually apologize
by drinking deep draughts of the steaming cider. Indeed, a superficial
observer of human nature would have supposed, at first sight, that the
Doctor was in liquor, or that the liquor was in the Doctor; for his head
went bobbing from side to side like a cork on a wave, and he brushed
imaginary flies from the tip of his nose, with great energy and perseverance.
And while the supper-party went gayly on by the light of the home-made
candles, which were placed along the board, there was a fire of
huge logs, blazing and crackling within the broad arch of the spacious
hearth.
The light of that roaring fire fell in crimson flashes over the faces of
the guests, and lighted up with its hearty glow every nook and corner of
the farm-house hall.
Would you like to look upon that Picture of Comfort in the Olden
Time?
Then strip your imagination of all modern ideas, and prepare for a
picture of 1774, as widely contrasted with 1847, as a hale old Revolutionary
soldier, with his rosy cheeks and snow-white hair, compares with
a Chesnut Street dandy, remarkable only for his slim waist and sublimely
insipid face.
Do not expect to behold any thing like imported carpet on the floor.
No carpets from Brussels or from Smyrna conceal the sanded boards,
nor are the walls covered with hangings of French paper. There are
no chairs with narrow seats and dangerous backs, looking like chairs
that never were healthy, but stricken with consumption from the moment
of their birth. Nor is there any diminutive stove glaring with the
pestilence of anthracite; nor do you behold tables with marble tops, or
mantel-pieces, unworthy of the name, adorned with showy lamps, or windows
with Venitian blinds, and sills as narrow as a bigot's soul.
Look around this farm-house hall and see what comfort was like, in
the olden time.
The light of the great hearth-fire sparkles upon the sanded floor, and
glows along those huge rafters which support the ceiling. The walls
are white as snow, and the window-frames deep-sunken and capacious.
store of burnished pewter; opposite you discern the old clock, with its
round Dutch face, and its new moon rising over a broken cloud.
But the hearth is decidedly the centre of the picture. It looks like a
great sacrificial fire built beneath some pagan archway. Above the arch
hangs a rifle, resting on the antlers of the wild deer, and within the recess
on either side of the fire, benches of substantial oak are placed.
A blind negro sits on the bench to the right, his fingers outspread toward
the flame, which imparts its red glow to his ebony features, and
reveals the fiddle laid with its bow across his knees.
Opposite is seated a corpulent old dame, whose black face is contrasted
with a flaming red handkerchief wound about the temples, while her
withered hands are crossed upon her linsey dress.
“I say, Phillisey, dis am comfor'bl'!”
“It ar, Sam, you blind niggar!”
Near the hearth, seated on huge arm-chairs, behold three white dames,
whose rotund forms and full-moon faces, do not indicate any deprivation
of the comforts of life. Their heads bent together, their white caps
touching each other, they pass the snuff-box, and converse in earnest
whispers.
“It is a strange world, Betsy!”
“And, Nancy, we've all got to die—sometime!”
“But, Sally, it was not so when I was a girl!”
You will at once perceive, that their conversation is of the most interesting
character. The snuff-box passes, and the thoughts of the old
ladies take a different turn.
“Queer world! Laws-a-massy, Betz!”
“We must all go! `Dust to dust,' as the Parson sez!”
“When I was a girl—”
But at this moment of absorbing interest the conversation is interrupted
by the bluff, hearty tones of the host:
“I say, Parson, did you ever hear the story of Old Hontz and his
New Year's supper?”
By way of commanding attention, he brought the handle of his knife
upon the table, with all the force of his right arm.
“Never did!” responded the Parson, from the other end of the table,
as he raised a dainty piece of rabbit to his lips.
“Nor you, Lawyer Simmons? Nor you, Doctor Perkenpine? Hello!
Did none of you ever hear the story of Old Hontz and his New Year's
supper?”
For a moment the great work of eating and drinking was suspended.
At least twenty faces were turned toward the jovial host. There was a
wicked twinkle in the old fellow's half-closed eyes, and even the inclination
of his head to one side looked suspicious.
“Never heard the story, friend Peter!” was the burden of twenty
voices.
The old man settled himself easily in his huge chair, smoothed his
white beard with his fat fingers, and took a hearty draught of cider.
Then, taking a pipe from a side pocket, he quietly filled the bowl with
tobacco, lighted it at the candle, and resting comfortably in his chair,
seemed at peace with all the world, as the smoke floated in wreaths
around his red face.
“As you're all done supper, I'd like to tell you the story. It's a short
story, but very, very good; especially to those, who have eaten heartily
of stewed rabbit. Talkin' o' rabbit, how d'ye like it, Parson?”
“I have feasted plentifully upon this dish, friend Peter,” replied the
Parson.
“It is savory—very toothsome,” echoed the Doctor.
“Could not be better! where did you get the rabbits?” inquired the
lawyer.
“That's the fun of it, Lawyer Simmons. Where did I get the rabbits?
That's the very cream of the joke. Now mark me, everybody here,
when I've told my story, they will be sorry that they did not try the
stewed rabbit. For, as you will see, this story is apt to give one a ravenous
taste for stewed rabbit—”
“But concerning this unknown person whom you call Old Hontz?”
suggested the Parson.
“I want you all to be very still, while I tell this story. G-a-ls!
