University of Virginia Library

50. CHAPTER L.
AND HIS CURSE.

“Is that all?” demanded Brent, as the miserable
wretch before him seemed indisposed
to resume his narrative, but sat wiping
his forehead, furtively glancing at every member
of the little company in turn, and moving
uneasily upon his chair.

“Well, yes, Square, I b'lieve that's all.”

“And now, what is the purpose of this confession,
Brewster? Why do you make it, and
what do you wish done with it?”

“That's the very peth of the whole, Square,”
replied Brewster, his face lighting with more
expression than it yet had displayed. “It
does seem a simple sort of thing for a man to
do, to go and run his head right square into a
noose when he is well out of it—now don't it?
But the fact is. Square, I was drove to it.”

“By what?”

“By suthin' inside of me, Square. I don't

justly know what,” replied the murderer in
an awe-stricken and mysterious voice. “It's
been a-working most ever sence I did it. Semanthy
felt it, too, and it made her awful—
right down awful. I declare for't, Square, I
was afraid to stop in the house with her, and
use to clear out whole days to a time. But
then if I went off alone, it was as bad, for I
seemed to see Peleg glimpsing out at me from
every tree in the wood-lot, and from behind
every stone in the fields; and then the child,
I expected she'd made way with herself, and
I was always looking out for her bones, and
maybe her nateral face a-staring up out of the
ground at me. I have heerd of such things,
Square. And then if I went amongst folks,
there it was agen: I didn't darst to open my
mouth for fear the secret would jump out of
it, unbeknownst to me, like. It seemed to me
sometimes as if l'd got to holler right out:
`I did it! I did it! 'Twas me killed my
brother, Peleg Brewster, and hove him in
Blackbrier Pool!'

“I declare for't, Square, I was clean afraid
to trust myself amongst folks, and I was
scaart to death of being alone; and to stop
along o' Semanthy was worst of the whole
What sort o' thoughts or what sort o' sperits
ha'n't that woman I don't know; but there's a
look on her face—'specially deep down in her
eyes—that makes a feller's flesh creep on his
bones to meet. It's been a-growing there all
these five year, and when she dies, it will be
the look she'll carry to her grave. I wouldn't
be the man to screw down her coffin-led, not
for no money—she'll look so awful when she's
dead. Along at first we used to talk about it,
and she'd sort o' set me up, telling how ugly
Peleg was to both of us, and how he was
going to turn me out upon the world and disgrace
her, and she'd laugh—though it wasn't
never a good laugh—and say we'd got the
best on't now, and pass it off as though she
was happy; but—O Lord! Then we got further
along, and left off talking about it, or, in
fact, about much of any thing. The neighbors
wouldn't come to see us, nor the women
wouldn't speak to Semanthy at meetin', or
sewing-circles, or such, and she left off going,
and then the look in her eyes began to grow.

“There was one thing I kept from her, and
I don't hardly know why, but I did. That
was the will leaving every thing to Ruth, I
told her it was gone, and that most likely
Peleg had torn it up; but I kept it, and hid it
in the barn, and she never knew. It used to
work her dreadfully at first, because the estate
couldn't be settled for want of a will or
knowing about Ruth; and finally we got some
bones — well, we got 'em out of the churchyard,
and dressed 'em in Ruth's clothes, and
put 'em in the water nigh where Peleg was
found, and then I fixed it so they was diskivered,
and we swore to the clothes, and nobody
cared much, any way, and so the property
was made over to me and Semanthy had her
thirds; but, by that time, we didn't neither
of us care for the property, nor nothing else.
I didn't do much about the farm, and it sort
o' run out, and Semanthy grew dreadful
slack about the house, and took to setting all
day in a chair, drawed up close in a corner of
the room, so as nothing couldn't get behind
her, and watching, watching all day, with
that strange, awful look a-growing on her
face, and seeming to come up into her eyes
from way down somewhere. I can't justly
tell you what I mean, Square, but I've stood
outside and peeked in the winder at that
woman till it seemed as if I looked out of her
eyes, and seen the devil a coming, ready to
catch her any minute.

“Bimeby we got dreadful poor, and I took
to drink; but that was no better, for I darsn't
drink in company, and when I was alone, I
had the horrors so bad I wonder I didn't
shoot myself. I should ha' done it time and
agen, only it seemed just as if Peleg was waiting
to catch me in the dark just as soon as I
got out o' life, and I darsn't meet him.

“Then at last it come inter my head that if
I was to find Ruth, supposing she was alive,
and clear up the charge agin her, and give
back the property, what's left of it, that Peleg
would be kind o' pacified, and I might get
rest. What set me thinking on't was hearing
that Marston Brent—that's you, Square, you
know—had got a gal he was going to marry,
and she was a sister to Paul Freeman, and her
name was Ruth. All that come out through
Zilpah Stone's folks; but nobody in Milvor
seemed to mistrust any thing. You see they
all swallered the story of them bones being
Ruth, and then forgot all about her. But I
knew better, and I knew, too, that Paul Freeman
hadn't got no sister, but he was always
mighty partial to our Ruth; so putting every
thing together, and working over it nights
and day-times—when I sot one side of the fire
and Semanthy the other, and neither of us

[ILLUSTRATION]

"O Uncle! there is a God."

