University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The night of the robbery of Pinckney, about nine
o'clock, a horseman came in the direction from the hills,
and proceeded to Granny Gammon's. He hitched his
horse at the palings, and after pausing a moment, perhaps
in thought, or perhaps to distinguish the voices
of the individuals within, he rapped with the end of
his riding whip against the door. Granny Gammon,
in a querrulous tone, bid him enter.

He did so, and after saluting the old woman in a
half-respectful, half-dogged manner, like one who felt
he was not liked by her on whose premises he stood,
he asked if Peggy was in.

Granny Gammon gave a short cough before she
answered. “No, she's out; what would you with my
Peggy, Jack Gordon?”

“Has she gone to the village?” proceeded Jack,
without answering the question.

“John Gordon, you are no respecter of age,” said
the old woman, sharply; “I axed you what you
wanted with my Peggy.”

“Why, Granny,” said Gordon, in a coaxing tone,
“I want to see her.”

“She's gone out, I tell you, gone out. The Lord
in his mercies be merciful, we're sore afflicted. Are
you from the city, Jacky? did you see or hear anything
of our Bobby?”

“What's happened?” asked Gordon, throwing himself
into a chair.

“Happened! was it you that took him to the circus,
Jack Gordon? answer me now that question.”

“He took himself, I suppose; I saw him there.”

“Well, well, an' do you know anything of this
money, of this counterfeiting. In my old age, to think
of this; the very first one of our fam'ly that was ever
taken up. Jack Gordon, you've been misleading
him.”

“I mislead him?” exclaimed Jack, starting; “who
said I misled him?”

“I say so: you've been putting races and circuses
in his head, this long time; and now you see what's
come of it.”

“Ay, I thought you said, old lady, that I put counterfeiting
in his head. I know nothing about it; and as
for the circus, I see no more harm in the circus than
some people do in the meeting-house.”

“John Gordon, don't speak to me in that way;
now don't, I tell you. Peggy's not to home, an' I'll
just out and tell you, that there's no occasion for
yo're coming here.”

“Granny, I suppose if Peggy wants to see me,
you don't care?”

“But Peggy don't want to see you, nor I don't
want to see you, nor Bobby don't want to see you.
An' I can tell you the whole neighbourhood would be
mighty glad to get quit of you. I lay the whole ruin
of Bobby at your door. Yes, you may look; I do.
An' I don't see why people should come where the're
not wanted.”

“Maybe I can be of service to Bob?”

“No you can't be of sarvice to him; he's clean
ruined now, by bad samples. Only to think what a
condition I'm in, a lone woman. And Peggy, poor
thing, she's gone up to the big house, crying all the
way; and I suppose she'll go crying to the village,
to hear what she can hear.”

“Ay, has she!” said Gordon; and, after lingering
a moment, he arose and, bidding the old woman good
night, left the cabin. Gordon mounted his horse and

road slowly to a clump of trees that stood in an old
field, some twenty yards from the house, when he
dismounted and fastened his horse within the shadow.
After doing this, Gordon placed himself with his back
to a tree, in a situation to command a view of the
lane that led by Granny Gammon's to Holly. He
had not remained there long when, on hearing footsteps
approaching from the village, he stepped forth,
and met the person, who proved to be Peggy. He
had gained her side, and addressed her before she observed
him.

“Is that you, Mr. Gordon?” she asked, in a tone
very different from the lightsome one that was her
wont.

“Yes, Peggy, it's me. I was down at the house,
but the old woman was in such a brimstone humour,
that she fairly turned me out.”

“Old woman! brimstone humour! Who are you
speaking of, Mr. Gordon?”

“You're as short as pie crust too, Peggy; what's
turned up? I'm speaking of your Granny.”

“Persons wouldn't think you had much opinion of
your company, to speak in such a fashion of one's
relations, Mr. Gordon.”

“I've told you often enough what I thought of you,
Peggy,” said Gordon, in a subdued tone; “it seems you
don't think well of me—though it didn't always seem
so.”

“Have done with that, Jack Gordon; I'm in no humour
for such talk to night—good evening; Granny's
alone, and it's late.”

“Not so very late,” said Gordon; “we've talked together
later than this.”

“Well, there's no occasion to waste time hereafter,”
replied his companion; and she walked on, briskly.
Gordon, however, kept her side, and asked:

“Peggy, what does all this mean? you did'nt use
to treat me so.”

“I told you the night of the husking what it meant.
Granny's against it—Bobby's against it.”