(turning to the three corpulent dames,) stop babbling and listen!” The
guests were all attention; you might have heard a pin drop. “Once upon
a time, there lived a jolly old fellow named Hontz, who had a house in a
woods, and was well-to-do in the world; his neighbors almost died of
spite, when they looked at his barn, or saw his sleek cattle. He was
rich, was old Hontz, and fond of fun, and of a glass! But he was a
bachelor. Therefore every gossip in the neighborhood lied about him—
lied murderously, telling strange stories of Old Hontz, the rare jovial
fellow. They said he gained his money—not from his farm, or his
horses, or his oxen, or his cows—but in unheard-of-ways, horrible to
think of, and most dreadful to tell. Now, among those neighbors, there
were three persons, who fed at the old fellow's table, and drank of his
cider, and yet lied more horribly about him, than all the world together—”
The jovial Peter paused, and smoothed his beard, emitting a volume
of smoke, as he glanced over the faces of the wondering guests. Even
the three aged dames by the fire bent forward, in attitudes of absorbing
interest, and the old Negro in the chimney corner remarked, in an under-tone,
to Phillisey—“Berry bad neighbors, dem!”
“Now one of these persons was a lawyer—”
“Su-r-e!” exclaimed lawyer Simmons, dropping his cider bowl.
“One a doctor—”
“Remarkable!” and the Doctor, in his surprise, permitted a savory
slice of rabbit to fall from his fingers.
“And the other was a parson!”
“A parson? Eh! Neighbor Peter?” cried the Parson, rubbing his
nose, and fixing the black cap more firmly on his head.
“Yes—by —! The lawyer, the doctor and the parson, who fed at
the old fellow's table, and drank of his cider, never spoke of him, save
with a shrug of the shoulders, or a wink of the eye, and it may be, some
such kind remark as this—`A very clever old fellow, who lives in the
woods alone, but'—here was the sore point—`Where does he get all his
money?”'
It was a very interesting thing, to remark the twinkle of neighbor
Peter's half-closed eye, as he paused again in his story.
A singular silence had fallen on the supper guests; they gazed in each
other's faces, and then cast their eyes down upon their folded hands.
“Now, do you want to know how this jolly old fellow (with a white
beard and a great round paunch, mark ye) revenged himself? He knew
the doctor, the lawyer, the parson, to be very fond of good eating, but of
all kinds of eating, stewed rabbit, and of all kinds of stewed rabbit—”
The story began to be very interesting. Why it was we cannot tell,
but certainly the greater portion of the guests began to cast stealthy
glances at the doctor, the lawyer and the parson, who sat among them, at
the supper-board.
“Yes—you were saying—” hesitated the Parson. The Doctor arranged
his flowing wig, with a somewhat nervous movement, and the lank
face of the lawyer was lengthened out, by an expression of apathetic
wonder, most ludicrous to behold.
“And of all kinds of stewed rabbit, they most admired that kind of
stewed rabbit, which is smothered in onions—”
The jovial host took a hearty puff at his pipe, and placed the cider to
his lips, coolly remarking—
“There's my story. What d'ye think o't, anyhow?”
It was wonderful to behold the amazement pictured on the faces of the
guests. A dead silence prevailed.
“What d'ye think of it, I say?” and the bluff Peter rapped the table
with the handle of his knife.
“Dat is no shtory at all!” faintly remarked neighbor Spurtzelditscher.
“I confess, I do not see its point—” the lawyer exclaimed.
“Nor its wit—” added the parson.
“In soberness, and in truth, I can't see what you are driving at!”
The doctor turned his parrot nose, and looked his host full in the face.
“Why, how stupid you are! Don't you see that the jolly old fellow
great supper, one New Year's Eve, and invited the doctor, the parson,
the lawyer, to come and eat stewed rabbit, smothered in onions?”
The Parson blushed to the tips of his ears, while the Doctor looked
in his plate, and the lawyer described lines on the table with his fork.
“Dat ish better!” cried Spurtzelditscher—“Yah! y-a-h! Dat ish
goot!”
“Indeed, Mr. Peter Dorfner,” exclaimed the Parson with marked politeness—“I
must confess that I don't see the point of your story.”
“Nor I! Nor I!” chorussed the Doctor and the Lawyer.
A faint smile began to steal over the faces of the other guests.
“But you will presently. I know you love a good story, Parson, and
I'm sure, the lawyer and doctor don't love any thing better, except good
living or fat fees. Soh, my hearties, I will tell you the point of the
joke—while the doctor, and the lawyer, and the parson were eatin' away
like so many buzzards, and a thinkin' that they were eatin' stewed rabbit
smothered in onions, the old fellow, that jolly dog of a bachelor, was
laughin' in his sleeve, for—for—”
“Y-e-s”—gasped the Parson, bending forward.
“For”—the old host, even Peter Dorfner, bent forward also, his little
black eyes twinkling with a sort of demoniac glee—“For well he knew
that these three jovial fellows were eatin'—eatin'—”
“E-a-ting—” echoed the Doctor, looking over his spectacles. The
old fellow sank back in his chair, and resumed his pipe, saying mildly
between the puffs of smoke—
“Cats. They were eatin' cats! Fine old Toms, which the old
bachelor had caught in his farm-yard, killed and cooked—all done by
himself—cats, smothered in onions! Fine dish, gentlemen—for them as
likes it.”
