 | CHAPTER II. Clinton Bradshaw, or, The adventures of a
lawyer |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
After Job had seen his prisoners—Adams, Johnson,
and old Moll—safely locked up, he entered his
apartment, where he found Bradshaw, Jane Durham,
and Lucy, who had ridden to the jail in a
hack, and got there before him. With no small
degree of self-complacency, Job narrated how he
had put the mob in good-humour, and saved the
lives, as he alleged he verily believed, of the whole
concern.
Bradshaw and Jane Durham had partaken of
Mrs. Presley's tea; and while the jailer's wife was
preparing a cup for him, Bradshaw said to him—
“Job, if it is not against your regulations, I will
walk with Miss Durham in the jail-yard—it is so
beautiful a night; if you are willing, Miss Durham.”
Miss Durham said she would like to; and that,
if Bradshaw felt interest enough in her now, she
would continue the account she was giving of herself,
and tell how she came in the alley. And Job
said,
“O! certainly, squire, certainly: there's no accusation
agin her—the saddle's now on the right
horse. That Adams, I tell you, is a worser devil
'an the whole on 'em. I'm sorry we sha'n't be able
old Moll will go the voyage together—that's certain.
He hates you (to Jane Durham) more 'an
any man ought to hate a woman.”
Jane Durham turned suddenly pale, and said she
knew it.
“Well, he can't harm you,” continued Job, “for
I've locked him up in his cell, fast enough. Yes,
squire, you can walk in the yard—certainly. She
can come in jist when she chooses, and you can go
out jist when you choose. There's a guard at the
gate, and I'll tell him. I don't think,” continued
Job, laughing, “you could get over that wall, if you
was to try. Chaps have escaped that way, once
or twice; but it was by using some boards that were
in the yard, that ain't there now.”
The night of the fire, was the last one of winter,
or rather, we should say, of the rough weather,
as the first spring month had nearly passed. Very
rough weather had occurred in this month, but by
one of those magic changes, that sometimes take
place in our climate, every appearance of winter
had disappeared three or four days previous to the
evening of which we now speak. The change
produced the sensation that every one has felt—a
desire to go into the open air. The night was perfectly
calm, the moon was in the upper sky, and
not a cloud was to be seen. The air was balmy
and refreshing, and so stirless that its breath could
not be felt, save in its invigorating influence. The
jail was built of large dark stone, that had an ancient
appearance; its small windows, with their
in a castellated manner above the roof, and hid it
from view; together with its great size, and the
high strong wall around, and the evident strength
and security in every thing that met the eye, gave
it the look, to an imaginative mind, of some of those
old baronial possessions of which we read. The
jail was so dark-looking, and the wall around it so
high, that though the moon shone full upon it, it
appeared to lie in shadow. To the right of the
jail, in the yard, was the gallows, which had been
erected for the execution of two pirates: beneath it
were several graves. There executed criminals had
formerly been buried, but latterly, their bodies had
been taken to Potter's field. There was nothing in
the jail yard, but some flowers, around the jailer's
apartments, which Lucy cultivated—and, sad contrast!
the gallows. The ground was hard, with a
short dry grass upon it; and immediately about the
graves, and under the gallows, the grass grew long;
for those who had the liberty of the jail yard seldom
trod in those ominous precincts: it might be,
too, that the ground was fertilized there, by the
decomposition of the bodies beneath it. As the
moon shone full upon the jail, here and there, a
dark face could be seen looking between the bars
of the narrow windows, to catch a little air, or a
little light, like helpless, hopeless despair from the
regions of the damned, upon the beatitude above.
An indistinct hum—the indefinable noises of the
city—on whose outskirts, as we have said, the jail
stood, fell upon the ear with a murmuring ceaseless
sound. Save this, though it was so early, nothing
as they walked on through the large yard. All at
once, as they approached the gallows, Jane Durham
lifted her eyes from the ground, and, beholding
it, said, in a melancholy voice—
“See there, Mr. Bradshaw, there's the gallows,
the place for murderers; shall we go and sit at its
foot, and talk of destiny? If,” said she, with affected
gaiety, “`there is a destiny that shapes our
end, rough hew it as we may,' then am I going
directly to it; but where is the Jack Ketch, and
the unfeeling crowd, and the priest to shrive me?”
“Jane,” said Bradshaw, “I am going directly to
it, too, according to that; and, do you know, that I
don't believe either of us will die there, unless as
martyrs—and this, you know, is not the age of
martyrdom. No, Jane, there is no more danger
there for you than for me—but come, you were
telling me of yourself, the other evening, when
Lucy interrupted you; let us walk this way, and
let me be a listener.” As Bradshaw spoke, he
turned away from the gallows, and they passed
round a corner of the jail, which hid it from view.
There was a short bench, immediately against the
wall of the jail, under a window, on which Bradshaw
and the girl sat down.
“If stone walls have ears,” said Jane Durham,
as she sat down, “how many a sad tale have these
walls heard! and, perhaps, of many a wretch as
guiltless as I, of the imputed charge.”
“But stone walls have only terrors, according to
that proverb, for the guilty, Jane. However, there
may be a listener, at the window above us,” said
and a half above their heads;—“no, there cannot
be, either, for half of the cells, as they call them,
along here, are under the ground; and, if there
should be a prisoner in this one, he is below where
we are sitting—the window is far above his head,
and he has no means of reaching it to listen.”
“Oh, I should not care if he did hear me! Why
should I—but it is natural that I should—no matter—he
cannot.” She sat silently for a moment—
wiped her eyes, in which she was trying to suppress
the tears, and said—
“Where was I? How bright the moon is! I was
telling you of the day. O! how well I remember it!—
when Adams came home with my father. Three
years had rolled over us since we left Mr. Carlton's.
In all that time I lived in a perpetual dread;
daily, daily! hourly, hourly! things were getting
worse. The destitution, the utter hopelessness of
my poor mother's condition and my own, had gone
right into my heart; and I could feel it in every
throb, like a load of lead. It is there still, with
a mountain's weight added to it. When I saw my
father coming, I went behind my mother's bed,
and they did not see me when they first entered.
`What! have ye no fire—ye lazy hussy,' exclaimed
my father, staggering towards the bed, `have ye
no fire. Get up, and be off after some wood.'
Adams laughed, and caught my father, who would
have fallen as he stepped towards the bed, had he
not been supported by him, and led to a seat—an
old broken chair on which I had been seated. My
father bent down over the coals, and continued
it—and to take a delight in drawing him out,
and getting him to repeat his imprecations and
charges against her. He, I believe, had been
drinking as much as my father; but the liquor
made him even more fiendish, while he showed its
effects much less.”
“`Take that spinning-wheel there, and put it
on the fire, Adams,' exclaimed my father, `I'm as
cold as if I hadn't a drop in me. I'd go to hell to
get warm!'
“Adams took hold of the spinning-wheel, and
was going to break it, when I jumped from my
hiding-place, and begged him not.
“He gazed at me a moment, and then handed
me the wheel, saying; `Why, Bill, is that your
daughter? She's pretty! What will you take for
her?'
“`You may have her for the asking,' said my
father—cursing me.
“He entered into conversation—and I did all I
could to conciliate him, and please my father.
While we were speaking, a man came over the
old field, by our cabin, with a load of wood on a
sledge, and he stepped in to warm himself. He
was surprised to see we had no wood such a cold
day; and he went out and brought some in—made
up a fire, and threw off a good many logs for us
when he went away. Adams then went down to
the grocery to bring something for us to eat; and,
notwithstanding I had a horrible dislike to him—
and well I might, from his manner to me—yet I
rejoiced on account of my mother.
“After this, Adams almost lived at our house.
My father was out with him late and early. Adams
had acquired a great influence over him; and they
brought food and clothing to the house, which led
my mother and me often to wonder where they
could have obtained them, as neither of them ever
did any work. They would return in the middle
of the night with flour, butter, eggs, meat, and various
articles, of almost every kind; some of which
were very costly. They had fixed up our dwelling
into something like comfort, by stopping up the
chinks between the logs with stones and clay.
They remained within all day, and at night
went out. Through the day, they would drink
and sleep, and seemed anxious not to be observed;
for they staid most of their time up in a kind of
loft, above the room, where mother and I were:
they brought home, one night, a small sheet-iron
stove, and put it up there, introducing the pipe into
the chimney. When they would go up into the
loft, they often dragged the ladder after them, and
only let it down for me to take up their dinner, or
water to mix with their drink. Thus the winter
wore away, and the spring came. In the mean
time, Adams importuned me with the most infamous
proposals, and when I treated him with
contempt, he offered to marry me, and got my father
to second him. My mother was bedridden;
and I was her constant companion, day and night.
I kept from her my trouble as long as I could, but
she caught me repeatedly weeping and sobbing
through the night, and insisted upon knowing what
ailed me. I told her; and, also, that I loathed
bad; that he was leading my father into every
wickedness; and, that he would not only bring
deeper sorrow on us than we had ever known, but sin
and shame. My mother seemed staggered by what I
said. All at once, my father's manner to her changed.
Since his connexion with Adams, he had drunk
less than he formerly did; he was less at home, and
he was kinder than he had been for years; this
made her think, though she was fast falling into
the grave, that happier times were yet to come.
In fact, she was comparatively happy to what she
had been before we knew Adams. Not so with me.
I believe, from the manner in which my father
spoke to me, when he first told me he wished I
would marry Adams, that he would have avoided
it, but he dared not. I told him how Adams had
behaved to me, and that I would do any thing to
please him but that. He looked angry, as I spoke:
he was perfectly sober; and I have sometimes
thought it might have been at what I told him of
Adams. It was after this, he became kind to my
mother, and asked her to persuade me to marry
Adams. When she spoke to me on the subject, I
begged her, on my knees, never to mention it to
me again. This was in the night: early in the
morning, my father came home with Adams, and
she told him what I had said. I was out of the
house, but I knew it by his manner, when I came
in. He looked moody, and went into the loft to
Adams. In a short time, I heard them conversing
together: Adams was very angry. I heard my father
say, `Have patience; she's but a girl; she'll
must consent, or I'll blow you, old boy. It must be
quick, too—I will have her.' I heard no more.
Adams descended the stairs, and looked furiously
at me, as he went out. This man was so much of
a ruffian, that, though he pretended to be attached
to me, he never could assume a gentle tone, in
speaking to me. His eye glowed on me like a hyena's,
impatient for its prey. I never left the side
of my mother, and he never could wile me away
by any art, or I know not what would have become
of me.
“In about an hour, my father descended from the
loft, very drunk. He sat down, called me to him,
and tried to persuade me that Adams would make
me a good husband, and to marry him. I told him
I could not. He then stamped, raved, and swore
he would kill me. Then he fell to entreaty, and
said I would save his life by it. He moved me so,
that I was on the eve of consenting, when Adams
came in intoxicated. Without saying a word, he
went up stairs, and sternly called my father. What
my father said seemed to pacify him, for I heard
no more high words between them, the whole day;
and, at night, they went out together. In the middle
of the night, my mother awoke, and heard me
sobbing, and began to speak to me of Adams. She
used every entreaty; and, after extorting a half
promise from me, that I would marry him, she fell
asleep. I arose,—for it seemed to me that I never
should know sleep again,—hurried on my clothes,
and sat down on a chair, where I rocked myself to
and fro, for hours. At last, I rose up and went out.
Away, in the moon-light, I saw the village, and I
thought, could there be one there so miserable as
I? I had no companions—no one from the village
ever came to see my mother; and whenever I
went there, to buy any thing at the grocery, some
of the by-standers would stop me, and ask questions
about my father and Adams, and throw out dark
hints. The only persons that ever came to our
house, were some of the neighbouring negroes. In
fact, my father, but particularly Adams, discouraged
the coming of any one else. I heard Adams once
say to my father—`Let the niggers come; they
can't bear testimony against a white man.' The
night was, indeed, beautiful. I sat down upon the
door-sill and looked round upon the scene, and
thought that God's bright world was a mockery to
me. The scene increased my sense of loneliness
and desolation, and I walked behind the house and
entered a dark stable, that Adams had built of
rough logs,—for I felt as if I wanted to be in the
dark,—and I covered myself up in the straw. How
long I remained there, I do not know; but, at last,
I heard footsteps near to me, and, in a moment afterwards,
the door of the stable opened, and Adams
and my father entered.
“`Confound it,' said Adams; `while you were
drinking there, I gained all this booty! What in
the devil kept you so late?'
“`Why,' said my father, `after I left you, as I
told you, I ran that rusty nail into my hand, up to
the head, in getting over a fence. My arm is so
swelled, and it pains me so, that I feel it at the top
of my shoulder.'
“`You must bathe it in whisky,' replied Adams.
But get a spade. We must put this ready into
that tin box that's over the door, and bury it here.
Nobody will ever think of looking into the stable
for it. I like to done for that fellow. I tell you
what, he loves cash. After I knocked him off of
his horse, I had to give him two pretty deep digs
with my carving knife, before I got it. Come, be
after the spade—it's round the house, I believe.'
“My father went after the spade. Adams stood
within the stable, where the light shone on him
through the door. I dared scarcely breathe. Once
he turned his face towards me. I felt a cold chill
in every vein: I thought he had discovered me.
My heart seemed to me to beat so loudly, that he
had heard it. It occurred to me that he knew I
was in the stable, and that he would send my father
away for something, and then what would become
of me! As this reflection crossed my mind,
I was on the eve of springing up and darting past
him, when he muttered to himself, with a devilish
smile, tossing up what appeared to be a purse of
money, and catching it, as he spoke—
“`This is a big haul to-night. Bill thinks more
of his daughter than I thought was in him. I'll
frighten him till I get her. She begins to give in,
hey. I'll pay her up for this fooling—the way her
mother's fixed is nothing to what she'll know.'
“My father now entered with the spade, said
he, couldn't at first find it, and as he complained
very much of his arm, Adams put the money in
the tin box, dug the hole, and buried it; he
covered it over carefully, pushed a stick in, so that
I lay, lifted a bundle of straw from my side, threw
it down and stood over me. After standing a moment
he gathered up some loose trodden straw,
that lay at my very feet, walked away, and scattered
it over the spot where he had buried the
box. All the while my father kept walking to and
fro, shaking his hand, blowing on it, and exclaiming
how much it pained him. When Adams had scattered
the straw, they left the stable. As soon as
they left, I hurried to the door to see which way
they went: my anxiety was to get into the house
undiscovered. As they passed round one corner of
the house, I ran like lightning round the other,
and got to the door, before they turned the front
corner. Just as I was lifting the latch, they came
round the corner and saw me. I pretended to
have been in the act of leaving the house, remarking,
`Is it you? I heard a noise, and did not know
what it was.' Adams tried to be very gentle, was
in high spirits, and said, `Jane, your father has run
a rusty nail in his hand, and it hurts him: you
ought to make a bread and milk poultice for it.'
“At my father's request I did so. In applying
the poultice, I was astonished to see how much the
arm was swollen. He was in great pain; he drank
deeply to deaden it, but without effect: at last he
took a large quantity of opium, which Adams was
in the habit of using, threw himself on the floor, and
went to sleep. When my father awoke he was
delirious—raving mad. The swelling had extended
from his arm, which had become perfectly black,
to the body; Adams had to assist me, while I bathed
and looked on, while the ravings of my father
frightened her nearly to death. In his ravings he
spoke as if he had committed crimes at the instigation
of Adams; and he would curse and bite at him
as he held him. This infuriated Adams so much,
that he threatened to kill my father, and struck
him several times over the head with such violence
that he became insensible, and continued in
a stupor for several hours. I could make no resistance
to Adams's assault on my father, but I fell
down on my knees before him, and begged him in
mercy to desist. He sat down by him, as he lay
insensible, and said not one word until he recovered.
My father looked languidly round, asked for water,
and said he was much worse, but he did not seem
to know that Adams had ill treated him. I asked
him, if he did not think I ought to go somewhere
for a doctor. He said yes, yes, and begged me to
go at once. `Go,' said he, `to Squire Bennett's, at
the village—there's a great doctor comes from
town to tend his wife for a cancer. Go and get
him to come here, for God's sake, or I shall die.
We'll pay him any thing—Adams will pay him,'
Adams said not a word, but looked as moody and
dark as I had ever seen him—after awhile he
lightened up, and said—
“`Yes, go, Jane—go at once. I'll stay with
your father until you come back. If the doctor
isn't there, get them to tell you when he comes,
and you can go, at that time, after him.'
“I have said, the village was in sight of our
house, across the old fields, but we could not go
lie immediately between them. The path wound
by the side of the swamp, and then through a
wood to the village. The wood was very lonely—the
trees of great size, and close together,
while many wild vines and bushes grew among
them. I left the house, and hurried on, with a
rapid step, to Squire Bennett's, thinking all the
time of my father. I had got about half way
through the wood—to the loneliest spot in it—
when I heard quick steps behind, and I turned,
and beheld Adams not ten feet from me. My
first impulse was to run, but he called out, `Jane,
your father says'—and, thinking he had some
message from my father, I involuntarily stopped
till he reached me. He then caught hold of my
arm, and asked me, `If I had been fooling with
my father.' `How fooling?' said I. `Are you
willing to marry me? Stop till you answer!' he
exclaimed. `There, take a seat upon that log.'
`We can talk as we walk on,' said I. He forced
me to sit down by him—saying, `No, it must be
settled before you walk another step. You can't
fool me. You heard what your father said in his
crazy fits! I see you think it's true. Then, by
—, you can't leave this woods until you promise
to marry me. I'm not going to have you
to tell tales! Do you promise me?'
“I knew not what to do, or say. I was terror-stricken
by his manner, for he seemed desperately
resolute. `Let me go on for the doctor,' said
I, at last; `this is no time to talk about such
things: wait till my father gets well.'
“`Ha!—you want to deceive me, do you!' he
exclaimed, seizing both my hands, and looking at
me with an awful eye. `You shall die before you
do! Do you mark that? Yes, die on this spot!
I have you now!' he exclaimed, with a malicious
laugh. `I can do with you just what I choose,
and then end you and chuck you into the swamp.
Will you marry me, my bird?'
“`I will! I will!' I cried out, for he looked as
if he would fulfil his threat; and I feared he would,
be my promises what they might.
“`You will, hey!—that's right! When?'
“`When my father is well. Let me now go, I
entreat you, for the doctor!'
“`Then swear it!' said he—`swear it!'
“`I swear,' I faltered out.
“`You must swear,' he exclaimed, `according
to law!' And he drew from his pocket a small
Bible that I had often read to my mother, made
me get down on my knees before him, put both
hands on the book, and swear to keep my promise,
with the awful penalty, if I did not, of
having my mother and father murdered before
my eyes by him, and of being myself his victim,
with the most terrible denunciations upon my soul
eternally. `Here,' said he, handing me the Bible,
`the book's yours; take it, and remember your
oath. I'll remember the other, if you don't—
mark that! Can I trust you,' said he, and he
grasped my head, with a hand on each side of it,
pushed it back, and looked me in the eye steadily.
`Remember, you're mine, whether you keep
your oath or not, and if you don't, you'll see your
house with them. Go after the doctor.'
“At his bidding I arose. I felt as if I were
about fainting; but, fearing the awful consequences
if I should, situated as I was with him,
I summoned an unnatural energy, and, after staggering
a few steps, hurried on. He stood, looking
after me, and when I had proceeded a few
yards from him, he called out, `Stop!' I stood
still. `Come here.' I obeyed his command. `Do
you remember your oath?' said he, between his
teeth, as he grasped my shoulder. `I do! I do!'
I exclaimed. `Will you keep it?' he asked, pressing
my shoulder as if he meant to crush me to the
earth. `I will! I will! I will!—only let me go
for the doctor!' `Go,' said he; and I hurried off
with all the strength I could command. I dared
not look behind me until I got to a turn in the
path; then I stole a fearful glance, as I turned, to
the place where I had left Adams; he had followed
a few steps after, and was standing as if
irresolute. I stood behind a tree, and looked at
him. He walked up and down several times, and
then hastened off towards our house. I felt relieved
when I knew he was not dogging me, and, with
a quick step, I advanced, but not without casting
many and many a fearful look behind. Thinking
of nothing distinctly but with confused thoughts
of every thing—my half promise to my mother
of the previous night—Adams burying the money—what
he said—his treatment to my father
—my father's illness—my mother's—this last
scene with Adams—passing through my mind,
soon reached the house of Squire Bennett, in the
village. I entered his office, and found, within,
several persons; some of whom I took to be constables,
and some I knew to be neighbouring farmers.
I soon discovered they were talking of the
robbery which Adams had committed.
“`Is there no clew for detecting the robber?'
asked the squire.
“`The doctor says,' observed one, whom I took
to be a constable, `that it ain't proper to talk to
him about it yet, he's so badly hurt. He's got two
stabs in him, deep ones, and then, you see, he laid
out all night and bled like a pig.'
“`It's old Jemmy Swartz, the drover, you tell
me,' said Squire Bennett, `who lives over by the
Purchase?”'
“Is it possible?” interrupted Bradshaw. “Why,
Jane, I remember the circumstances of his being
robbed and stabbed, perfectly: he was just returning
home, after having sold a drove of cattle.”
“Yes, sir,” continued Jane Durham, “the very
same. The squire asked me what I would have.
I related to him the terrible state of my father's
arm, and said we wanted to have the doctor, who
came out to see Mrs. Bennett, to come and see
him.
“`Why, my dear,' said the squire, who was a
good-natured man, `I don't know whether the
doctor will go or not: he's a great press of patients.
However, you had better come and see him yourself—he'll
be here about half after four, this afternoon.'
“I inquired after Mrs. Bennett's health, and
left the office. Scarcely any one observed me,
they were so much occupied in talking of the robbers.
“`It will be hard work to find out the fellow
that did it,' said one of the by-standers—`at least,
till Jemmy is well. The robber managed well—
we couldn't track him at all—he either went up,
or come down the main road.'
“I left the squire's, and was soon on my way
home. Home! what a home! When I reached
the outskirts of the woods, near the village, I sat
down on a stump and wept bitterly, wringing my
hands in very anguish. At last, I dried my eyes
and reflected upon what I should do. I determined
to escape Adams one moment, and then I thought
of the horrible oath he had made me take, and
that it was impossible. Well, thought I, with a
casuistry, which, I think, much less wrong now,
than I did then, for I shuddered while I used it, I
promised to marry him when my father was well,
but I did not promise that I would not tell how he
has treated me, making me swear to marry him.
The threats which he used in the woods, when he
said, I believed what my father said in his crazy
fits, and he was not going to let me tell tales—
frightened me awfully—while the very suspicions
that he expressed, gave me a hint, which he little
thought would occur to me. I hoped, while my
father was ill, Adams would not importune me,
and to prevent him from doing it, I determined to
tell to my father, while he was by, merely as if I
were telling the news, the conversation which I
that part of it which stated, it would be hard to
find the robber. Knowing Adams's selfish nature,
I was satisfied this would keep him so much on the
alert, for himself, that he would forget me. Then
again, I thought, if my father died, and somehow,
I feared he would, the only way of escaping
Adams would be, to inform the magistrate he was
the robber. This could not hurt my father in the
grave, and it would save me, from worse than
death; but the thought of the risk I should run,
if Adams suspected me in the least, of having such
an intention, gave me a sickness at the heart, that
almost overcame me. Had it not been for my poor
mother, I don't think I ever would have returned
to the house; but, after reflecting upon all these
suggestions again and again, and upon my poor
mother's condition, I resolved, in the event of my
father's death, if there was no other way of avoiding
a union with Adams, to inform upon him. I
then fell down on my knees, by the stump, and
clasping the Bible in my uplifted hands, I prayed,
with the fervour of my whole soul, and with
streaming eyes, to God, that he would forgive me
if I was wrong in taking such a horrible oath—
that he would suffer me to escape without breaking
it—and that, if I must, to save my mother and
my father, be the wife of Adams, he would sustain
me; for I felt I could not sustain myself. I arose
by a sudden resolution, and soon reached home.
I found my father calm and conscious, but much
worse. His arm was offensive to the smell, and
his body, all in the region of the shoulder, inflamed
Adams was by his side; he had brought down their
bed from the loft, and spread it on the floor for
him. My mother was sitting up in her bed, gazing
on my father. I told my father, I was to go for
the doctor again, at five o'clock. He asked me
who I saw, and I related the conversation concerning
the robbery. My father looked at Adams when
I told it. Adams started, walked about the room,
whispered something to him, and after asking me
a great many questions, went up into the loft.
“At five o'clock, I went for the doctor. He had
seen Mrs. Bennett when I arrived, and was just
getting into his gig, having said he could not find
the way to my father's. I addressed him, and
earnestly entreated him to come, saying I would
run on before, and show him the way. He inquired
if I was the wife of the sick man: I told
him I was the daughter.
“`Miss,' said he, `I cannot suffer you to run on
before and show me the way; but if you will ride
with me, and point it out, I will go.'
“Perhaps I should have said that, expecting the
visit of the doctor, I had fixed up our cabin, and
arrayed myself in a new dress, (which my father
had given me, in hopes of coaxing me to marry
Adams,) with all the neatness I was mistress of; for,
I thought, if I looked well-dressed, he would feel
more sure of being paid, and be more apt to come.
“I entered the doctor's gig. We had to go a
considerable distance farther, by the wagon-track,
than by the path through the woods—for a gig
could not travel on the path; and the wagon-track
swamp, into the old fields. The doctor, you know
him,—or did know him, for he's dead now,—was
the celebrated Dr. P—n. He spoke very kindly
to me, as we rode along, and gave me an ease
which has surprised me often since, when I have
thought of it. I told him of my father's hand, my
mother's illness; and, without my knowing it, he had
learned from me every thing I dared to tell of myself
and family, by the time we reached our house.
My father and mother were alone when we entered.
I saw Adams peering down on the doctor,
from the loft. After a few minutes, he descended.
The moment the doctor beheld my father's hand,
he exclaimed—`Why was not a physician sent for
before?' He asked several questions concerning
my father, and then turned to my mother. He
took a seat by her bed, felt her pulse, and spoke
kindly to her, observing that he would prescribe
for her, too. He then again examined my father's
head and arm, and, looking at his head, said—
“`He must have been severely beaten on the
head—was he not?'
“Adams spoke up quickly, and said—`It was in
getting over a fence that he hurt his hand: he fell
on his head.'
“Adams eyed me, but I tried to show no emotion.
“The doctor here gave me directions as to bathing
my father's arm, and giving him medicines.
“I told him we had not the medicines, and asked
him if he thought we could get them at the apothecary's
shop in the village.
“`Yes,' said he; `come with me. I will drive
you there in a short time. It's in my way to the
city.'
“Adams did not offer to go; for, in the present
state of excitement in the village, on account of
the robbery, he had no wish to make his appearance—yet,
I thought he did not like the idea of my
going with the doctor.
“When we entered the gig, the doctor asked me
who Adams was; and he evidently suspected something
wrong from my confused answers.
“`Do not be alarmed, my dear,' said he; `but
it is proper that I should say to you, your father is
in a dangerous condition.'
“I burst into tears. He soothed me and changed
the subject, asking me a great many questions of
myself. At the village he obtained the medicines
for me, and drove me back home. He stopped a
moment at the house, repeated his directions as to
the medicines, and hurried off, as it was nearly
dark.
“When the doctor went, Adams cross-questioned
me a great deal as to what he had said to me, and
of my answers. The doctor came the next day, all
the way from the city, to see my father. He said
the hand was mortifying; and he feared it was too
late for an amputation. So it proved. Three days
after the first visit of the doctor, while Adams was
away—and he had absented himself a good deal
since the robbery—my father called me to his
bed-side, and was apparently very anxious to communicate
something to me. After several vain
efforts to speak, he faltered out, `Never marry
Adams!'—and died.”
Overcome by her emotions, Jane Durham here
buried her face in her hands, and wept bitterly.
Bradshaw knew it was best to let her grief have
its way. After a few minutes, she continued:
“My father's last words satisfied me that his
fear of Adams had been the only motive that induced
him to ask me to marry him. It fixed
my determination never to do so. Adams hired
some of the neighbouring negroes to dig a grave
near the house, where the corpse was laid. My
mother—my poor mother, notwithstanding all she
had suffered from the neglect and abuse of my
father, loved him dearly; his death afflicted her
sorely. It was almost too much for her at the
time; and it hastened her end. The earth was
scarcely on my father, before the bed on which he
died was removed out of the room, and while I
was sitting on it, with feelings I cannot describe,
Adams asked me `When we should be married?'
Forgetting all prudence, I exclaimed, never! never!
My father, with his dying breath, told me never to
marry you!
“Adams started as if a thunderbolt had struck him.
“`Did he say that?' asked he, of my mother.
She said nothing, but inclined her head. He
clenched his hand, and facing me, asked, `Do you
mean to keep your oath?' At this instant the
doctor drove up to the door. While the doctor was
fastening his horse, Adams came close to me, looking
like an incarnate devil, and said, in a low voice
through his teeth—
“`Remember your oath! Get ready to-night—
I will bring a preacher here, and we will be married.'
“The doctor entered. He sat down by my mother's
bed, and tried to make us forget our misfortunes,
by interesting us in the case of the robbery.
He said he was attending Swartz—that he was
better. `To-morrow,' continued he, `the magistrate
will attend him to take his deposition. He
may, by taking cold, or by some imprudence, be
taken off yet. It is proper his account of the robbery
should be made public—he can, I believe, describe
the person of the robber.'
“Adams, you may suppose, was no careless listener
to this. He kept his seat a moment or two;
and, as I passed near him, he said, `Mind, I will
come to-night:' and he left the house. My mind
was made up: I looked after him till I saw him
enter the woods; and when the doctor left the
house, I followed him out, and narrated to him,
hurriedly, my situation, and all I knew of Adams
and of the robbery.
“`There is not one moment to be lost!' said he.
`Get into my gig, and I will drive you to the magistrate's:
you must make a deposition of the facts;
and to-night, instead of having you for a bride,
Jane, the hand-cuffs of the constables will clasp
him much more appropriately—the infernal scoundrel!
Don't be alarmed: it will be so arranged,
that when he comes to the house to-night, he will
be taken.'
“The doctor drove rapidly to the magistrate's—
called the squire into a private room, where I narrated
the facts that I knew of the robbery, the burying
of the money, &c. The warrant for his arrest
was intrusted to three trusty persons. My dread
till the coming of Adams. I could not leave my
mother alone—that was impossible—and I feared
Adams might be at the house, suspect me, and fulfil
his threat, or that something terrible would occur
at his arrest. The doctor read my feelings, and
told me not to be alarmed. `I will take you home,'
said he, `and, as it is now near night, I will stay
with your mother and yourself until they have
taken him. He must, also, be well secured—I never
read of a greater scoundrel.”
“The doctor took the magistrate aside, borrowed
a pair of pistols from him, and took me home. He
told me the plan was to take Adams as he came
through the woods, if possible, but, if not, to surround
the house after he had entered. `You and
I have the post of danger, Jane,' he said, `and,
therefore, of honour;—I joke. Don't be alarmed;
there's no danger: I shall dissect the scoundrel yet.'
“`Could not the constable hide in the stable?'
said I.
“`Oh, no! that won't do. If Adams should be
in the house when they entered the stable, he would
see them, and, probably, he is now lurking in the
woods, watching if any one comes to the house.'
“We found my mother terribly frightened: she
told us, that, a short time after we left, Adams had
returned, and threatened to kill her and me, if I
did not marry him. He had been up in the loft,
armed himself, and gone out, saying, as he went,
he would return at night.
“I got supper for the doctor, while he sat and
conversed with me—oh! so differently to what I
I was thought to be fond of study; so much
so, that Mr. Lusby, as my father was poor, and
could not school me, rather than I should not be
taught, received me without charge. I availed
myself of all opportunities of reading, at the Swamp,
but they were precious few, indeed. A Bible and
an old volume or two were all the books I ever
had, and they were burned by my father, in a fit
of intoxication. Listening to the doctor, and thinking
of his kindness, I, at times, entirely forgot my
own situation, Adams, and the catastrophe awaiting
him. Hours thus passed away. My mother lay
in bed, in a kind of insensibility—her usual way.
About eleven o'clock, we heard footsteps approach
the door, and some one stopped at it, as if listening.
We heard a low whisper, and then the persons
walked round the house.
“`It's Adams, I suspect,' said the doctor, in a
low tone: `he has some one with him. It may be
the constables; if it is, it is no use to go out; and,
if it is Adams, I had better let him come in. The
constables will surround the house and be more
sure of him.'
“It was a bright moonshiny night: there were
no trees around the house, and the constables, if
they were on the alert, must have secreted themselves
in the woods.
“`Don't be frightened,' said the doctor; `we
must converse as if we had no suspicions.' So saying,
he took up the conversation, as though there
had been no interruption. We heard some one
again advancing, and, in a moment more, the door
man, dressed in a rusty suit of black. He spoke
to the doctor gruffly, told his companion to sit down,
and took a seat himself.
“`Is Mrs. Durham worse?' asked Adams of the
doctor.
“`Much worse,' said the doctor, without turning
to Adams, for he was scrutinizing his companion in
black.
“`Why, Hollands,' he exclaimed, `is that you?'
“The man was somewhat confused, but he soon
rallied, and said, `Yes, sir.'
“`What brings you away out here? there is a
poor chance for you in the country, isn't there?'
“`People die every where, sir,' replied Hollands.
“`I brought him out,' said Adams, `to attend my
wedding. Jane and I are to be married to-night.
It's rather soon after the funeral, but her father
and I were friends, and it was his last wish I
should marry her, that she might have some one to
take care of her, and—'
“Here, the door opened without the ceremony
of a rap, and three constables entered, followed by
a magistrate and two other persons. Adams started
up, as if his first impulse was to dash by the constables
out of the house, but the number deterred
him, and he sat down.
“`Mr. Adams,' said one of the constables, `I arrest
you, sir.'
“`For what?' asked Adams, keeping his seat and
endeavouring to be self-possessed, while his husky
voice and blanched cheek betrayed his emotions.
“`Here is the paper,' said the constable, showing
close to him.
“`Who applied for it?' asked Adams, turning to
the magistrate.
“`Jane Durham,' replied Mr. Bennet.
“`I never killed the old man, her father,' exclaimed
Adams. `She has sworn to a d—d lie.
Ask the doctor there, he'll tell you that his hand
mortified, and killed him.'
“`'Tis not for murder,' said the magistrate; `it
is for the robbery of Jemmy Swartz.'
“Adams trembled, while his assumed self-possession
forsook him. He looked at me with a deadly
hate, then to the door, as if he would escape; but
he saw the effort would be hopeless, as several persons
stood between him and it—and by it one, not
the most valiant of the party, ostentatiously displayed
a great horse-pistol. After a strong effort
to recover himself, he seemed to reflect whether
my testimony could affect him—for he had some
familiarity with courts of justice—and asked,
“`Can what her father said against me, to her,
be given against me?'
“`To make a long story short,' said the magistrate—`she
saw you bury the money.'
“Adams snatched a knife from his pocket, and
sprung at me—but the constables caught him instantly.
He struggled fearfully with them, striving
to get at me, but they hurled him to the floor, and
bound him hand and foot. He loaded me with imprecations,
and said he would have my life yet.
`This is not a hanging matter,' said he. `It is only
penitentiary, and that don't last for ever. When
I'm out, look out.'
“`Don't mind him,' said the magistrate. `Come
and show us where he buried the money.'
“I led them to the stable, and pointed out the
place. They soon dug up the tin box, and found
in it five hundred dollars in notes, and a few dollars
in silver. The notes were in the drover's pocket-book,
which had his name on it. I left them searching
about the stable, and went into the house to see
after my mother. Just as I entered, one of the
constables said, pointing to the man whom the doctor
called Hollands, who came with Adams—`We
ought to take this man to jail—oughtn't we? he's
his comrade.'
“`You've no proof against me,' said Hollands,
very much frightened. `I never heard tell of the
robbery before. I can prove, pint blank, that I
was in town. Adams will tell you I had nothing
to do with it—had I, Hen?'
“`You had as much to do with it as I had,' said
Adams.
“`Sir,' said Hollands, turning to the doctor, `I
hav'n't seen him, sir—I'll swear to it—I hav'n't seen
him for these two weeks, before to-night.'
“`What did he want with you, Hollands?' asked
the doctor. `Tell the whole truth, now—that's the
best way for you. Honesty's the best policy.'
“`Why, sir,' said Hollands, after a good deal of
hesitation, and stammering, `I'll jist out with the
matter. You see, Adams come to me, in town, last
night, a little after dark, and he asked me to go
and drink with him, and I did. While we were
drinking, he asked me how I come on; and if I got
many bodies for the doctors now-a-day; and if
wanted, but the season not being sickly, there was
a poor chance of them; that I wanted one very badly,
just now; and would go halves with any body
who would help me to get one, and give him no
trouble about it. `Well,' said he, `if you'll do me
a small favour, I'm your man. You know,' said he,
`you've played the parson in some of our shines.
If you will put on your old suit of black, and go
out to the Long Swamp with me, and pretend to
marry me to a girl there, I'll give you a body that's
right by the house—a fresh one: you may have it
all to yourself. You can ride out with me in a
carry-all I've got; and when you've married me to
the little hussy, I'll help you to dig up the body.
You can take it to town in the carry-all.' I asked
him who the girl was. He said she was a fool of
a country girl, who was his miss; that she bothered
him to make an honest woman of her; and that I
could do it as well as the best kind of a parson. I
agreed to come with him, and we came out.'
“Think of it, Mr. Bradshaw, it was the body of
the father, with which he meant to procure the
ruin of the daughter! Why dwell more upon him.
He was convicted, and sentenced to the penitentiary
for ten years.
“In the court-house, at his trial, he could not hide
his hatred of me: He cursed me outright, and
threatened my life, while I was giving in my testimony.
He asked to address the jury just before
they retired. He told them I had killed my father;
that my character was infamous; that a negro who
was my paramour—had assaulted the drover, and
stable, and that I laid it on him to screen myself
and the negro. After the death of my father, and
the conviction of Adams, my mother and myself
continued to live at the Swamp. She was rapidly
sinking to the grave; Dr. P— continued to attend
her, through the spring and summer, till she died.
I might say he was at the house almost every day.”
Here Jane Durham paused, and Bradshaw could
see the blush mantling on her cheek, even in the
moonlight. “I have narrated,” she continued,
“the most wretched part of my life, save that
which I have to add to it of the last week; but
not the most sinful. You know, Mr. Bradshaw,
that Dr. P— had every qualification to win a
woman's affection. Reflect, reflect, sir, I was little
more than sixteen. He was an angel of light to
the men I had known. He had been the means
of rescuing me from Adams—he had befriended
me when I had no friend—he had been kind to my
father—I saw him daily by the bed-side of my
mother, he supported her and me, when, but for
him, we might have starved. He brought me
books; he praised my mind; he sat by me for hours
in our lonely dwelling in the old fields, as my mother
lay insensible on her bed, and taught and read
to me. He praised my person, and told me how I
should adorn it—and all this before he spoke to me
of love. I had thought of him by day and by night,
and loved him without once thinking of the passion,
or its consequences. Is it any wonder that I gave
him my affections, yielded to him without any tie,
but the tie which we are told is linked in sorrow
to Adams, let what might be the tie. I know, I
know he loved me,” said she, bursting into tears—
“he may have struggled with his feelings more
than I struggled with mine. Better born, better
bred—but for the distinctions of society and my
miserable family, I might have been nearer to him,
if not dearer; and more honourable, if not more
happy—yes, yes, much more happy—for the very
education he gave me—the refinement he taught—
the sensibility he enlivened—told me more acutely
what I was. But if I erred in yielding—mastered
by a passion which I could not control—yielding to
a tie of love, when no other tie was dreamed of—
and not that—for I deemed him unmeasurably
above me—if I erred, has not mine been the sorrow,
and the shame, and the deep humiliation. Who, I
ask, would hear my story, and wish to make it
their own? Who can hear it, and not feel that I
have some justification for what I am. No, merciful
and holy God! I may fold another to my heart,
for the daily bread which I eat in bitterness, and
in bitterness give to my child; but he who first
won it is there indelible and ever present as yon
bright star in heaven—if I ever yield this faded and
frail form for bread, it shall not be to sustain my
own miserable life—no—but my child's, my child's,
there is no prostitution, at least of the soul, in that.
But why dwell upon this? I thought I had taught
myself entirely to hide such feelings. The world,
sir, has no ear for that sophistry, though it is an
impulse of our better nature, that tries to apologize
for the errors which our pride, as well as our conscience
tell us is not justifiable.”
“Towards midsummer, my mother died: she
passed away like the flame from the wick, when
the oil is exhausted. She said just before she died to
Dr. P—, `I see how it is, with you and my
daughter. I wish, Oh! how I wish it had been
otherwise. It would have saved me a pang keen
as death, but you have a good heart, and if you do
not cast her off—and do not let her dying mother
charge you do not—she will be happier than her
mother, though she was a lawful wife. Bury me
by my husband—he was unkind to me while he
lived, but he was my husband, and now he's in his
grave, he cannot hurt me, though I am near to
him, with even an unkind word.' I did not think
my mother dreamed of my situation with Dr.
P—. She had seen it all—but not until it was
too late—and then her affection for me would not
let her speak of it—it burst out, though, in her
dying words. We buried her by my father. Long,
long, after the grass waved over her, and I had
left the Swamp, and lived in the city, did her last
words sound in my ears, sleeping and waking—
Those words of hers, a `pang keener than death,'
have been a thousand deaths to me. I thought of
them the first morning I spent in prison with that
wretched woman till I believed the judgment of
God had fallen on me, and I was to be like her:
they will haunt me till the sod is on me, as it is on
my poor mother. But whoever sinned that did
not sorrow for it: here, even in this world, the unknown
retribution of the other weighs us down
with an undefinable dread—a dread, that, while it
stretches to the dark beyond, encompasses us here,
poisoning our joy, and maddening our sorrow.
“No one not placed in my situation can judge
of my feelings. It is easy to say what I should
have done, but who would have done otherwise?
—who could have done otherwise?—My mother's
last words rung in my ears, but I had yielded before
I heard them. They but made me unhappy
when I recalled them. Dr. P— sometimes brought
to the house in town where I lived, friends to sup
with him: and, among others, Mr. Glassman. Mr.
Glassman has his faults, I know, and they are said
to be many and grievous; but you know he is a
fascinating man, and no one sees his errors but
those who feel them. Almost every evening,
through the winter, and often in the summer, he
would sit hour by hour, and converse with Dr.
P—: he was his most intimate acquaintance.
He possesses that worldly wisdom that Dr. P—
so much wanted, and he was often his adviser.
Dr. P—'s brow would often darken, when playing
with his child, as he thought of its birth; but
the lectures at the college, after he was appointed
professor, and his extensive practice, with his increasing
ambition, (for, as he felt his powers among
men, his purposes became more determined and
loftier,) so occupied his mind, that he rarely, at last,
let such reflections trouble him. I observed this
more particularly, after he became acquainted
with Mr. Glassman. Mr. Glassman, who seemed
to know every thing, would talk to him in such
eloquent terms of his profession—of the great men
in it—and of the glorious opportunity there was
for him to become distinguished. Oh! how Mr.
Glassman loves talent—it made even me, ambitious
Whenever he would come to see the doctor,
and he was not in, he would scarcely stay a
minute. I once asked him why he did not stay
longer. He looked at me with a soul-searching
eye, and said—`Jane, I have a bad character
among your sex—the doctor is my friend: he loves
you, you love him—if I call here while he is out, and
stay, some busy tattler will tell him, that my visits
are prompted by another feeling than that of friendship.
Though I may have deceived one of your
sex, when they trusted in me—so, don't trust me—
I never deceived one of mine. The doctor is my
friend: on his noble and generous nature I might
rely with confidence, that no slanderous imputation
of the world would break our friendship—but,
I should be careful that no suspicion should, for a
moment, darken it—particularly, when that suspicion
would strike a tender point—a point upon
which men are most vulnerable—and when I can
so easily prevent it. Therefore, do not, from the
impulse of your courteous feelings, ask me again
to stay, because a woman's voice has a power over
me, which I have not schooled myself to resist.'
“Mr. Glassman always treated me with respect,
and when other gentlemen came to the house with
the doctor, his manner to me made them respectful.
Dr. P— had told me of Mr. Glassman's
infirmities—that he was subject to fits of low spirits,
and that, without being at all an habitual
drinker, he too frequently sought relief in the cup.
One evening, I shall never forget, Mr. Glassman
came to the house intoxicated. What he had
his melancholy almost to madness. When
he entered, I observed he looked sad; but I did
not discern any thing in his conduct that showed
his condition. Dr. P— saw it, and tried to cheer
him with lively conversation, but Mr. Glassman
shook his head, and said—
“`No! P— it won't do. Come, Jane, sing to
me, sing Burns's song to Mary in Heaven. You
are the image of a woman I loved and love, who
loved me more even than you love P—. I
wronged her. She is dead: if the grave would
but give her back to life again, what a different
man should I be. Remorse! remorse! I cannot
drown it. Lethe is but a fable stream, or I would
make a pilgrimage to the world's end to find it, if,
but to take one draught of its oblivious waters.
Come, Jane, sing to me—sing to me.'
“I, accordingly, sang for him. After struggling
with emotions that shook his soul, he became calmer,
and spoke of his past life. While he told how
wildly he had erred, and how, in the violence of
his passion, he had crushed his better nature, he
conveyed a moral to us, which he meant to convey,
no doubt, and which was not the less effective
from the unobtrusive manner in which it was drawn
—not in bold relief, at the end of the narrative,
but woven in every word of it.
“In the mean time, Dr. P—'s practice became
so extensive that he had hardly a moment
he could call his own. When the cholera was here,
he was up and out night and day. I begged and
prayed with him, for my sake, for his child's sake,
voice of distress—he often neglected the wealthiest
to visit the poorest. His humanity became known,
and in the middle of the night, there would come for
him some child or wife, and beg him to go and see
a father or husband. When he has asked the place
of their residence, I've shuddered to hear some miserable
lane or alley mentioned, where vice, poverty
and disease were struggling for supremacy. I
became so much alarmed one night, brooding over
my fears, that, when the doctor, who had been out
twice since midnight, got up to attend to one of
these wretched calls, I threw my arms round him,
and begged him not to leave me, feigning sickness
myself. `Jane,' said he, kindly, `don't be frightened
for me. I could not rest with the consciousness
that a poor wretch was ill whose life I might
save. Think, think a moment—your heart will
tell you I should not. You know I am a sinner,'
continued he, smiling, `and I must do something to
wash away my sins. Boerhaave says that the poor
are the best patients; for God is their paymaster:
so, come, let me go; and the first rich man who
sends for me may go somewhere else for a doctor,
and I will stay with you.' He kissed me,
and went. Near daybreak he returned, and complained
of being somewhat unwell, and asked to
see Glassman. I sent for him; and Mr. Glassman
and he were alone for half an hour. When
Glassman came out of the room, he said, the doctor
was quite unwell; that he had given himself
medicine, but that some of the profession must be
with him; he, accordingly, hastened after them.
wretchedly. He asked me to sit by him and hold
his hand, in a voice scarcely audible, so rapid had
been the advance of the disease. I summoned all
my energies, called the servants and told them to
get hot water, and all the other appliances, for I
was satisfied he had the cholera. But he beckoned
to me, and said, `No! no! only weak: I want rest
—sit by me.' I had no doubt of his own knowledge
of his case, and sat down by him. Alas! he
who had so much sagacity in others' ills, knew not
his own.”
Here, Jane Durham folded her arms closely, and,
by a strong effort, continued to speak, but each
word seemed to choke her.
“He died—the next day, he died—I need not
dwell upon it—we were left—my child and I—
to—(here she burst into a flood of tears, that choked
her utterance.)
“Did you know Dr. P—, Mr. Bradshaw?” she
said, at last.
“Slightly,” said Bradshaw. “He deserved all
the regard you gave him, I have no doubt, Jane;
for every one reveres his memory.”
“Yes, yes! I stole into his room, when they had
laid him in his grave-clothes, and gazed upon his
manly face, that had so often smiled on me, till I
thought he could not be dead—and I spoke to him
in a low voice, as if to wake him. I know no more
—I had a kind of dream. I thought I was buried
by my mother, and a flower that Dr. P— had
planted on my grave, was rooted in my heart and
nurtured there, and watered by my tears—Oh! the
I thought, Adams stood over me, with that man
beside him, and that they were bartering for my
body. I started up with a terrible scream. I had
been two weeks delirious. Oh! the agony of returning
consciousness. I looked around me with
a stony eye, that was as dry as an arid desert, and
I thought, if I only could weep, the fountains of life
would flow healthier, and cool the fiery fever in
my veins. I wept, at last, long and bitterly, and I
felt a sensation at my heart's core, as if some one
had done me the deepest injury, and I was learning
to forgive them. I know not why I should
have had this feeling, but so it was; and whenever
it returns upon me, though I cannot help it, I shudder
frequently at my own dark brooding, with a
superstitious dread that such repinings bode no
good.
“After my recovery, Mr. Glassman told me there
was a house of the doctor's which I had better occupy.
Accordingly, I moved into the one in which
you saw me. `The doctor,' he said, `had left money
in his hands for me.'
“When I came to reflect upon it, I hardly
thought it could be so: but what could I do?—and
how generous in Mr. Glassman so to cover his kindness!
Mr. Glassman frequently comes to see me—
very frequently; but he treats me with the same
respect and kindness that he ever did. I know the
world would not believe it, but, sir, we are as we
were.
“Mr. Glassman told me he had been more regular
in his habits, latterly. Sometimes he would
Once, since the doctor's death, he was very ill, for
some time, from a fit of excess. I had him brought
to the house, and waited on him. As he recovered,
I would sing for him, and read to him, hour by
hour. Since then, until lately, I did not know of any
thing of the kind in his habits: but he's a strange
man; yet, I would lay down my life for him—for,
whatever he may be to others, he is every thing
that is kind and gentlemanly to me.
“Week before last, when the carpets wanted
shaking, and the windows washing, Mr. Glassman
told me that he would send a man, who had been
hanging about his office, to do it. The man, accordingly,
came. I did not observe him particularly,
but gave him directions what to do, told Phœbe to
assist, and thought no more of him. Several times
he came and asked me to look at the window or
carpet, and see if he was doing them to please me.
I thought the man was anxious to please; and, that
I might not wound his feelings, I looked over his
work, and told him it was all right. After he had
done the work, he called several times, to know if
there was any thing more to do. Phœbe saw him
when he came, and I frequently heard him in the
kitchen, in conversation with her—but I thought
nothing of it. One evening,—the night you rescued
me in the lane,—I was sitting, thinking of Mr.
Glassman: for I had not seen him for two days, and
I felt alarmed. I was wondering why he had not
been to see me, as I generally saw him twice or
thrice, daily; when, nearly nine o'clock, a hack
drove up to the door, and this man, whom Mr.
and told me that Glassman was intoxicated and
crazy at a tavern; and that he was in a private
room, and kept calling for me. The man said, he
himself was doing an odd job there, and happened
to see Mr. Glassman in that state; and when Mr.
Glassman was put in a room, the tavern-keeper told
him to wait upon him. `Glassman was quiet,' he
said, `a moment, and asked if I hadn't been there,
and if I was not coming.' My feelings—my many
obligations to Mr. Glassman did not allow me to hesitate.
I asked the man if he could take me to the
place: he answered, quickly, `yes,' and said he had
brought a hack for that purpose. I determined to
go, not having the least suspicion, and being anxious
to do what I could to restore Mr. Glassman to
himself. Accordingly, I hurried on my cloak and
bonnet, and entered the hack with him. We drove
rapidly, I knew not whither. The man spoke not,
and I sat absorbed in my own reflections. After
driving a considerable distance, and, I thought,
turning many corners, we at last stopped in a narrow
lane. It was dark, and I could see objects
very indistinctly; for, you remember, it was a gusty
night. The man stepped out and tried to open the
door of the house—knocked repeatedly: no answer
was given. He then entered the hack, and told
the hackman to drive to Dean's. I asked him, as
we drove away, if Dean's was the tavern where
Mr. Glassman was? He said `yes.' `Why did
you not drive there, at once?' I asked. He hesitated
a moment, and then replied, `that he had
come there for a nurse for him. The tavern-keeper
It seemed to me strange; but I reflected the man
was, perhaps, not very bright, and said no more.
We soon stopped at another house. I heard the
sound of a violin. Around the door was a crowd
of men and boys, whose conversation shocked me.
The man who rode with me, asked a boy he called
Fritz, if he had seen old Moll. The boy replied,
`No.' The man then came to me, and said we had
better go in. He was evidently perplexed. I asked
him if Mr. Glassman was in there. He replied that
he was—but that we'd have to go through a ball-room,
that, perhaps, I wouldn't like. I still had no
suspicion of the truth of what the man had told;
but I thought he must be stupid or drunk. I entered
the house with him.
“I have seen little of the varieties of life, but I
immediately discovered from the persons around the
door, that this was a ball of the very lowest description
of people,—every moment the profanest
and most shocking language saluted my ears. Can
it be possible, I thought, that Mr. Glassman is
here?—The man preceded me, leading the way
into the room where the dancing was; saying that
we must pass through it, to get into Mr. Glassman's
room. The company in the room I cannot describe—they
were wretched men and women; almost
all of them were intoxicated, and many were
drinking at a counter that stood in one corner
covered with decanters. I told the man I would
turn back, and he must come in the morning, and
take me to Mr. Glassman. `Just come on,' said he,
`to the other end of the room, and take a seat a
find Mr. Glassman.' I followed after him, and took
a seat—the men and women, as I passed along,
stared at me, particularly the women, and addressed
me in a language, much of which I did not
understand, but what I did made me shudder—
they called my companion, familiarly, `Parsnips,'
and asked him what game he was after now, and
who I was. He gave some answer I did not understand,
and pointing to a seat, told me he would
be back in a moment. I heard him ask, as he left
me, of some one who stood staring at me, if he had
seen old Moll—`Yes,' said the person, `she is at
the other end of the room.' Left alone, I scarcely
had time to think, before a number of men and women
gathered round me, and asked me who I was.
The men attempted to seize me and take off my
bonnet, and the women stood by cursing me. One
person, who was quite a lad, told them to let me
alone—that I was nothing to them.
“`Yes,' said a woman, pushing a man towards
me, who looked like a countryman, `put her and
this new chap together.”
“`Hands off!' said the one they called new chap;
I can't stand every thing.' Here a terrible confusion
and quarrelling occurred: knives were drawn,
and lives threatened. I know not what happened;
I buried my head in my cloak to hide the sight.
I heard the cry of `murder!' `don't kill me!' and
`Johnson, you'd no business to hit that man!' amidst
many others! but I dared not look up. A crowd
appeared to pass out the door, and descend the
steps tumultuously. I looked round the room—there
and laughing at the counter. I did not know
what to do—I feared to address them, and I
thought, at first, that I would go out and try to find
my way home, but the quarrelling, noise, and imprecations
without, in the street, determined me
to stay where I was until the tumult had subsided—I
sat still in the most painful anxiety; it
appeared to me a lifetime. I kept my head buried
in my cloak and bonnet. As two persons passed
me, I heard one say to the other—`There's a gal
sowed up; let's see who she is?' `Oh! no matter,'
said the other, and they passed on. After, what
I thought a very long time, the man who took
me there came to me, and said—He thought I
had gone home, or he would have been with me
before. `The larks are waiting,' he continued;
`you had better let me take you home—Mr. Glassman's
not here.' I followed him out with alacrity:
there was not a single person at the door; we
entered a hack, and away it drove. I asked him
if there was any one killed, he said, `yes, there was.'
`Killed!' exclaimed a woman's voice, beside him,
that made me start. `I guess there was more 'an
one done for—Johnson, the watchman, I reckon,
could tell about it—he treated me, to find out if I
knew, but I guess old Moll's not exactly a young
one—but he must keep a look out when the court
sits. I'm pretty much slewed. Who's this gal
you've got here?”
“No matter; I'll show you before long,” said he,
in a voice that startled me—it sounded so like one
of old. I hoped for the best, but I said not a word.
not, yet I feared to speak. The night was so dark
and gusty, that I looked out in vain to observe the
place. We stopped at length, but I could not discover
where. The woman got out first, and tried
to open a door; she could not, and called to the
man to assist her. “Wait a moment,” said he, as
he went to her. He opened the door for her, returned
to the hack, caught me in his arms, lifted
me out, and told the hackman to drive on. I called
out to the driver, and entreated him not to leave
me; but he laughed, cracked his whip and redoubled
his speed. The man bore me into the house
where you rescued me, Mr. Bradshaw. Not until
the moment he discovered himself, had I the least
supposition that the man was Adams. I thought
myself safe from him at least for ten years.”
“He escaped from the penitentiary two months
since,” said Bradshaw; “he came here under an
assumed name, and remained unsuspected until he
stabbed a man in a row; he was then arrested, and
discovered to be the notorious Adams who robbed
Jemmy Swartz—and who was well known for
other delinquencies before that affair!”
“Oh! Mr. Bradshaw; how shall I express my
gratitude! In that lonely horrid place I thought no
help could come. Those women, gracious heaven!—
to think that they should delight in the ruin of one
of their own sex—that old Moll, I never did her
any harm—yet she appeared to entertain the most
demoniac hate towards me—her laugh!—I thought
myself among demons”—(here Bradshaw and Jane
Durham arose from the bench against the jail
we have described.) “What will become of
Adams?—though he is in these prison walls, I do
not feel safe.”
“Your oath! take that,” exclaimed a voice behind
them through the prison window. At the same
moment, Jane Durham said, faintly, “Gracious heavens!
Adams, he has stabbed me!”—and would have
fallen, but for Bradshaw, who caught her in his
arms, lifted her from beneath the window and
looked up at it. A sinewy arm, bare to the shoulder,
was thrust through the bars; in the hand of which
the blade of a large Spanish knife gleamed bright
in the moonlight. Between two bars above it
protruded the head of Adams—the countenance
was livid with rage—he made two or three desperate
plunges at Jane Durham as Bradshaw bore
her beyond the reach of the instrument—and then
something was heard to fall within the prison—his
face became death-like—his hand dropped the
knife—his features were horribly convulsed, while,
in choked accents, he exclaimed, “The chair has
fallen—I'm hanging by the head—save me—hell—
Oh!” He made repeated convulsive efforts to catch
the bars with the hand that was thrust between
them; but he had either lost his self-possession, or
he was so situated as not to be able to bend his
arm to reach them, for he strove in vain.
“Support yourself with your other hand,” exclaimed
Bradshaw, who comprehended his situation
in a moment, and whose humanity merged
every other feeling, “and I will get you assistance
from Job.” As he spoke, he bore Jane Durham
towards the jailer's apartment.
“I am not hurt much, I believe, sir,” said she,
as they reached Job's door. “I was not near
enough for him to strike a deadly blow. For
Mercy's sake, Mr. Bradshaw, leave me, and get
him released from his awful situation—he will
die, and it will be my fault.”
Job was smoking his pipe, cozily, in his room,
talking with his wife and Lucy. Bradshaw hastily
informed him of the situation of Adams,
looking, as he spoke, at Jane Durham's wound.
It was on the top of the shoulder, bled profusely,
but did not appear deep or dangerous.
“The devil,” said Job, as he jumped up to get
the keys, his thought occupied not upon Adams's
danger, but in wonderment how the ruffian could
have contrived to hide the knife from him. “The
devil, I didn't think the scamp could circumvent
me that way—a large Spanish knife, hey! How
could he a got it?—I'll take my Bible oath he
hadn't it when I put him in—nor when I took
the irons off of him. (Job and Bradshaw were
proceeding to the cell of Adams, as the jailer continued.)
I took the irons off, you see, Mr. Bradshaw,
because the scamp was in a poor way. Yes,
he must have clum up to the window with the
chair. The irons hurt his leg, for that's badly
swelled. I don't see how he could have got his
head between the bars—it's rather of the biggest.
(Here Job opened the first door that led to a
range of cells, in one of which was Adams.)
This lock turns as slick as grease, and the door
opens without creaking—it ought to—all's well
greased. I like to get in an' out, Mr. Bradshaw,
hear.”
“Job, you tread as light as a lady—it's only
my step that sounds.”
“Yes, Squire, I tread light, though I be heavy.
You see I'm used to it; and, at night, I commonly
puts on a pair of Indian rubbers, so that I can
take the rounds, and hear and not be heard.”
As Job spoke, they reached the cell of Adams.
The cells, as we have observed, were partly under
ground. The window was high up, so that
Adams, when he overheard the conversation, was
compelled to put the chair against the wall, and
stand on the back of it to discover who were without.
The jail wall was very thick, the windows
small, and the bars nearer the outside. The horizontal
bars were closer than the upright ones;
so that Adams, when he mounted on the back of
the chair, (and it was a precarious foothold,) to
see the individuals immediately under his window,
had to protrude his head out sideways, and
then turn it to look down. Enraged by Jane
Durham's narrative of his conduct, and determined
to take her life; yet, being unable to reach
her as she sat, he had to await the moment of her
rising, to strike with the probability of satiating
his vengeance. By the movement of his person,
in the desperate effort to inflict a deadly wound,
he had pushed down the chair; and being unable,
in that situation, to turn his head and withdraw
it, he hung, of course, suspended by it. He could
not relieve himself, as we have stated, with the
hand that held the knife; and the other, not yet
gave him on the shoulder at old Moll's was useless:
consequently, when Job and Bradshaw entered
his cell, they found him hanging by the
head, with his back towards them. A slight,
jerking motion was made by his legs. Bradshaw
caught hold of them, so as to relieve him, and
called out to Job to put the chair against the wall,
and get his head loose.
“Wait one moment, Squire,” said the imperturbable
Job, “till I fasten the door. No tricks
upon travellers. Ha!” continued he, as he placed
the chair against the wall; “look at that, now—
one of his shoes is off; he had his knife sewed in
the sole of it. (Mounting the chair, and feeling
his head.) He's dead, Squire—gone—died upon,
I may say, a nateral gallows for such a jail-bird.
He wasn't born to be drowned—though he didn't
expect such a hanging as this. I can't get his
head loose—he's as cold as them leg-irons. Well,
among his other robberies, he's robbed the penitentiary
of more 'an five years of services, adjudged;
and of many more debts of the kind, on
which, if I may speak according to law, the state
might have got judgment, but not execution—ha!
ha! (All this time, Job was trying to get the
head out.) It can't be done, Squire—we'll have
to get help, and slant his body round, and get
him out that way. Let go his legs, Squire. You
needn't to hold him up—he's as dead as though
he was hung according to law: and that would
have been a more honourable death, and a better
one, to a certainty, than going this gate—for he'd
—and time to think about his sins, and not gone
out of the world trying to commit murder. It's
awful,” continued Job, standing on the floor with
folded arms, looking at the body—“it's awful!
You can't help feeling, though you oughtn't to
feel for such creaturs. It's his own fault, and
he's nobody to blame but himself. You see;
Squire, I let him have the chair, because he said
his leg pained him, when he lay down with it, all
the time—and he couldn't walk on it—and he
wanted to set up a little. It's wrong to be kind
to these prisoners—they always pervert it to
harm themselves. Well,” said Job, as they left
the cell, “I must get help, and get him down—
and send off for the crowner and have a 'quest
over him. Every prisoner in this 'ere jail shall
know his end; and let it be a warning to 'em not
to try to escape, or cut shines through the bars.”
Job went for help, and Bradshaw to learn if
Jane Durham needed a physician. The knife of
the ruffian had penetrated her shoulder about two
inches. The wound had bled freely, but the blood
was now stopped by the appliances of Mrs. Presley,
who thought that nothing serious was to be
apprehended.
Jane Durham here stepped into her room for a
moment, and Bradshaw followed her.
“Miss Durham,” said he, “the only time I had
the pleasure of seeing Dr. P—, he attended me
professionally: his death was so sudden that I never
remunerated him—you must allow me to cancel
“No, no! Mr. Bradshaw, I am indebted to you
for more than life, and you cannot owe—”
“Nay, my beautiful, brave ally, you will deeply
wound my feelings, if you do not take it. When
you leave here, look over Dr. P—'s books, and
you will find that I am indebted to him this amount
—if you do not, you can return it. Come, pretty
Jane, my old schoolmate, you must take it—do you
not remember how I used to pluck the wild flower
for you, when you sang me a sweet song—that
was a boy's gift, for the pleasure you had given;
this is no gift at all; it is offered only because it is
your due.”
She stretched forth her hand; Bradshaw pressed
it, and left in it the pocket-book.
“Jane, you told me once, after I had given you
a rose, that you kept the stem when every leaf had
gone. Now, to please an old schoolmate, just keep
the book when its leaves are gone, in memory of
auld lang syne. Remember, I give it to you as a
knight of old would give his glove—a gage that
I will be your champion, let who will enter the
lists against you.”
“Mr. Bradshaw, you press me to the earth with
gratitude,” said Jane Durham, while a blush glowed
over her cheek, neck, brow, and bosom so vividly
that she hid her face in her hands.
“Gratitude! I should be the grateful one, Jane:
why, for the little service I did for you the other
night, I have been greeted with shouts, huzzas,
and praises from hundreds—for knocking down
Take care of your wound, Jane—you must cure it
without a scar—you must not have the least memorial
of that ruffian near you. Good night.”
“Lucy,” said Bradshaw, as he entered the adjoining
room, “do you know whether your father
has got down the body of Adams yet?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lucy, who was putting on her
bonnet and cloak, “they've got it down. Good
gracious, ain't it terrible? Daddy says that his neck
is broken and twisted, and his under jaw is broken,
and many of his teeth are pushed out—but he was
a bad man.”
“Yes, Lucy, very. Where are you going?”
“I'm going sir, to stay with Mrs. Mulvany: her
old man, Josey, is not very well, and she wants
company.”
“Who goes with you?”
“My daddy, sir.”
“I can save him the walk, Lucy. I go directly
by Nancy's; and you must let me be your beau.”
Lucy blushed; and on the instant, her father entered.
“Ah, squire!” exclaimed Job, “I've just been to
hunt the knife; here it is. It's pretty much knife,
I can tell ye. Well, he'll never see it again, that's
sartin. His head's mashed all to pieces, sir. We've
got him ready for the crowner. Squire, I'll send
you word when they meet, that you may depose.
Come, Lucy.”
“Job, I'll save you the trouble—I go right by
Mrs. Mulvany's, and I'll see that Lucy gets there
safe.”
“Why, squire, I can't think of giving you such
a trouble.”
“No trouble, Job, at all; it's right in my way,
man. Job, you know you told me that there were
no boards in the jail yard, and you defied me to
get out,” said Bradshaw, laughing.
“Well, so I did, squire, and so I do,” exclaimed
Job: “you don't think you could ha' got over this
high jail wall with the bench that was under
Adams's cell window, do you?”
“Not exactly; but, if I were a prisoner in your
jail, Job, and I were to break jail, and get into the
yard, don't you think, with the steps of the gallows,
and the rest of it, I might contrive to scale
the wall?”
“Furies! squire, that's true bill; and I never
thought of it before—ain't that wonderful? You
see, boards that's left about the jail yard's my fault,
but it's the sheriff's fault, if the gallows is left standing—I'll
tell him, though.”
“Why, Job, it's not natural that a jailer should
think a malefactor would mount the gallows, to
make his escape, hey!”
As Bradshaw and Lucy left the jail, Job walked
round to the gallows, and shook the steps and planks
of it—then, after taking keen looks over the jail,
he proceeded to his apartments, ruminating upon
what had happened, muttering, as he went—
“It won't do to take the gallows down now; we
shall need it.”
| CHAPTER II. Clinton Bradshaw, or, The adventures of a
lawyer | |