University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

Duganne.

Paul had enjoyed for several hours a refreshing
sleep, and he awoke in the afternoon feeling quite
renewed again. Fitful, strange to say, had not
slept, but had occupied the time in writing; and
now, just as the youth awoke, he was adding the
superscription to a long letter that he had just
finished. “Come, Paul,” said he, “we have yet
some miles to walk; it is time that we were on
our way.”

“To what place do you intend going to-night?”
inquired the youth.

“To one that you are already familiar with,”
was the answer. “A few hours hence, boy, and
you will know all that you may even wish to know
about this mystery; more, perhaps, than you ought
to know for your own happiness. But come, the
sun is yet two hours high; ere it sets, our destination
may be gained.”

In a few minutes the two travellers were again
on their way. They turned their course up the
banks of the Brandywine river, and passing under
the groves of old chestnut and sycamore trees,

soon lost sight of the village, and were surrounded
by the murmuring of the water, the singing of
birds, and the oblique rays of golden sunlight, that
slid through the rustling leaves to light the woodland
path. Paul became not a little concerned to
find his companion relapsing into his wild state.
When a squirrel dropped his nut to the ground, and
leapt away among the tall branches, Fitful would
start aside with a shudder; and when a dead limb
fell beside them, crackling on the ground, he grasped
the arm of the youth and darted furiously from
the woods. But in a short time, they stood on the
spot where Paul first encountered the strange man;
and the sun was now just dropping behind the distant
blue hills.

“There!” cried Fitful, “you hear the river,
boiling and fretting, but cannot see it from here —
you see the long dark line of trees that cover its
banks — listen how it moans! Do you hear it?
Then let me tell you, Paul, there are streams of
guilt in the world, that, however they may lie
concealed beneath familiar things, and run through
hidden ways, still have a voice which cannot be
stifled! See yonder! how high yon fish-hawk
sails; a dim speck, it would almost emulate the
stars! but let me tell you, Paul, to-day that bird
has sunk lower, amid the turmoil of that dark
stream that flows yonder, than thousands of the
winged tribe that soar not so high! Remember
that, Paul, remember that!” Thus saying, he

turned to the old apple-tree, described in our first
chapter, and exclaimed, “Here, Paul Redding, on
this spot will I deliver to you that which is your
own; and let the dead witness that no man is
wronged!” and he drew from the breast of his
coat a package of papers, and handed them to
the youth. “Here,” said he, taking the letter
that he had that day written, from his pocket,
“here, Paul, take this; when I am — no — that is,
I mean, to-morrow, send that to the place where it
is directed to — not before — not after; but to-morrow.
As to that package, it is yours; read it
when you please, sooner or later; all, all is there!
I have done all — done my best. God forgive me
for having once in my life, done my worst! You
will forgive me,” continued he, grasping the youth
by the hand, “you will forgive me, will you not?”

“Indeed,” answered Paul, “I know not of any
thing you have done that requires my forgiveness.”

“True, my dear boy, true! but you soon will
know, you soon must know, therefore, forgive me;
for the love of — of Heaven, let me have your
forgiveness!”

“Most heartily I give it!” cried Paul, “let it be
for what it may!” and tears dimmed the eyes of
both. “Come,” said Fitful, “it has grown quite
dark, follow me to yon old stone mansion. There
we may rest to-night. You will find a bed in an
upper chamber, although no living soul occupies
the dwelling; but that is no matter; it has been