A roar like thunder shook the room. It was the sound of some
twenty boisterous laughs, joined in one. For a moment nothing was
seen but mouths wide open, and eyes rolling tears.
With one movement the Doctor, the Parson and the Lawyer started to
their feet.
“Cats!” shrieked the Parson, pitching forward with a sea-sick movement—“Did
you say cats?”
The Doctor uttered a horrible oath.
“Feed me—a member of the Faculty—ME! on CATS!” He shook
his clenched fist over the table. “You shall pay for this! You
shall”—
The Lawyer looked around with a very sickly attempt at a smile.
“Neighbor Wampole, will you allow me to pass you? It seems to me
that I want a little fresh air.”
“Why, gentle-men! what is the matter?” cried the corpulent Peter
does not allude to you. Pooh! You never abused me, you”—
But a fresh explosion of laughter drowned his words. It cannot be
denied that the scene was in the highest degree picturesque. There
foamed the Doctor, tearing his flaxen wig, in very despite, while on the
opposite side of the table, the Parson still continued to ask, whether Peter
Dorfner had said cats? In the background, Lawyer Simmons' lank
face was visible, pale as death, and distorted by convulsive twitchings.
And around the table were the guests, convulsed with the grotesque
picture, all echoing the laugh, until the rafters shook again. Near the
fire the three aged dames sat motionless, gasping for breath, the tears
rolling down their round fat cheeks.
Within the chimney the Phillisey with the red handkerchief round
her brow, displayed her teeth—or at least, all that time had spared her—
while blind Sam, seated in the opposite corner, seized his fiddle, and
played several tunes, through each other, and all together, as if for life.
And in the midst of the uproar, calm and smiling sat Peter Dorfner,
in his arm-chair, at the head of the table, the pipe between his lips, and
volumes of pale blue smoke wreathing around his red cheeks, and snow-white
hair.
“Was de rabbit fery nish, Toctor?”
“I thought you ate ray-ther hearty, Parson!”
“O! Lord! a doctor, a parson and a lawyer sittin' down to stewed cats!”
“An' sich an appeytite, too!”
While these, and various kindred exclamations, echoed round the
room, the Doctor quietly left his seat and approached the head of the
table. There was a wicked light in his pale blue eyes; a sort of determined
malice in the very compression of his large sensual lips.
Peter Dorfner received him with a calm smile, smoothing down his
white beard with the palm of his hand.
“This is very w-ell!” he whispered, bending down, until the curls of
his wig nearly touched the cheek of Peter: “A fine joke, sir, ve-r-y fine!
But shall I tell these good folks a finer one? Shall I tell them of the
twenty-third of November, in the year 1756?”
Swelling with rage, he shook his cane in the old farmer's face.
“If you dare,” Peter remarked in a whisper, as a change passed over
his face, as sudden as it was startling. He grew pale; his dark eyes flashed
from beneath the sleepy lids. His right hand was clenched as if by an
involuntary spasm.
At this moment, the roar of laughter, which echoed round the place,
was succeeded by a cry of surprise.
“Madeline! Gilbert!” resounded from every lip.
The Doctor leaned his head over his shoulder, and saw the persons,
who that moment had entered the room.
“Do you remember her Mother?” he whispered the words into the
farmer's ear.
“Dare you violate the Oath?” was the response uttered by the old
man, through his clenched teeth, with that wicked light flashing in his
eyes.
And while this singular conversation was held by the Doctor and the
farmer, the guests, starting from their seats, welcomed the new-comers
with many a hearty though rude salutation.
They stood in the centre of the circle, the Hunter and the Maiden, their
faces glowing in the light of the hearthside flame.
She, clad in her peasant garb, which could not altogether conceal the
flowing outlines of her form, nor turn your gaze away, from the sad, tender
beauty of her face. Her dark hair, swept plainly aside, relieved those
firm and winning features, and gave a deeper warmth to the glow of her
brown cheeks, the voluptuous redness of her lips.
By her side the Hunter stood, his brawny chest and gaunt, sinewy arms,
presenting a strong contrast to her maidenly form.
Almost a giant in stature, he was clad in a hunting-frock, dark blue in
color, and edged with white fur. In one hand he grasped the Maiden's
hand, in the other his well-tried rifle, with its dark tube, and mahogany
stock, relieved by ornaments of polished silver. He wore the leggings
and moccasins of an Indian; his broad chest was crossed by a buckskin
belt; on one side of his waist you beheld a hunting-knife, on the other a
powder-horn.
But it was not on his attire, but his face, that you fixed your gaze.
A broad, square forehead, a straight, firm nose, slightly inclining to the
aquiline, a mouth somewhat too wide, and a bold, rugged chin, half-concealed
by a brown beard. Such was the Hunter's face. His complexion
had once been fair and sanguine, but now it was bronzed by exposure to
the wind and sun, the toil of the chase, and—perchance—the fever of
the battle.
Around this boldly featured face, which indicated, at first sight, a bluff,
honest nature, his chesnut hair gathered in short, luxuriant curls.
“Come, Parson; 'cordin' to promise I'm here. So are you. So is
Mad'lin'. We want you to say a few words from a book, so that we can
go an' live together as man an' wife.”
He rested one arm upon his rifle, and with Madeline's hand clasped in
his own, confronted the New Year's guests.
“Yes—yes—I'll be there, in a moment,” cried the Minister from the
opposite side of the table. “Cats!” he added in an undertone—
“A-u-g-h! So you want to be married, Gilbert—eh?”