[Description: 454EAF. Page 130. In-line image of a woman and man on the floor looking to the left, clasping hands, while two distant figures look on from the background.] speaking for hours at a time—I began to see
my way out of it pooty clear. So then I went
kind o' quiet and sold out the last of the
bank-stock that Peleg left, and crep' away
one night, leaving Semanthy setting up with
the fire all out, and the candle jest guttering
down, and the wind a-howling in the chimbly
like folks. I couldn't stand it no longer, and
she'd got sort of used to it, I s'pose, so I left
her.

“I'd inquired round some, of Dr. Bliss's folks
and the Stones', and I'd found out pretty nigh
where you was located, Square, and so came
right along; but when I got here, I kind o'
hung off till I found out how the land lay
First, I see Ruth in the wood; but as soon as
she got sight of me she run—I expect remembering
who it was, and thinking I was going
to serve her same as she see me serve Peleg;
and then pretty soon I see the other woman
and spoke to her, and she promised for you,
Square, that I shouldn't be touched; and so I
came.”

“And what are your future plans?” asked
Brent in a repressed voice, as he finished
writing.

“All I ask, Square, is a chance to die quiet
—that's all I want—so help me God,” replied
the man, with desperate earnestness in his
voice, and turning his haggard face and bloodshot
eyes from side to side of the room like
some maimed reptile seeking a crevice wherein
to hide and die.

“Let him go, Marston,” said Beatrice in a
low voice, as her eyes followed the motions of
the criminal with a look of mingled aversion
and contempt. “Let him creep away and
die.”

“He has my promise,” replied Brent in the
same tone; “although I do not know how far
the law would justify my action after this
confession. Still, he has my promise, and he
is safe.

“Joachim Brewster, sign your name to
this paper in presence of these witnesses;
give up the will of which you speak, and depart,
remembering that, should you ever reappear,
your confession will be used against
you without hesitation, and that though you
now escape the justice of man, the justice of
God still pursues, and will yet overtake you.”

“That's most too bad of you, Square, when
I'm a-doing all I can to set things straight
agen,” whimpered Joachim, signing his name
in a character so shaking and so crabbed as
hardly to be legible. “Don't you believe
that Peleg will be pacified with this day's
work, Square?”

“It is not your brother that you have to
dread,” said Brent in a low voice. “It is God
who will demand him at your hand, as He
demanded Abel of Cain.”

“O Lord! O Lord! a'n't there no getting
away from it nohow?” gasped the man, sinking
upon his knees, while the sweat of mortal
agony gathered upon his sordid brow, and his
eyes, filled with abject terror, wandered from
Brent's firm, unsympathizing face to meet the
look of satisfied hatred upon that of Paul
Freeman, and at last sought with piteous appeal
the two women, who had risen, and stood
looking down upon him—Mrs. Chappelleford
with close scrutiny, Ruth with terrible but
mingled emotion.

That look demanded words, and Beatrice
replied to it:

“It would be happier for you to believe
that there is no God,” said she calmly.

“That were to cast away the small remnant
of hope left possible. Do not counsel him
thus,” said Brent sternly; and then Ruth,
fluttering forward, fell upon her knees beside
her father's murderer and her own cruel enemy,

and taking his poor, trembling hands in
hers, cried, while the tears ran down her
face:

“O uncle! there is a God, and there is no
escaping from Him or deceiving Him; but He
is the God of Love and Pardon as well as of
Justice, and He will forgive you if you truly,
truly repent—I know He will, for he puts it
in my heart to forgive you, and to promise you
that father will forgive you, too, if only you
will use every minute that is left of your life
in repenting and doing right.”

“Is that so, Ruth? Do you feel as if you'd
got a right to tell me that? O Ruthie! don't
you cheat your poor old uncle that's most
killed a'ready with what he's got to bear.”

“It is true, uncle—it is true! Oh! I am
just as sure as sure can be!” sobbed the girl,
her pale face glorified with the earnestness of
her faith. “It was a terrible sin; but nothing
is too bad to be forgiven if only you are sorry
enough, and do all you can to make up for it
in this world.”

“I'm glad I come here, Ruth. I thought it
were for your sake I was a-doing it, but it
were for my own. Ruth, you've give me the
first word of comfort I've felt in five long year.
I wish't you'd come along o'me and teach me
the way to repent; seems as if I could keep
up to it easier if I had you clos't by.”

But Ruth shrank back at this proposal, and
Brent spoke sharply and decidedly:

“That is out of the question. There lies
the door, Joachim Brewster. Go! and God
grant that His pardon may indeed reach you.”

Without a word, the broken man whom he
addressed rose to his feet, cast one tremulous
glance of gratitude and appeal upon his niece,
who could not meet it, and then slunk out of
the house and down the road, glancing behind
him and around him at every step, as one
who feels himself pursued by unseen avengers,
and so passed from their sight forever.