my place of retreat for years, no other has occupied
it for many a day; therefore it will be a fitting
place for us to-night.” When they arrived at the
house, Fitful took from his pocket a big rusty
key, and turning it with difficulty in the lock,
threw the heavy door back on its grating hinges.
As they passed into a large old-fashioned and
empty room, their footfalls ran echoing over the
building, as if they were messengers sent to the
remotest apartments to tell of the arrival of the two
guests. Fitful lighted an old, brass lamp, that stood
on the mantle-piece, and led the youth up the dusty,
creaking stairway. “There,” said he, as he stood
at the top of the first flight of stairs, “there, that
will be my room to-night, yours is one story higher;”
and they passed up into a small chamber,
furnished with a bed and a couple of old chairs.
There hung on the walls two portraits, in very antique-looking
frames. Paul was struck with the
pictures, and he stood before them for some time,
contemplating the countenances, which were those
of a young man and woman. Those quiet eyes, as
they looked down into his, seemed to read his very
soul, and the youth recalled in his mind, unconsciously,
scenes long since gone by. He turned to
inquire of his companion who they were the portraits
of, and for the first time, found he was alone!
He stood for awhile lost in amazement, but his
gaze rested again on those quiet familiar faces, until
overwhelmed with a flood of recollections, he
reeled to the bed, and sunk upon its edge, whilst
the tears streamed from his burning eyes. Old
scenes swept through his brain, like the sunlight
and shadow that play over distant fields; scenes
wherein moved the forms of his father and mother,
and as he gazed on them with his “mind's eye,”
they seemed to be the originals of those two pictures!
Thus he laid wrapped in a dreamy maze
of the past, he knew not how long; but when he
looked up, the broad moon was looking in upon
him with a brilliancy that almost drowned the faint
glimmering of the lamp, and as its white rays
gleamed over the faces of the paintings, divesting
them of all color, Paul shrunk back with a shudder,
for he thought he saw “Poor Mary's” ghost! But
he soon upbraided himself for his timidity, and
drawing the package that Fitful had given him
from his pocket, laid it on the table by the lamp,
intending to seize the present opportunity to solve
the mystery that had thus gathered its strange web
about him. But feeling some misgivings in regard
to the safety of his companion, he passed cautiously
down stairs, and opening the chamber door as
softly as possible, looked in. He beheld Fitful
kneeling in the flood of white moonshine that
streamed across the floor, muttering most uncouth
words, while he scraped on the hard oak
floor with the blade of a knife. “This is a die for
the conscience,” he murmured; “purple is a royal
color, and the oak is monarch of the woods! who
may divest the king of his robes?” Again he
scraped on in silence for a few minutes, but his
wild thoughts soon burst forth in utterance. “What!
shall I write a book that I cannot unwrite? O,
what a chronicle is here! Did the world understand
the alphabet to these hieroglyphics, what a
tale would here be unfolded!”

Paul, fearful of being observed by the wild man,
retreated again to his chamber, but sat hour after
hour listening to the sound of the scraping knife;
for while he could hear that, he felt, in a degree,
at ease, since the noise told him that Fitful was still
safe in his room. The moon was now no longer
looking in at the window; the lamp was burning
low; he was reminded that he had not yet examined
the package; and pricking up the wick of the
lamp with the point of a knife, he examined the
papers, and the first thing that attracted his particular
attention was a letter addressed to himself.
He opened it and read:

This is a disclosure that the reader, as a matter
of course, has been prepared for; and, in fact, so
had Paul, at times, but not at that moment, when
his nerves were torn with excitement, and his brain
dizzy with fears and conjectures! He reeled and
staggered, but recovered himself, and his first impulse
was to rush down stairs and throw himself
into the arms of his father. The stairs were
passed, he knew not how; he burst into the
chamber, but it was vacant! Fitful was gone!
O, how wildly, how madly did Paul traverse every
apartment of that dark, dismal house, calling on
the name of his father! Now, rushing out into the
chill morning air, he hurried to the woods, ran up
and down by the river side; nor did he cease his
search until he had alarmed the neighbors, and

called several of them to his assistance. The red
morn was already in the east, and the broad daylight
soon came up to the aid of the distracted son.
The company, after a vigilant search, met on the
brow of the hill not far from where Paul had first
seen Fitful; disappointment was on every countenance,
and Paul's heart sunk within him as they
shook their heads, indicating that their labor had
been in vain.

“Halloa!” cried one who had wandered somewhat
apart from the rest, “halloa! he's here!”
With a cry of “where? where?” the young man
darted in the direction which the other pointed,
and beheld his father kneeling, with his head resting
on the stone, beneath the old apple-tree! The
sun was just sending his first rays over the top of
the hill as they lifted the old man up; there was a
quiver on his lips, aud his glazed eye turned to
heaven, while he feebly cried, “God forgive me!”
and sunk lifeless into the arms of his son!