With the book in his hand, he stood before the Hunter and his promised
Wife, now fixing his eye upon the almost gigantic form, now resting
his glance upon the Maiden, whose soft brown cheek began to
lips.
Her eyes were downcast; the black fringes rested on her cheek. Altogether,
she presented an appearance, at once so virginal and so beautiful,
in her humble attire, that every eye was enchained with the sight.
“Ho, ho! So you're goin' to be married, Madeline!” laughed the jovial
Peter Dorfner, as, leaving his chair, he advanced with a step that showed
at once, that he had not lost any vigor of nerve, or physical power, in his
increasing corpulence. “Goin' to leave the old Bachelor alone? Well
—well—my blessing go with you, at any rate!”
He stood behind the Parson, a pleasant smile agitating his round cheeks,
and twinkling under his half-shut lids.
But the maiden did not raise her eyes, or answer him with a word.
She trembled; yes, they could see her bosom heave from beneath the kerchief
which bound it, and from her downcast lids a single tear sparkled
into light.
Did she remember the warning words of old Yoconok? “Yes, Uncle
Peter”—she called him Uncle, for he had been her only protector, from
the hour of childhood—“I am—I am.”—
Her nether lip was agitated with a tremulous motion; her bosom rose
with one tumultuous throb. She stood silent and trembling, her downcast
eyes filled with tears.
The rude Hunter by her side, wound his iron arm about her waist:
“Mad'lin', do not fear,” he whispered. “Don't I love you, gal? I
know I'm but a rude fellow, but Gilbert Morgan will never see harm
come to you, while God leaves him one breath in his big body! There
now, look up, and let the Parson say his words—”
These words look rude, but the dark hazel eye of the woodsman lighted
up with a fiery eloquence, as he spoke, and his voice—broken by a tremor—indicated
strong emotion.
“Well, girl, well, I can only say, that I approve of this marriage, and
hope you'll do well, wherever you go. There—take an old bachelor's
blessing on your head, and let the Parson begin; that's a good girl.”
As the bluff old Peter placed his fat hands upon the glossy locks of
Madeline—his face all the while overspread with smiling wrinkles—the
Doctor drew near, and bending over his shoulder, whispered these words:
“How long is it since you blessed her Mother?”
The jovial old fellow started, as though a snake had bitten him in the
throat; he grew pale, and then red again, and observed with one of his
pleasant smiles:
“Oh—ho! Doctor Perkenpine—always at your fun!”
But turning suddenly round, he darted a look into the Doctor's face
which had something beside good humor in its sudden fire.
“You'll leave the old man, Madeline. I shall be alone with Phillisey
Get married, girl—Gilbert will make a good husband!”
Why did the Orphan Girl shrink from the pressure of his hands, and
turn pale and gasp for breath as his kindly words fell on her ears?
The Parson arranged his cap, while the guests—stout farmers, and
buxom damsels—circled about the Hunter and his betrothed. The old
dames suspended their tattle, Black Sam his fiddle; even the lawyer and
the doctor forgot their unutterable wrongs, in the deep interest of the scene.
“You love Gilbert,” he kindly whispered, wishing to calm the Maiden,
whose agitation was perceptible.
“I do!” said a soft, low voice, that was scarcely audible.
Gilbert felt a soft, warm hand, return the pressure of his rude grasp,
and saw that the face upraised to meet his gaze, shone with an expression
of calm confidence and child-like trust.
“You are mine, Mad'lin',” he whispered, bending down nearer to her,
and girdling her waist with his brawny arm.
“Yours—ever!” she whispered, and then continued, in a tone inaudiable
to her lover—“Yours in spite of the warning of Yoconok—yours in
spite of my own heart!”
“Hem! Suppose we commence—” said the Pastor, making a great
display by turning over the leaves of his Prayer-Book.
At this moment, the farm-house door—behind the girl and the woods-man—was
suddenly opened.
She did not see the intruder, but she heard his footstep.
“Save me, Gilbert!” she cried, turning deathly pale—“I am falling—”
And like a flower, suddenly snapt on its stem, she sank, and lay unconscious
at her lover's feet, her eyes closed, her form as motionless as
death.
Gilbert saw her sink, so pale and lifeless, at his feet, and felt the blood
whirling in a torrent through his brain. He turned his head over his
shoulder; his face was flushed with crimson; his hazel eyes discolored
by injected blood—
“O, sir, this is your work!” he cried, and ere an instant, the hunting-knife
flashed in his hand.
A mingled cry of surprise and horror echoed from every lip. There,
before the half-opened door, stood a young man, clad in plain grey, his
handsome face wearing a pleasant smile, as he brushed the snow from
his curling brown hair. Over his shoulder appeared a red, round face,
with a wide mouth, distorted in a grotesque grin.
“What mean you, Gilbert?” cried Uncle Peter—“It is John and his
friend Jacob. Surely, your senses have left you. Put away your knife,
and greet our friends with a New Year's welcome!”
As the corpulent host spoke, he laid one hand gently on the Hunter's
arm, and greeted the strangers, with a cordial grasp.
“New Year's welcome!” growled Gilbert, as his flushed face writhed
in every feature. “To whom? To men who have no name? For
what? For poisoning the mind of this innocent girl—By * * *! This
is my welcome!”