“Bobby's against it,” exclaimed Gordon, mimicking
her in a tone of anger that he seemed unable to
suppress. “What do I care for Bobby's being against
it? Bobby 'll have enough to do to take care of himself.”

“And suppose he has,” said Peggy, indignantly,
“enough to take care of himself. Well, I've got
enough to do to take care of myself. Yes, Granny's
against it; Bobby's against it; and, to tell you the
truth, John Gordon, I'm not for it, and I've told you
so before.”

“Peggy, stop one moment.” Peggy hesitated. “Do
stop one moment, Peggy, and listen to me.” She
stopped. “Why should there be such words between
us? I know I spoke tauntingly the other night, and
said what I oughtn't say; but you kept throwing up
to me what the villagers said about me, and it aggravated
me. What do I care for them, Peggy? I tell
you I have money enough to buy them. I can make
as fine a lady of my wife as is your Miss Fanny.
As for Joe Hit, why he's a foul blacksmith. I don't
see how a girl with a fair skin could come near him,
unless she wished to be made black.”

“Pretty is that pretty does,” interrupted Peggy.

“What does he do that's pretty?” exclaimed Gordon,
contemptuously; “the chap's a fool. Peggy, you
don't think well enough of yourself. Bill Hardy's of
no account—he mills; gets a few dollars a week by
the hardest kind of labour, and goes about as mealy
as a rat from a bin. I can buy and sell both of
them.”

“And where did you get the money?”

“From the old country, my pretty Peggy; from

the old country. I was under the weather at one
time, because I was waiting for it; and as I was
brought up a gentleman, I couldn't turn my hand to
anything but gentlemanly sports to get a living by.
People here pretend to say such things are wrong—
it's because they know no better where I come from.”

“I must go; good night,” said Peggy.”

“Peggy, not so quick,” said Gordon, seizing her
arm; “you think to cast me off in your tantrums; and,
I suppose, if it's for neither Joe Hitt or Bill Hardy, it's
for Cousin Bobby, whose name you don't seem to
like to mention to-night.”

“No, not to you; for if the boy's gone wrong, it's
you that's to answer for it.”

“I answer for it! do you mean I led him to counterfeiting.
By G—d, I let nobody say that of me.”

“Tell that in the village. I don't say it of you,”
exclaimed Peggy.

“If a man was to say it of me, I'd have his heart's
blood!” continued Gordon, “but, Peggy, I've borne
from you what I never bore from man or woman
before; and all, Peggy, for the love of you: but I've
found you out. It's `Cousin Bobby' that cuts us all
out. Yes, `Cousin Bobby,'—whew! you're against
me, after all that's past, just because folks don't
choose to like me, and think hard things against me,
what will you say to `Cousin Bobby' now, when he's
done the thing?”

“Done it! I don't believe it: the whole world
couldn't make me believe it,” exclaimed Peggy,
bursting into tears, and stepping away from Gordon.

Gordon compressed his lips, as if with a stern resolution
he was suppressing an emotion; and then said,
soothingly:

“Peggy, if you'll consent to that—if you say you'll
have me, Bobby shall be cleared. He shall—I'll
it swear to you on a stack of bibles. I like him;

and I've money to buy them land sharks up, and
make 'em talk their tongues off, and their brains out
for him.”

“He's got help, if any one can help him,” said
Peggy, proudly.

“What help?”

“As soon as Mr. Sidney Fitzhurst heard it, he rode
right into town; and there he'll see Mr. Pinckney:
they together will do for him, if anybody can.”

“Ha! Mr. Pinckney—he's the one that you heard
say did'nt like my looks. He thinks his looks are
mighty taking at Holly, does he. Maybe I know
something of him, and know people that didn't like
his looks: let him look to himself. I tell you, Peggy,
I can help Bobby more than any of them. I know
all the officers and deputies in town.—An' I'm the
boy what can manage 'em. I've got friends afore
now out of scrapes worse 'an this—let us be friends
—say—I know you like your Cousin Bobby; I like
him, but it aggravates me to hear you repeat what
these village people say against me, and I bolt out in
a passion what I don't mean: there's no harm in me
towards Bobby: just say that things shall be where
they were before our little spat, and I'll stand Bobby's
friend. Shake hands and say so; an' if he's not out
here by to-morrow night, then never speak to me
again.”

As Gordon spoke, he took Peggy's hand; when the
sound of some one approaching caused her to start,
and hasten towards her grandmother's.

