 | CHAPTER XIII.
POLLY DEFIANT AND POLLY SUBDUED. Haunted hearts |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
POLLY DEFIANT AND POLLY SUBDUED.
The second day after the murder of Baultie Rawle,
his niece, Polly Stein, came to see her aunt Hannah, —
not of her own accord, but sent by Stein, who, like most
selfish men, loved his own children, and never failed to
push them on towards what he considered their advantage.
So, having paid a visit of etiquette himself, he
now despatched Polly on a similar errand. He would
have done much better to keep her at home, for it was
by no means an occasion on which she was calculated to
shine. With sensibilities and nerves alike unmoved by
the death of her stern old uncle, the reluctance with
which she paid the visit was only equalled by the unbecomingness
of her behavior. She swung into the house
abruptly, and, with a noisy flourish, slammed the back
door, by which she had entered, then spying Angie at
the pantry cupboard, engaged in skimming a pan of milk,
she wholly neglected, or forgot the original object of her
visit, and planting herself at Angie's elbow, began to
watch, question, and tease her.
“Law, Angie Cousin, you here? They've set you to
work, too, haven't they? My! I wouldn't work when I
was visiting; it's bad enough to have to work at home.
'Taint much fun staying here though, any way, is it?
especially when Geordie is off the hooks? They say you
and he have had a fuss. I s'pose he's kind o' touchy about
the cap'n's having turned your head so. I declare,
though, ain't the cap'n a smasher? My! how I do miss
him!”
“Where is he?” asked Angie, with undisguised indifference.
“O, as if you didn't know or care!” cried Polly, with
a loud, incredulous laugh.”
“I don't.”
“Then s'pose I don't tell you?”
“Just as you like.”
Upon this Polly feigned to make a great secret of the
matter; but after taking innumerable airs, and twitting
Angie a while with her saucy tongue, she could not resist
the desire to display her own superior knowledge of the
captain's movements, and so it came out at length that
he had gone, on the morning of Sunday (Christmas day),
to the city, where he was engaged (as he had himself
told Polly) to a grand dinner-party, at a fine house on
the Battery, — the owner being an old gentleman of tory
prejudices, and a friend of some connection of the captain's
in London.
“O, the cap'n keeps grand company, I can tell you!”
concluded Polly, tossing her head complacently.
“That don't promise very well for his country acquaintances,”
remarked Angie, dryly.
“O, you think so, do you?” responded Polly, with a
confident, cackling laugh. “I reckon it's first-rate for
them that has a chance to be introduced to the city folks
one o' these days.”
Angie's astonishment, not to say disgust, at this
remark, was such that she ceased skimming the milk,
— a process which Polly's entrance and conversation had
marred, but not hitherto interrupted, — and turning her
head, gave Polly an earnest look, as if she were scrutinizing
her thoughts. “You expect him back, then?”
she said, gravely, as she turned away. “I should rather
think I did,” said Polly. “I guess he won't go off for
good and all, without bidding me good by, however he
may do with other folks,” — and Polly's shrill laugh now
was full of triumph, as if she were gloating over a store
of reserved hopes — very pleasant to dwell upon, but too
secret to be confided to any one.
A voice from the kitchen here called out, “Polly!
Polly Stein!” is that 'ere you I hear laughin'?”
Polly, checking her laughter as suddenly as if she had
been strangled, now whispered to Angie in a frightened
tone, “Is aunt Hannah in there? Is she sitting up and
dressed? Has she heard me, do you s'pose?”
“She's up,” replied Angie, “and sitting by the kitchen
fire. Yes, she's heard you; she's calling your name
(for Hannah was still calling, and calling angrily).
Polly, ashamed to show herself, but afraid to hold
back any longer, now sneaked in at the kitchen door.
“What are you doin' here, makin' such an uproar?”
was Hannah's salutation to her niece. “You must be
feelin' lively, when you can't keep your silly cacklin' from
startlin' my old ears.”
“I didn't come to please myself, — father sent me,”
was the pert reply.
“Wal, you'd ha' been wiser to stay away from the
house o' mournin', if you don't know any better how to
behave in it.”
Polly here resorted to biting her finger-nail and looking
sulky.