Leaving the swooning girl extended on the floor, he fiercely turned,
and confronted the young man, whom we have known by the simple
name of John.
“You are a purty-built fellow, and, I guess, know how to fight;”—his
manner was taunting, and a mocking sneer curled his lip—“Do you see
this knife?”
“I see it,” answered John, with a pleasant smile upon his handsome
face,—“It seems a very good blade. The hilt, I believe, is bone.”
A dead silence prevailed; every eye was centred upon the young
man; the contrast between the huge hunter and the slender stranger was
palpable.
For a moment they surveyed each other, while Gilbert clenched the
hilt of his knife with an iron grasp—
—That moment was soon gone, but while it passed, our friend Jacopo,
with the round face and enormous mouth, stole quietly behind the hunter,
poured some white powder in a goblet filled with water, and applied
it to the lips of the fainting girl, as he raised her from the floor. The
action passed unobserved; every eye was fixed upon the hunter and his
antagonist.—
A scene occurred which baffles description. Suddenly the dead silence
was broken by the screams of women, the voices of men mingled in
confused cries.
The young stranger was on the floor, the knee of Gilbert on his breast,
the knife flashing above his face.
“Do not strike him,” cried Peter Dorfner,—“Take care, Gilbert, it
will be a Murder—”
“Stand back! Woe to the man who meddles in this quarrel!”—the
hunter was hoarse with rage; his voice, yelling through the farm-house,
sounded more like the howl of a hunted buffalo, than the voice of a
human being. “I tell you, he belongs to me! He has stepped between
me and Mad'lin'! Stand back—Now, Mister, will you tell your name,
who you are, and whar' you b'long? Quick!”
John's face was very pale. Stretched on the floor, his back against the
hard boards, the knee of the hunter pressing the life out of his chest, he
made a desperate effort to free himself, gathering all his strength in the
attempt. It was in vain. The knee pressed heavier and firmer upon his
heart; a convulsive movement agitated the muscles of his throat. As his
face grew paler, his eyes began to protrude from their sockets.
“Quick! Your name, I say!”—and the uplifted knife flashed into
the very eyes of the helpless man.
His lips moved; he uttered a word. Gilbert bent down to hear it—
“Coward!” he exclaimed, and a scornful smile crossed his pale
features. There was something so resolute, in this solitary word of the
helpless man, that a murmur of admiration escaped from the spectators,
who were held terrified and motionless by the interest of the scene.
“Then, take this!” The knife descended, urged by the impulse of a
madman's fury, and the prostrate man closed his eyes, as he saw the steel
flash over him, ere it fell.
A sharp, piercing cry was heard; it came from Jacopo's lips, as, with
the fainting maiden in his arms, he beheld the danger of his Master.
“Strike him at your peril!” he screamed—“it is the Lord—”
But his voice was drowned in the shout of wonder which echoed from
every lip, and filled the wide hall with a sound like thunder.
The knife had been dashed aside. Turned from its aim by a fragile
stick, which lay, severed in twain, on one side of the prostrate man,
while the knife glittered on the other, from the sand which covered
the floor.
One cry murmured from every lip, a sound which mingled wonder
with fear, and was remarkable not so much for loudness, as for depth
of tone:
“The Monk of Wissahikon!” These words were distinguishable
amid its clamor.
Even the bluff host started back, as though seized with sudden fright;
the guests, the doctor, lawyer, parson, the buxom damsels, and the hearty
farmers, all moved backward, with the same impulse.
At the sound, Gilbert the Hunter rose, and stood with his head bowed
and his arms motionless by his side. He, the strong man, who, only a
moment ago, had stricken his knife at the heart of a helpless man, now
trembled in every iron nerve.
Jacopo alone, gazing around upon the circle of affrighted faces, could
not comprehend the cause of this sudden change, this universal terror.
The young man, relieved from the pressure of the giant's knee, and
with the knife no longer flashing death into his face, rose into a sitting
posture, and looked around with a blank stare, his eyes dilating in his
ashen visage.
Before him stood the cause of this strange terror; a voice marked by
its musical emphasis, melted gently on his ears:
“It was wrong, Gilbert, and the good God will not love you for the
guilty thought! To raise your hand against your brother's life—a
murderer's deed!”
Not an eye but was riveted to the face of the speaker; and again the
whisper was heard—
“The Monk of Wissahikon!”
In the centre of the circle described by the spectators, stood a young
athletic, clad in a coat or tunic of black velvet, which, leaving his throat
bare, fell in easy folds from his broad shoulders to his knees.
His hair, long and flowing, in hue as black as the robe which he wore,
was crowned by a circular cap, also made of velvet; and, framed by the
cap and the dark hair, a face appeared which at once enchained the gaze
of every eye.
It was a young face, the forehead broad and high, the eyebrows arched
like a crescent, the nose straight and regular, the lips warm and full, the
chin round and beardless.
Such was the general description of the face; but there was a look
upon its brown skin, an expression woven with its firm features, a light
shining from its eyes, so piercing and impetuous, so much like magic or
magnetism, that no words can depict the Power which it held, at once
and for ever, upon the souls of those who looked upon it.
That face, in a word, linked with a form whose boyish outlines were
just ripening into young manhood, seemed like the face of one set apart
from the herd of mankind by some supernatural power. It bore the
stamp of Destiny.