Gordon, with a noiseless step, proceeded to the
clump of trees, where he stood watching for the
walker to go by, e're he mounted his horse. The
starlight was bright enough to suffer him to observe
the direction the passer-by took. It was directly to
Granny Gammon's; which he entered immediately
after Peggy. When the door had closed on the

visiter, Gordon trod with noiseless steps to the house,
and, placing himself beside the window, where he
could look in unobserved, and overhear what was
said, he remained for nearly a quarter of an hour.
He then repaired again to the clump of trees, and
when the cottage door opened, to suffer the departure
of the visiter, which Gordon knew by the flashing
forth of the light, he mounted his horse and rode forward,
apparently with the wish to overtake him,
though at some distance from the house. On reaching
the individual, he said, in a respectful tone:—

“Mr. Sidney Fitzhurst, is that you?”

“Yes, it is I; are you Jack Gordon?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Fitzhurst; I was just going to your
house to see you; I'm just from town, sir; where I
heard that they had Bobby, the old woman's grandson
that lives there, up for passing counterfeit money,
an' I thought I'd come and tell you, being as I know
that you wish him well, and that he's your tenant.”

“Yes,” replied Sidney; “I am now returning from
his grandmother's, whither I went to speak to the
old woman on the subject. Do you know the particulars;
I am satisfied the boy is not capable of such
a thing. Do you know if they have him in jail?”

“I don't know, sir, much about it. He went, I
believe, to the circus last night; I believe he drank
too much there; this morning I heard from one of the
neighbours that I met in town that he was in trouble,
and as I was bound out to Springdale to night, I
thought I'd ride over to your house and tell you.”

“Thank you, Gordon, thank you; I shall ride in
to-morrow and see if I can do anything for him; I
started this evening. Which way did you come out?”

“Sir, oh! early this afternoon; good night, sir.”

“Good night, Jack,” replied Sidney as he proceeded
homeward.

Gordon turned his horse as if it were his intention
to visit Springdale, but after Sidney was out of

hearing of the animal's steps he spurred at a brisk
rate towards the city.

“I must take a near cut through the hills,” he
muttered to himself, “where I can change my horse.
The thing was done well: I've good proof of what a
friend I am to the little limping rascal.”

With a fearless rein at the top of his horse's speed
Gordon struck for the hills. If his object was to
gain the city as soon as possible a cut through the
hills was certainly much shorter than the roundabout
way of the road; but then the difficulties in this direction
were held hazardous both to man and beast.
And surely the night would not facilitate his progress
if such were his object. The hills were in many
places barren, entirely uncultivated, and scarcely ever
traversed, for game was scarce upon them, and they
were mostly uninhabited. Here and there where
there was a spot capable of cultivation, and there
were many such, a miserable shanty might be seen,
but it was often uninhabited, and was evidently built
for some temporary purpose. In some places
through the hills, in strong contrast with the barren
and bold masses of rocks, immense forest trees would
stretch along for miles, of the shortest and most
luxuriant growth. A long tract of wood marked the
head of a stream, which was called the Falls. Over
the water, and through the wood, and along the very
brow of the precipice, Gordon rode as fearlessly as
if he had been travelling on the common county
turnpike. However, there did not appear any great
management of the steed on his part, though, no doubt,
the rider was capable of it. The horse seemed to
know the road as an old stager would the turnpike,
and dashed on apparently with a similar desire to
reach the goal. Gordon had perhaps penetrated seven
miles into the hills, when he came to a place where
the stream ran deep and narrow for a considerable

distance between overhanging precipices. Here it
was so dark that Gordon could scarcely see his hand
before him; yet horse and rider advanced recklessly
into the stream, as if its bed were their road. They
guided themselves by the glimmering of starlight that
flashed from the water, where it broke a way from
jutting rock, and hill, and tree, and sported unshadowed.
Before, however, he reached the opening,
Gordon turned his horse to the right, and spurring
him up a steep ledge of rock, he stopped where two
huge trees were entirely covered with clustering
vines, that descended in such luxuriance from their
topmost branches as to dip in the water. A quantity
of drift-wood and brush seemed to have floated against
the face of the rock to which there was evidently no
approach but by the watery pathway Gordon had
chosen. Here Gordon dismounted, and busied himself
in removing the brush-wood, while he did so he
imitated the rough note of the screach-owl, when a
portion of the rock appeared to give way, disclosing an
aperture large enough to admit the horse. A very
dim light, such as might easily be mistaken for the
phosphorescent glimmer from decaying wood, appeared
for a moment, and with it disappeared both
the horse and rider.