“How's your mother? She's more likely than any on
you to be consarned about what's happened to your uncle
Baultie; why don't she come and see me?”
“She's awful busy; she's over head and ears in
work.”
“Why ain't you helpin' her, then?”
“I've been standing round all the morning; I'm
tired;” and Polly sank heavily into a chair.
“O, young folks is easy tired nowadays. In my time
the gals worked all day, and the mothers took a spell o'
rest once in a while. I'll warrant you'll never make
yer mother's place good.”
“I never mean to slave myself to death in a tavern
kitchen,” responded Polly, in a saucy, presuming tone.
“I wouldn't be mistress of a tavern, any way.
“Take care you never fall below that 'ere, or any other
honest business,” said Hannah Rawle, reprovingly. “I'll
promise yer yer'll never rise any higher than your
was, as usual, perfectly intelligible to the hearer, “she's
wuth a dozen on yer any day, — yer lazy jade!”
Polly answered only by cocking her head on one side,
curling her thin lip defiantly, and giving the floor a succession
of complacent taps with her foot.
Hannah, to whom Polly's impudence was only less
distasteful than her father's hypocrisy, and who, in her
present mood, was more than ordinarily incensed at the
girl, now manifested her rising wrath in the exclamation,
“I should like ter know what's sot you on the high
ropes so to-day! Is it because they've killed your uncle
Baultie, and you s'pose your folks is comin' in for a share
of his money, or is it because you've got the coroner and
his men down ter your house, and you think that's lively
and entertainin'?”
“There ain't much fun in hearing about nothing but
murders, and inquests, and funerals,” said Polly, “if
they do bring a run o' custom, as father says. I'm
sure I should die o' the dumps if I hadn't something
pleasanter to think of.”
“A run o' custom! O, that's your father's view on't,
is it? — and yourn's to get rid o' trouble of all sorts, by
shuttin' your eyes and hardenin' your heart. Wal, `childern
an' fools speak truth,' an' I believe yer.”
“I don't see any use,” said Polly, apologetically, “in
making yourself miserable about other folks' misfortunes.
It's time enough when your own come.”
“An' come they will fast enough, yer may depend
“You mark my words, Polly Stein. The Lord sends his
dispensations, fust in marcy and then in wrath; them
that takes home the fust, and profits by 'em, is sometimes
spared the last, but if his children are deaf to the storm,
he sends the thunder-bolt. Such things as has been happenin'
in this 'ere neighborhood the last day or two might
sober them that's older in sin than you've had time fur
yet (your whinin' old father for one,” — this in the audible
undertone), “but since you don't choose to go shares
in others' sorrers, he'll send you some on your own account,
I'll promise yer.”
Polly received this rebuke in silence. Her aunt was
excited, the rude girl herself a little awed by the solemn
vehemence of the threat. It was during the pause that
succeeded, when Hannah was leaning back in her chair
with a red spot flushing each cheek, and Polly was staring
stupidly on the floor, that Angie came in from the
pantry. She wore her hood and shawl, and brought the
tea-kettle in her hand.
“Where are you goin'?” asked Hannah, glad to avoid
further words with Polly, by addressing somebody else.
“Home, for a little while. Will you please, ma'am,
tell Mrs. Rawle” (Margery was up stairs, whither, seeing
Polly approach, she had betaken herself), “that I'll come
back to-night and sleep? I've filled the tea-kettle,” she
added, as she stooped and hung it over the fire.
“You've no need to come back,” said Hannah, sharply;
then, softening a little from the hard tone to which her
added, “you may, though, if you've a mind ter. You
don't come fur nothin'; you hain't got a lazy bone in yer
body — I see that plain enough.” And as Angie completed
her arrangements at the fireplace, and quickly
and capably swept up the hearth, the eyes of the observing
old woman rested on her complacently.
“I'll go at the same time,” said Polly, starting eagerly
as Angie moved towards the door.
“You'd better stay a while in my place,” suggested
Angie, with an endeavor to evade her company.
“Take her 'long with you, for goodness' sake,” interposed
Hannah, who detected the hesitation on Angie's
part.
The matter was no longer optional with Angie, however;
Polly had already darted through the doorway,
and was the first outside.