In the eastern lands it would have been said, at once, that the brown
face was gifted with the terrible fatality of the Evil Eye.
Few could gaze steadily into that eye, and mark its colour; it was
either dead, with a vacant, glassy stare, or lighted up with a flame, that
shot its power to the gazer's heart, and held him dumb and motionless.
Most strange it was to see the terror which that face excited in the
farm-house of Wissahikon.
Not a word was spoken, as those large eyes roved from side to side, nor
did a solitary voice bid the young man welcome to the New Year's festival.
He stood in the midst of the scene, his right hand looking like marble,
contrasted with his dress, resting absently upon the silver cross, which,
suspended from his neck, rose and fell with every pulsation of his chest.
“Your name?” cried Joh, as he slowly rose to his feet, and took
the stranger by the hand. “You have done me a service which I shall
never forget. I owe my life to you—”
He spoke hurriedly, but his face was flushed, his voice broken by sincere
feeling.
“They call me Paul Ardenheim.”
He uttered these words in a voice whose deep melody charmed every
ear; and then turning, sought the door by which he had entered. As
he walked away with an even stride, his back toward the gazers, it
might be seen that his velvet garb concealed a form of manly vigor, and
almost womanly beauty.
On the threshold he paused; once more they beheld that bronzed face
with the large eyes, shining with that intense light—
“Do not war upon each other, my friends. The cloud of war is
darkening over our land. It will be a long and bloody contest. If war
you must, if you cannot live without the sword, let your war be waged
against the invaders of our soil; let your swords be sharpened for their
throats.”
The door closed; he was gone; his place was vacant, yet still they
seemed to behold him in his dark garb, standing in their midst, the sad
look upon his face, the vivid light in his large eyes.
“Remain here, Jacob,” cried John, as, with his face moved by strong
emotion, he rushed to the door. “I will return in a moment!”
The door had not closed after him, when Gilbert took his knife from
the floor.
He was moving to the door, when Uncle Peter laid his hand on his arm:
“Which way, Gilbert?”
“What's that to you?” was the hurried reply.
“A great deal, my good friend:” the host whispered a word in his ear,
and with a rapid motion described a sign on his forehead. “Now go!
Harm the stranger at your peril! You know your duty! Go!”
The countenance of the hunter fell.
“You, too, Uncle Peter? You among us? Then these stories are
true—”
“Sirrah! Don't you see these people are listening with open eyes and
ears? Go! You remember—”
The other answered in a whisper—
“The house of old Isaac, on the hill near the Schuylkill! But
Mad'lin'?”
He cast his glance toward the unconscious maiden, who still reposed
in Jacob's arms, her brown hair falling neglected over her pale cheeks,
while her arms hung by her side.
“Girls, you will carry Madeline to her room,” said Peter, in a loud
voice—“This marriage cannot take place to-night! Go! Your duty
is before you—I command you!”
The girl started from her swoon, even as her hunter lover stood with
his face turned toward the door. She dashed the flowing hair from her
face as she sprang from Jacopo's arms, and looked around with a frightened
glance.
“I saw it all!” she said in a whisper, that went to every heart—“I
saw her led, pale and beautiful, in her white dress, which was also her
shroud, into the half-lighted room, with rude wainscot on its narrow walls,
and a couch in one corner.—”
“Do you hear? Take her to her room—she is out of her head”—the
face of Uncle Peter grew crimson, as he waved his hand, and with that
emphatic gesture, and angry voice, bade the country damsels remove the
bewildered girl.
“O, the scene was very sad, and it seemed to me, as I looked on, my
eyes were filled with bitter tears. For she was a Mother, and no friend
was near to watch over her agony; afar from her country and her home,
and not one kind hand to wipe away a tear! Yes, there was one friend—
a faithful negro, who fought for his mistress. But I see it yet—ah God!
They blind him with their knives—his eyes are dark—dark forever! He
cannot see the Babe, which is torn from the Mother's arms, ere it has
blessed her with a smile—ah! Spare her, pity her, for she is a mother,
and no friend is near!”
“Must we hear these ravings all night?” Peter Dorfner forced the
bewildered girl into the arms of two red-cheeked damsels, and pointed to
the door. “To her chamber, and let her sleep away this crazy dream!”
As she was borne through the door, which opened upon the stairway,
Gilbert, with his head bowed down, and his right hand clasped upon his
knife, while the other grasped the rifle, left the farm-house without a word.
The bluff Peter, with his red face and white beard, found himself standing
alone among his wondering guests.
“Hey, folks? Why do you stare so? Is it such a wonder to see two
boys pick a quarrel with each other, or do you get frightened at a love-sick
girl's faintin' fit? Come—draw your cheers around the fire; and let
the women make mischief, while the men smoke. A pipe, doctor? Come,
don't be snappish—parson, forgive that little joke about the rabbits—here,
lawyer Simmons, let's have a social chat, I say!”
In a moment, a circle was formed around the fire. The centre of the
picture, sat the jovial Peter, his red face and round form glowing in the
light. On one side the Lawyer, with a most lugubrious face; on the
other the Doctor, who arranged his wig, and looked steadily into the fire.
Next to the Doctor, the Parson was seen, his limbs crossed, and his hands
folded pleasantly upon his stomach.
The four, every one with his pipe and his bowl of cider, smoked and
drank as if for their lives. A constantly accumulating cloud hung over
their heads.
Around these figures, to the right and left were displayed the three aged
dames, the young girls, the stripling farmers, and the good neighbors
Wampole and Spurtzelditscher. Far in the chimney, Phillisey was
sleeping, nodding portentously, and every moment making a strong demonstration
of throwing herself into the fire. The blind fiddler, Black
Sam, also seemed drowsy; his sightless eyeballs glared in the light, and
his fiddle lay neglected upon his knees.
But Jacopo—where is Jacopo, with that face shining like a beacon, that
form resembling a barrel, mounted on bean-poles? Behold him yonder.
Bending over the table, cramming himself with the wreck of the supper
dainties, now paying his respects to the fragments of a sausage, now
drowning his sorrows in a brimming bowl of rare October. All the
of his grotesque face. You see it in the distortions of his enormous
mouth, in the twinkling of his small black eyes.
“Poor girl! Such a vivifying powder—good for fainting spells! Better
for unknown lovers!”
Broader and brighter grew the great fire on the hearth, and thicker and
darker rolled the tobacco cloud over the room.
“Why d'ye all sit here, like leaden images in a Dutch church? Not a
word has been spoken for this five minutes. Where's all your fun, Doctor?
Parson, you sit moping like an owl; and as for you, Lawyer,
one 'ud think that your rich gran'mother had just died, and cut you off
without a shillin'! Here, Phillisey; go up into the garret; under the
eaves of the roof, you will find certain bottles of rare old wine, which a
Philadelphy marchant gave me some years ago. Sam, I say, S-a-m!
Wake up and giv's a tune!”
Did the blind negro hear the jovial Peter? Certainly he did not raise
his head, but, with his sightless eyeballs turned to the fire, remained as
motionless as a rock of anthracite coal.
“Are you sleep, nigger?—come, I say! Giv's a tune!”
Was it a shudder that agitated the withered form of the black man?
His face, marked by the characteristic features of his race, the flat nose,
thick lips, and receding chin, quivered in every nerve, and the wrinkles
on his low forehead were woven together, as though by a sudden and
intense pain.
“Sam, I say; stir up, and play's a tune”—the cheerful Peter shook
him roughly by the shoulder—“You ha'nt forgot all your music, man?”
The negro's fingers, cramped and bent by severe labor, moved with the
same convulsive tremor which agitated his entire frame.—
“Dis nigga am sick, Massa. He am gettin berry old. Dese cold nights
driv' all de tune out of um head.”
A cloud was visible on Peter's rotund visage, and something very much
like an oath came through his fat lips.
But at this moment, every ear was attracted by the sound of an opening
door, and with heads turned from the fire, the New Year's guests gazed
upon the new-comer.
“Hah! It's John,” said Peter, with one of his deep chuckles—“Why
so changed, man? Your step is heavy—bless my heart! You're pale
as a corpse. Hey? John—don't you know me?”
“Who”—whispered the young man, as he leaned for support upon
Peter's arm-chair—“Who is he?”
He wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead: the light, shooting
up in a hearty glow, showed the death-like pallor of his handsome
features.
“He? Of whom do you speak?”
“This Paul—how do you name him? This Monk of Wissahikon?”
At the word, a strange gloom fell upon the faces near the fire-side.
Not a word was spoken in answer to the question.
Peter, with his habitual gesture, smoothed his beard, and inhaled a
hearty draught from the tube of his pipe, glancing sidelong, from his
half-closed eyes, toward the faces around him.
“Can none of you answer? You surely know him—certainly can give
a reason for the terror which overspreads your faces, when you hear his
voice, and feel his eye upon you! A knife is at my throat, and with the
knee of my enemy pressing upon my chest, I feel that the hour of my
death is come. When lo! a mere boy clad in black appears, dashes the
knife aside, his only weapon a withered stick—and you all start with
fear. Even my antagonist seems stricken with palsy. Have you no answer?
Who is the Monk of Wissahikon?”
The Doctor looked cautiously toward the door, and took his pipe from
his lips—
“He—that is—you ask—why, indeed—he is—the Monk of Wissahikon.”
“The explanation is lucid,” and a sneer quivered on the young man's
lips—“I almost know as much as when I first asked the question.”
“Sit down, John. Take a pipe, and draw a cheer. You shall watch
with us the comin' of the New Year, while the girls wait upon poor
Madeline in her chamber above us. There now, that's a hearty boy—
smoke away, and let your cares fly with every puff! The Monk of—
you want to know who he is? P'r'aps these good folks can tell us.”
John slid into a chair, took the proffered bowl and pipe, while Jacopo
crept to his side, his diminutive black eyes peering, with nervous intensity,
into every face.
“Young man, there are some questions, which it is not profitable to
ask on a New Year's Eve.”—The Doctor's visage was elongated beneath
his wig, into a most refreshing solemnity, reminding you of some strange
creation of fabulous history, linking the prominent characteristics of the
donkey and the owl. “About one-fourth of a mile from this place, on
the other side of Wissahikon, stands an old house. In that house lives
the Monk. His father lives there, too.”
“Per-fectly satisfactory!” whispered Jacopo.
“Dish house—Gott forgives me! I never likes to pass him late at
night!” was the profound remark of Neighbor Spurtzelditscher.
“Been by there often”—chorused Neighbor Wampole, starting a sly
glance toward the door. “Often. Late at night and airly in the mornin'.