Gracious! how glad I am to get away!” was her exclamation,
before Angie had closed the door behind them.
“I don't see how you can bear to stay there, Angie; I
wouldn't be hired to. Law! aunt Hannah snapped me
up so, every word I said — you've no idea — ugh! don't
I hate her!”
“She's had a dreadful stroke. It makes her keen and
cross, I suppose,” remarked Angie.
“Pooh! she's always cross, fur 's I see,” said Polly.
“Good by; I'm going across the fields,” said Angie,
with a second effort to escape Polly's society.
“So am I,” — and Polly turned off also in that direction.
“It's further for you.”
“O, never mind; I'll go this way too for sake o' company.”
“The path's better worn by the road,” suggested
Angie; but it was of no avail; Polly did not mind the
deep snow — liked it — was determined to go the same
way that Angie went.
Angie moved on in advance, and walked as fast as she
could.
“Don't be in such a hurry; I want to talk with you,”
cried Polly; “wait!” and Polly came alongside and
linked her arm in Angie's, disregarding the fact that the
footpath across the fields was hardly wide enough for
one.
Angie trembled; she was so afraid Polly meant to
question her about George. But her fears were groundless.
The time had been when on an occasion like the
present Polly would have made her handsome cousin the
constant topic. Not that she had ever really thought of
rivalling Angie in this quarter, but she liked to take advantage
of an instance of pique between the lovers, to
boast of her familiarity with George, insinuate her
suspicions of his feelings and his preferences, and hint at
the terms of cousinly confidence which had grown out of
their close relationship. It had sometimes happened, in
this way, that she had succeeded in exciting Angie's curiosity,
and by feigning a knowledge which she did not
possess, had extracted from Angie confessions which the
latter afterwards regretted; for Polly, as a self-appointed
make mischief, and generally to widen the breach. It
had long since become instinctive with Angie to avoid
her interrogations and interference in all matters where
George was concerned. How much more then when life
and death were in the balance, and a word might betray,
did she shrink from committing the scales of fate to
such dangerous hands. But now she had agitated herself
needlessly on this point. Polly's mind — a mind of
no great capacity at the best — was filled to overflowing
with another subject, so that, happily, there was no space
left for her cousin George. She could talk of nothing
but the captain; and though the captain was not a topic
on which Angie could dwell without pain, it was a blessed
relief from what she had anticipated. So she listened
with patience and a tolerable show of interest while
Polly dwelt on the trivial details connected with this distinguished
guest at the tavern; telling at what time he
usually took his meals, at what time he breakfasted on
the morning of his departure, what choice viands were
served up for him by Polly's own direction, and what
compliments he paid to her while she was presiding at
the coffee-pot, and entertaining him with the particulars of
her uncle's murder just brought to light. Then she related
how he invited her to drive to church in the hired
sleigh that was to take him to the city, how he helped
her out at the church door, how the country folks, engrossed
as they were with the news from the mountain,
found time to whisper and stare, and how beautifully he
and he set off for the city, her father's stable-boy driving,
and the horse prancing, as if he realized that the captain
was worth making some effort to please.
Polly told all this with such relish, a relish infinitely
enhanced by the sting of jealousy she believed herself to
he awakening in her hearer, that Angie was spared the
necessity of encouraging her by a word. Even when
there was a pause, Polly was so engaged with self-important
airs and meditations on her own triumph, that she
was content to let Angie proceed in mortified silence, and
so they reached Mr. Cousin's house long before this fruitful
topic was exhausted.
Angie stood with her hand on the door-latch waiting
to bid Polly good-by; but Polly did not stir, and kept on
talking. At last Angie verged upon rudeness in her
efforts to get excused and go into the house, interrupting
Polly with, “You can tell me the rest some other time;
it's so cold standing here. Good-by,” and she made a
motion to go in.
“It is cold,” said Polly, “I'm almost frozen. I'll
come in a little while and get warm;” and thus, self-invited,
Polly pushed in also.
The moment they entered the sitting room, Angie's
eye fell on a letter which lay upon the table, directed,
as she saw at a glance, to herself. Every thing frightened
Angie now, and instinctively her hand closed over the
letter, but not before Polly also had spied it and recognized
the handwriting.
“Why, that's Cap'n Josselyn's writing! That can't
be meant for you!” cried Polly; and grasping Angie's
hand, she snatched the letter from under it, and held it
up to the light.
Angie's eyes flashed with anger and repressed alarm.
She made a motion to recover the letter; but Polly,
having convinced herself that it was really Angie's property,
flung it over her head, and turned to ask Happy,
who was just looking in from the kitchen, by what
messenger it had come.
“Your pa's stable-boy fetched it, miss; he says the
gen'l'man he driv to York giv it to him for Miss Angie.”
“Where is the boy?” asked Polly, impatiently.
“Wal, miss, ole Hap see him walk up to the barn for
to look arter our Sim; thar he is now, jes' comin' back,
I declar' — lucky Massa Stein don know how he's been
a spendin' his time this 'ere arternoon.”
Without waiting further than to catch sight of the
captain's messenger, Polly rushed out to intercept him,
and inquire what other letters or commissions the captain
had intrusted to him. But she could not learn that there
were any other letters or tokens from the recreant captain.
The utmost that her pertinacious cross-questioning
could extract from the clumsy Mercury was to the effect
that “the letter to Miss Angie Cousin, an' a shillin' to
pay fur carrvin' it, was the only arrant, 'cept a dab o'
paper to Mr. Stein, tellin' where to send the cap'n's
trunk, 'cause he wasn't comin' back no more.”
Meanwhile Angie, left to herself, meekly took her
looked like a family crest, and read as follows: —
“Adieu! My sole pang in leaving New Jersey is the
thought that I shall never again see the fair friend,
`Whose heart was my home in an enemy's land.'
I entreat you, to cherish tender recollections of your
devoted Josselyn. Our paths, like our lots in life, lie
apart. Had Heaven placed you, dear girl, in the sphere
you are so well fitted to adorn, who knows what we
might have been to each other? It grieves me that one
whose beauty and grace have cheered my exile should
be doomed to waste her sweetness upon a neighborhood
so contracted and vulgar as that of Stein's Plains; but
habit, I have no doubt, reconciles you to many things
which shock the sensibilities of a stranger; and, alas!
every station in life has its disadvantages. It may be a
consolation to you to be assured that you will not be
quite forgotten in those more aristocratic circles to which
my destiny leads me. I shall still carry your image in
my heart. Many a fair daughter of my own country
will suffer by a comparison with it; and when the toast
goes round I shall pique the curiosity of my brother
officers by giving them the `New Jersey belle.'
“And now, my sweet Western flower, farewell! Sad
word, which I would whisper in your ear, instead of
my release from your government at Washington,
and finding an immediate opportunity to set sail for England,
have not the leisure to indulge myself in a visit to
Stein's Plains — I would say rather to you, the only
object there worth remembering, the only being whom I
care to honor with a parting notice. Adieu, then, my
charmer, and let me hope you will sometimes remember,
with a sigh of regret,
Shame, indignation, disgust — all the emotions which
a proud girl can feel, who has been humbled, slighted,
and scorned by a worthless and conceited lover, rose up
together, and scourged poor Angie until her blood tingled
in every vein. “For this — for this,” thought she, as
she dashed the letter on the table, “I have bargained
every thing — all that life had promised, or sin and death
could destroy. O God, my punishment is greater than
I can bear!” and she pressed her hand against her heart,
which, in her intensity of contrition and agony, seemed
as if it would burst. She had thrown herself into a
chair in the farthest corner of the room; her eyelids
were convulsively strained together, as if she were striving
to imprison her very soul in darkness. But, alas!
there is no hiding from one's self. She could not shut
out the remorseful and degrading images that were torturing
her.
Witnesses of a love that had been true to her from
her childhood were thronging around her with sad, reproachful
look. The ghastly countenance of the murdered
man transfixed her with its stare. The poor
fugitive from justice, his features stained with sin and
distorted with despair, looked back at her accusingly.
Ministers of vengeance shook their threatening fingers in
the air, and the fiendish faces of demons mocked her
with their laughter.
The last all wore the features of the captain — the
varying expressions that had so captivated her a few
days since only serving now to give variety to insult.
The terrible events of the last two days had so pressed
upon one another that until now Angie had almost forgotten
the part the captain had played in the drama, at
least had forgotten to reproach him. But now he had
forced himself upon her remembrance, and with bitter
upbraiding she exclaimed to herself, “He has made a
fool of me, the cold-hearted wretch! And I! O, I have
been the cause of all this misery!”
Angie did not spare herself. If she cried out in her
agony against him who had encouraged her heartlessness,
it was not that she might shake off the burden of blame.
From the first she had bowed herself to that burden.
Thorough in her penitence, generous in her self-reproach,
she would gladly have suffered all the ignominy, borne
all the penalty. Humiliated to the dust, the one cry of
her spirit was, “On me, on me, let the retribution fall!”
It is the cry of many a burdened soul; but it may
dieth to himself.” There was retribution enough in
store for Angie; the poor girl scarcely need claim more
than her share; but the hardest feature in her punishment
was not the blasting of her own hopes. It was
seeing the wide-spread desolation caused by the whirlwind,
to which she, in the beginning, had lent breath.
To stand and view the mischief done is sometimes the
severest penalty. If Angie could have been at once
struck out of the game of life, she would have submitted
gladly. As it was, hers was to be a harder fate; she
was to live and look on.
Nor was she even to be suffered to meditate undisturbed.
Not for self, henceforth, was her life to be. In
action and in sympathy she must, for the future, find her
mission and her solace.
She was roused from her wretched self-indulgence by
a sudden, loud cry, accompanied by a deep heaving from
some human breast near her, and succeeded by an outburst
of vehement weeping. She looked up suddenly,
and there, opposite to her, sat Polly, the captain's letter
open at her feet, and her whole frame convulsed with
sobs. She had come back unheard by Angie, and taking
advantage of the latter's abstraction, had read the letter
from beginning to end, — a fact of which she seemed to
feel no shame and attempted no concealment.
Angie, not comprehending the scene at a first glance,
and moved only by astonishment, started up, and ran to
her, thinking from the noise she made, that she was hurt
spite, and kept on crying, not sentimentally nor hysterically,
but with a loud blubbering cry, like that of
a whipped school-boy. Angie looked down, saw the
letter, and felt a momentary contempt for her visitor,
which was not softened when Polly, observing Angie's
glance, sprang to her feet, and vented a portion of her
rage by stamping on the letter, and then spurning it, or,
more correctly, kicking it across the floor with her foot.
Angie picked it up for the second time, folded it, and
put it in her pocket. Polly kept on sobbing and roaring,
making a most vulgar and passionate exhibition of grief.
There may be dignity and self-respect even amid tears;
but these were qualities in which Polly was wanting at
all times, and the utter self-abandonment of her behavior
could only be compared to that of an uproarious child.
She bent her thin body backwards and forwards, caught
her breath convulsively, and even gave vent at intervals
to short, sharp shrieks.
These unusual sounds soon brought Happy Boose to
learn the cause of the commotion.
“Lud a' massy!” was her comment, “yer ain't kilt, are
yer! Ole Hap thought mebbe Miss Angie was a beatin'
yer; same as ole missis down South used to beat dis
yer nigger wench, but ebery body 's so 'cited and crazed-like,
dis yer time, dat dey cries for little or nothin';”
and Happy, apparently concluding that Polly's case was
of this kind, retreated into her kitchen and shut the
door.
Polly now dropped her arms upon the table and her
head upon her arms, and began to gasp and choke, so
that Angie was first frightened, and at length moved to
pity; for this grief, though coarse and childish in its
expression, was, nevertheless, unmistakably real.
“Don't cry so, Polly,” she said at length, laying her
hand kindly on Polly's shoulder.
Polly shook the hand off; but, on the action 's being
repeated, she submitted to it more patiently, and even
made an effort to repress her sobs.
“He's a good-for-nothing, flirting fellow — not worth
minding!” suggested Angie, by way of consolation.
“O, you think so, do you?” gasped Polly. “That's
jest because he's jilted you. I always knew he didn't
care two straws for you — he used to laugh at you behind
your back, but” — here Polly was seized with another
crying fit, which lasted some time, but at length,
she managed to ejaculate, in a sort of shriek, which escaped
her amid a succession of spasms and sobs, — “but
he ought to be ashamed to behave so cruel to me!”
In spite of Polly's malice, which made itself evident
in the earlier part of this remark, Angie, who was in no
mood to care for her spite, much less retort, assented to
the later proposition, selfish as it was, saying, in a sympathetic
tone, “Yes, it is a shame!”
“What's a shame?” cried Polly, firing up at this.
“What do you know about the cap'n and me? Like
enough he'll write or send for me yet. I reckon I know
the cap'n better 'n you do?”
“Then I wouldn't be so discouraged.”
“Discouraged? Who's discouraged? You, like
enough, — I ain't!” But Polly here contradicted herself
by bursting into another passionate fit of crying,
which Angie judged it best to wait the conclusion of
in silence.
Apparently, Polly considered her boasted courage a
good thing to rest her cause upon, for, after a great
effort, she succeeded in mastering her tears, gradually
settling into the sulks, — a mood in which she was scornfully
indifferent to Angie's offer of water to bathe her
face, by this time extremely red and tear-stained.
“No! Let me alone! I don't want any thing from
you!” was her rude acknowledgment of the attention;
and jerking her shoulders from side to side to express
her aversion to her hostess, she wiped her face with a
soiled pocket-handkerchief, readjusted her bonnet and
shawl, and flounced out of the house.
Angie watched her go down the road, and unconsciously
groaned aloud. Absurd as Polly's pretensions
might be, and degrading as was her manifestation of disappointment,
Angie thus murmured to herself: “Poor
thing! there she goes, carrying home her burden of sorrow!”
and Angie, the fountain of whose sympathies was
stirred to its depth, groaned not merely for Polly, not
merely for herself, but for a whole world lying in wickedness,
and for a sorrow as world-wide as the sin.
When Polly was fairly out of sight, she turned and
went slowly up to her own room. She now drew the
about her for a place in which to deposit it, opened a
bureau-drawer. She started back as if a serpent lay
coiled there, then stood a moment gazing on the muslin,
flowers, and ribbon which had constituted her becoming
finery on the night of the Christmas ball, — that fatal
night, of which she was never to think again without a
shudder. She tossed the letter on top of them. “Lie
there!” she might have said, “an epitaph on my buried
youth, a sermon on vanity!” but Angie could not
moralize. She could only feel. That she did feel this,
and more, there could be no doubt, for she closed the
drawer solemnly, as if it had been a tomb, and it was
years before she ventured again to open it.
She wandered about the house a while in the restlessness
of despair, avoiding Happy Boose for fear of her
inquisitive tongue, and not venturing down stairs until
she heard her father come in. Then she went below,
and entertained him as well as she could, making his tea
as usual, and trying to appear collected and cheerful.
She even played a game at draughts with the old Frenchman,
and did not leave for the night until it was near
his bed-time.
“Ain't you 'fraid to go 'lone cross dem fields dese
times?” asked Happy, as she followed her to the door.
“Pity now Massa George wan't here! I thought, Miss
Angie, when I see you giv' him a walkin' ticket, that
we'd be wishin' him back bad nuff, 'fore long.”
“No; O no; nobody'll hurt me,” replied Angie, peering
“Take good care of my father, Happy!”
“Law, Miss Angie,” said Happy, “I ain't much feard
o' them villains, — leastways wouldn't be ef massa wan't
so discouragin' jes at bed-time; but what with puttin' the
carvin' knife where 't 'll be handy, an' fastenin' up the
winders with the kitchin forks, it seems as if he 'spected
'em, sure. I says my prayers ebery night, an' I b'lieve
the Lord 'll take care o' massa an' ole Hap; but once in
a while, you know, Miss Angie, there 's ugly critturs
roun' that will rob and murder spite o' any body.”
With which final intimation of a doubt the faithful
Happy watched Angie's plunge into the gloom, and continued
listening in the door-way until she had had time
to reach her destination, after which the old negress
assisted Mr. Cousin in prudently fastening up the doors
and windows, — a precaution universally observed at
Stein's Plains ever since the event which had served to
alarm the whole neighborhood.
| CHAPTER XIII.
POLLY DEFIANT AND POLLY SUBDUED. Haunted hearts | |