Heerd strange sounds within that house. They say its ha-a-nted.”
It was now the Parson's turn. Touching the young man on the arm,
he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and gave utterance to a profound
ejaculation—
“Let us pray that we may be saved from selling our souls to the Enemy
of Mankind!”
By way of enforcing this excellent idea, he placed the bowl to his lips,
and drank in solemn silence.
“Per-fectly satisfactory!” again whispered Jacopo.
“The old man, the father of the—Monk—has a daughter?” asked Lawyer
Simmons, whose features manifested the sleepy period of drunkenness.
“By-the-bye, Dorfner”—he whispered these words in the ear of
his corpulent friend—“Certain they were n't cats?”
John sat moodily in front of the fire, his face shaded by his uplifted
hand, while his form was enveloped to the throat, in his grey coat. Yet
beneath that shadowing hand, his pale features were wet with cold moisture,
and the trembling of the nether lip, the wavering light of the full
eye, indicated some powerful emotion. Jacopo, as he stood at the back
of his chair, bent over him, and placed his lips to the ear of his master—
“The Potion!” he whispered. “All is right. While I play the fiddle,
do you plead weariness, and retire to your room. The sound will
attract the attention of the girls up stairs; they will flock to the dance.
Your room is next to the chamber of Madeline!”
All at once, a warm flush chased the pallor from the young man's
face: his eye grew steady, intense in its glance; his full lips wreathed in
a smile.
“Ah—Jacopo! What would the Devil do, were there no such imps
as you, in this beautiful world?”
The minute hand of the Old Clock in the corner, pointed to the hour
of Twelve. In a moment, 1774 would be buried with the dead years,
and 1775, a newly born baby of a year, come chirping into light.
This was the scene which the Old Clock saw, in the last moment of
the dying year.
Beside the table, huge and portly, his coat thrown aside, and his shirt
sleeves rolled up, stood the jocund Peter Dorfner, his face like the full
moon on the clock, as, with extended hands, he poured bottle after bottle
into the colossal punch-bowl, made of some unknown wood, rimmed with
silver, and carved all over with drunken satyrs and reeling fauns.
Madeira and Sherry, Brandy and Hock, he poured them all into the
great bowl, and added spices without number, until the steam of the hot
liquors filled the very air with a drunken flavor.
—Well is it for the topers of 1848, that the great Secret of the Peter
Dorfner Punch is lost forever, in the abyss of Time! Oh, my amiable
friends, whose noses bloom with carbuncles, whose very cheeks bear the
red blossoms of Brandy, had you seen old Peter mix his Punch, composed
of all the liquors in the world, and fragrant with the spices of
every clime, you would have grown merrily drunk with the very flavor,
bowl! But the secret is lost, and the topers of 1848 must be content to
drink Pure Poison, such delectable liquids as vitriol, creosote, spiced with
cocculus indicus and freshened with putrid water, and go reeling to their
graves, without the knowledge of the great Dorfner Punch.—
And while Peter mixes his great Punch, yonder, in the arm-chair,
crouches Jacopo, writhing in the agonies of the fiddle, which he clasps
with one hand, while the other plies the bow, and sends the dancers
whirling over the sanded floor.
Only steal one look at his face, the mouth distorted by a thousand
changing grimaces, the sharp black eyes, leering from the wrinkled lids,
the round cheek resting lovingly against the fiddle!
Then his spider legs are crossed, while the round paunch undulates
with laughter, and the long right arm seems impelled into activity by
some galvanic battery.
The dancers—it were worth your while to look at them. Now huddled
in a crowd, now scattered over the floor, heels and heads and
arms, moving like clock-work run mad—saw you ever such dancing?
Here the Doctor without a wig, there the Parson holding up his gown,
yonder Spurtzelditscher without his coat, and Perkenpine, his sallow
face burning with an incipient apoplexy, round and round they whirled,
entangled in a maze of young damsels, with the three old ladies skirmishing
on the frontiers of that drunken circle!
Jacopo's fiddle did it all.
How it screamed, and roared, and yelled and laughed, putting gunpowder
in every heel, and firing it off in every vein. It was a wicked
fiddle, and Jacopo cheered it on, with curses and shouts, until the whole
mansion shook, the very windows rattling like a thunder-storm of broken
glass.
And round and round, and up the sanded floor, and down again, and
over against the clock and across upon the table, caps flying, skirts tossing,
and faces steaming with damp crimson, they kept it up, while jocund
Peter mixed the punch, and Jacopo lashed the fiddle. Lashed it with
the bow, as with a whip, until it seemed to beg for mercy, and roar with
agony!
And as the dance went on, in drunken frenzy, the clock struck
Twelve.
“Come, boys and gals,” shouted the jovial Peter, smoothing his white
beard, and looking like a wood-cut of Christmas in some old Dutch
Almanac—“We danced the Old Year out—let's drink the New Year in!”
The clock struck Twelve, and in the room above—only separated
from the scene of drunken mirth, by a layer of planks, and a few stout
rafters—a Maiden was extended on her virgin bed, the light held in the
so warm, along the bosom, stealing in glimpses from the robe, that
trembled with the life throbbing beneath its folds.
Poor Madeline!
Of all the hours in her young life, the hour of Twelve, when the bell
struck 1775 into being, was most dangerous to her soul.
| CHAPTER THIRD.
THE FARM-HOUSE. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |