 | CHAPTER XX.
A CLEW AT LAST. Haunted hearts |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
A CLEW AT LAST.
It was just five years since the night of the ball at
Stein's, — eventful years in the fortunes of the American
republic, including successes and reverses experienced in
more than one foreign war, an honorable restoration
of peace, and the establishment of national prosperity
on a surer foundation than ever before. Years of
little more than ordinary interest to the people of
Stein's Plains, except for the double tragedy which
marked the commencement of the period; since when
no local incident had occurred of any comparable
importance.
The war was discussed in the village grocery and the
tavern at the cross roads, with that mingling of shrewdness
and ignorance, intelligence and bravado, with
which public news is usually canvassed in these schools
of American oratory, but the actual knowledge this
rustic community had of its facts, or their sense of its
nearness, was less than is had in this generation in cases
of East Indian or Chinese wars. It was not for them
had achieved freedom, or the life-and-death grapple to
which their grandchildren have lately sprung in her
defence. Fought at a distance, and for the most part
on an element to which they were strangers, the chief
interest it possessed for them lay in the alternations of
pride and mortification with which they hailed “our
victories,” or lamented “our defeats.” Peace, when it
was announced, was the mere insurance of rights of
which they had never dreamed of being dispossessed,
and so far as concerned their security, both of person
and property, the war and the peace alike might as well
have been at the antipodes.
These five eventful years in the national history then
had rolled over the people at Stein's Plains, leaving no
other traces than a few more lines of care on weatherbeaten
faces, a few children sprung to their growth, a
few white heads bleached whiter, a few deaf ears
(Hannah Rawle's among others) grown deafer, here
and there a fresh-sodded mound in the burying ground,
and the same number of familiar forms missing in their
homes.
I wonder how many among the two dozen couples
who danced five years ago at Stein's, are thinking of it
to-night. There is no ball this year to remind them
of past festivities. The last attempt, two years ago,
proved a failure; perhaps because the hard-working
hostess, really slaved to death at last, was no longer
behind the scenes, moving secret springs; perhaps
his energy and strength of purpose. At all events, the
Christmas balls are among the things that have been.
The things that are prove too engrossing for most of the
dancers of five years ago to spend their time and
thoughts to-night in looking back upon the past. Some
of them were heads of families even then, nearly all
have by this time become thrifty husbandmen or busy
matrons, and amid the cares, the noise, the cheerful
bustle of their homes, youthful memories or sentimental
regrets find little scope for indulgence. Who can pause
to meditate upon the past when there are cattle to be
foddered, fowls to be plucked and made ready for
market, barrels of apples and out-door pumps to be
protected from the frost, sausages to be stuffed, pork
liver to be fried for the men's supper, bread set to rise,
cradles to be rocked, and children to be huddled off to
bed. But in those homes where there are no strong-voiced
men coming in to supper, no children to be sung
to sleep, no work to be done after dark, there is stillness
and leisure at this hour, and in those hearts, which the
things that are can never fill the things that have been,
are now uppermost. Such a home is that cottage on
the lonely cross-road where Angie Cousin still lives
with the Widows Rawle.
It is a wild night, just such a night as one they all
remember well. The wind is whistling around the
house, — that malicious wind, that seems longing for mischief
always. Now it sways the branches of an old
the window pane with them, creates a temporary hailstorm;
then it snatches a loose shingle from the roof,
and twirls it round and round in a mad dance on the
housetop. A little while ago, when Angie replenished
the fire with damp wood, it met the smoke in the chimney,
fought a battle with it, and drove it back in a cloud
into her face. Twice it has blown the house door open,
compelling her to bar it at last, and revealing, triumphantly,
at the same time the great drifts of snow which
it has heaped up against that side of the house, and
which it threatens to heap up higher, for the snow is
falling still.
Each of the old women has her straight-backed chair,
drawn to the accustomed side of the fireplace. Hannah,
to all appearance, very little changed, sits erect as ever,
and the lines of her face are as stern and uncompromising.
Perhaps the season of the year and the wildness
of the night have conjured up her spectral thought,
perhaps not, for Hannah is too matter-of-fact and practical
to be much influenced by coincidences or anniversaries.
At all events they can be only dreams of the past
which she is indulging, for though her attitude puts her
beyond suspicion, her deep breathing betrays her, and
she is indubitably asleep. Margery, more wasted and
bent than ever, cowers down in her corner, listens
tremblingly to the storm, glances timorously at her
sister-in-law during the continuance of the blasts, and
at every lull in the tempest suffers her eyes to rest upon
with that pleading, trusting look, which dumb animals
bestow on their protectors.
It is so instinctive with Angie to take her seat on
Margery's side of the fireplace, and on wintry nights
like this to draw a little nearer yet to Geordie's mother,
she is so accustomed to feel herself the object of that
appealing gaze, and has understood it so long and so
well, that there being nothing new in her relations to
Margery, and Hannah being asleep, she is as much lost
and abstracted from her present surroundings as if quite
unobserved and alone.
She has been knitting by the fire-light, the only light
they can afford throughout the long winter evenings; but
now the stocking lies idly on her lap, her head is resting
on her hand, and she is apparently tracing out objects in
the red-hot, glimmering coals, not building castles in the
air, only musing on the ruins of those demolished five
years ago.
And the fire-light on which she is gazing so steadily
is reflected, meanwhile, on her face. What does it reveal
there?
Ah, “that depends wholly,” as Briny Rycker once
said, “on your point of view.” Are you looking for the
beauty that formerly made her the belle of Stein's
Plains? Then you may look in vain. Youth is beautiful,
and Angie's first flush of youth is past; health is
beautiful, and lately Angie's frame, though still capable
of much endurance, had shown signs of languor and
— patient and peaceful, but that is all. Angie's beauty,
too, had been preëminently of that order which is enhanced
by, if not dependent on, good spirits, arch expressions,
playful ways. Her features were never regular;
there was nothing mechanical in her smile; none of her
graces were of the statuesque type. Nature made her
one of those jewels which has intrinsic lustre, but needs
animation, motion, light to give it radiance; she was not
a pearl, which is best set off against a dark background.
She was exactly calculated to play a brilliant part in
society; she would never make an artist's saint, or a
model nun. She is certainly out of her element, and
Nature has a right to be disappointed in her, if not
Heaven. What a pity!
And this, then, is victory! Certainly; why not? Tell
me, is victory beautiful? Is it not wounded, stained,
scarred, just in proportion as it is hard won and glorious?
Does it not come with tattered banners, and
broken ranks, and weary steps, as tokens of its triumph?
Who sees in our decimated battalions, or on the face of
our bloody battle-fields, the cheering signs of conquest? It
is known only by its fruits. It is felt, not seen.
I have shown a few of the ways in which Angie's self-conquest
made itself felt in her little sphere; but look at
her, as she sits in the fire-light, and what do you see?
“Why,” you will say, “only a pale, sober-looking
woman.” “Pretty?” “No; I should never have
dreamed of her being pretty. Neat, to be sure;
too! Don't I spy a few gray hairs in her head, or is that
only my fancy in this pale light? Dear me, can that be
Angie? Why, I don't believe I should have known her!”
It is Angie, and the plain livery she wears is the
badge by which you may often recognize them that have
overcome.
How calm she looks! Whatever visions she sees in the
embers now, they have no power to disturb her peace;
her face wears a sad expression, but her attitude is full
of repose. She is not so calm as she seems, however.
This composed attitude has become habitual with her;
and the visions, painful as they may be, are too familiar
to startle her with their presence; but her nerves are far
from sound, for a stamping of feet outside the door, and
a hand laid on the latch, cause her to give a convulsive
start, not because the step and touch are strange, for,
though unexpected, she knows them well; but, perhaps,
because the coming visitor is painfully associated with
the subject of her meditation; possibly because he is
unwelcome to her at all times, or perchance merely on
account of the sudden turn given to her thoughts. But
the shock is for an instant only; then she rises composedly
to take down the bar and admit the visitor.
Margery's childish look follows her to the door.
“What's that?” cries Hannah, whose dull ears have
echoed just enough sound to cause her to awaken from
her nap, with a more perceptible start than Angie's.
“My brother Dick, I vum!” as Van Hausen came in,
in the year worse than another, it's sure to bring you.”
Angie placed a chair in front of the fire for him.
“'Do, Margery? 'do, Hannah?” he muttered, abbreviating
the customary salutation of society to the last
degree, to save words, and, as usual, taking no notice
whatever of Angie, who, accustomed to be thus overlooked
by him, resumed her low chair with the meekness
of one who is content to be despised.
Then there was a prolonged silence; but this was
nothing strange. Hannah being deaf, and Margery what
she was, — poor soul! — and Angie a creature wholly
ignored, Van Hausen's conversation with them usually
consisted of a few commonplaces, uttered at intervals,
and the long pauses between were neither felt to be oppressive
nor ominous. They were merely characteristic
of occasions wherein social intercourse was well understood
to be supplementary to the true object of the
visit, which usually revealed itself after Dick was gone
in the form of a basket of groceries found on the doorsteps,
a sparerib of pork left hanging in the shed, or
some such substantial token of the visitor's presence.
To-night, Christmas being so near, a fat turkey, or the
materials for a plum-pudding, might reasonably be anticipated
as an afterpiece.
But any such anticipation was destined to be disappointed.
The object of Van Hausen's present visit was
no less weighty, but its delivery must precede, not follow,
his departure, and must be made in person.
He was awkward at the undertaking. Though evidently
oppressed with the burden which he had brought
so far through the storm, his efforts to relieve himself of
it were for some time ineffectual. His conversation was
more terse and abstracted than usual. His eyes were
fixed on a single spot in the rag-carpet, excepting as he
now and then turned them suddenly upon Hannah, he
seemed about to give utterance to what was uppermost
in his mind, then checked himself abruptly. The truth
was, he had something of more than ordinary interest to
communicate, but dreaded its effect on the old woman.
At last, as if all the force gained by his previous efforts
had concentrated itself for a final blast, he leaned forward,
put his mouth to one of her deaf ears, and bawled
out, without preface or preamble, “We've got a clew to
the murder!”
“You hain't?” cried Hannah, jumping as if a shot had
issued from Van Hausen's mouth and pierced her brain.
It was a blasting shot indeed. It had struck two poor
hearts on the opposite side of the fireplace, and seemed
to let out the life-blood. Margery's hand clutched Angie's
gown as with a death clutch; but these two victims
were otherwise still, and attracted no attention.
“We have, though,” responded Van Hausen, in a tone
of assurance, almost of triumph.
“It's come out then! The Lord be praised! I shall
see my old man avenged afore I die! How did it come
to light? Was it one or two?” All this Hannah
poured out at a breath.
“Dun know yet,” shouted Dick, with an emphasis
intended to check impatience and allay excitement.
“We've got a clew; that's all.”
“How? where? what is it?”
“Wal, it's a man down to York. He's turned state's
evidence, I hear. They're a goin' to take his testimony
to-morrow, and I'm goin' down there to see about it.”
“Can't hear! What does he say?” cried Hannah,
with irritation; for Dick, in uttering a phrase of any
length, was apt to muffle his voice and lower it a pitch,
forgetful of her infirmity. “Come here, Angie, and tell
me what he says.”
Angie somehow tottered to her feet in obedience to this
summons. Her clear voice was often Hannah's ear-trumpet.
What an office for her to act as interpreter now?
But there was no escape. Hannah's call was imperative.
Margery held her back, however, keeping firm grasp
on her gown. Angie dared not remonstrate with the
trembling Margery. She was compelled to unwrench
the withered hand, hastily and by force. The hand thus
unloosed from its stronghold clasped its mate with an
expression of despair, while anxious eyes followed Angie
as if imploring her not to league herself with the betrayers.
But she must play her part, however hard; must report
faithfully to Hannah every word of Van Hausen's,
though every word were a thunderbolt. Fortunately for
her the worst there was to tell was told already. It
only remained to explain to Hannah, which was accomplished
of legal forms, that a certain man, who had been some
time since committed to prison for crimes of the lesser
magnitude, was about to be employed as testimony in the
case of one Bullet and his gang, noted pirates, recently
captured at sea, and now awaiting trial in New York.
The man who proposed to turn state's evidence had confessed
himself an accomplice in many crimes, both by sea
and land. As he had, among other confessions, dropped
a hint to his jailer of having five years before been engaged
in some atrocious affair in New Jersey, the jailer,
remembering the reward offered for the discovery of Baultie
Rawle's murderers, lost no time in communicating
with the legal authorities, and also with Van Hausen,
who was known to be interested in the ferreting out of
the crime and its agents. The expectation of obtaining
evidence in the Rawle affair lay in the fact that the witness,
whose eagerness for the conviction of Bullet had
led him to make revelations of the past, would, when furnishing
his testimony in the one case, be induced, either
by the promise of indulgences, or for the sake of easing
his conscience, to make a clean breast regarding his complicity
in other crimes.
To aid in this purpose, it was deemed desirable that
those most nearly concerned, and who might, by their
questioning or hints, deduce the necessary proofs, should
be present at his examination. This had been postponed,
for some reason unknown to Van Hausen, to the last
possible moment, but the court for the trial of Bullet being
Van Hausen, who had been made acquainted with these
facts by the detective some days previously, had hitherto
forborne imparting them to Hannah, in order to save her
unnecessary suspense, but as he had been notified to be
present the next morning at an examination of the man
preparatory to his appearing in open court, he did not
venture to withhold from her any longer a secret in
which she was the party most interested.
The above information, for her benefit, was elicited,
not in any connected form, but in detached phrases, uttered
in successive jerks by Van Hausen, and communicated
by Angie as by an echo; — a thing not supposed by
its auditors to hear, think, or understand; an unconscious
reporter merely. Only Margery wondered at Angie.
She, poor creature, with strained eyes and imploring
hands, seemed to protest with her against every word of
which she suffered herself to be the medium. The very
echoes may betray, and with her last bulwark of strength
seemingly in league against her, poor Margery felt herself
forsaken and lost. But Angie's voice, like Nature's,
was simply obedient to law. What the obedience cost
her no one but herself ever knew.
There was something awful in the calmness with
which, after the first shock of surprise, Hannah listened
to Van Hausen's report, and treasured up its details. It
was the calmness of triumph, the confidence of victory.
As her mind took in and digested one item after another
of the intelligence Dick had brought, the feverish irritability
of a resolved will. She drew herself to the edge of
her chair like one ready for action, braced up her tall
form, clinched her right fist, and, looking coming events as
it were in the face, felt herself more than ever her dead
husband's champion. No judge in all the land could be
half so stern, so terrible, so pitiless, as this old woman
who had waited all these years for vengeance, and not
waited, as she now believed, in vain. Margery cowered
before her. Angie shuddered as she saw her thus gird
herself for the onset.
“Are you goin' to York in the mornin', Dick?” was
Hannah's deliberate query, at the conclusion of his report.
He nodded in the affirmative.
“What time?”
“I shall start afore sunrise,” was his answer, transmitted
through Angie.
“I wanted to know, 'cause I'm goin' with you,” said
Hannah, coolly.
“You? what fur? where to?” asked Dick, in surprise.
“To the jail; to the court where the trial is, to see the
whole thing with my own eyes. Who's a better right,
I'd like to know?”
Dick looked dumbfounded. He would never have confided
the matter to Hannah if he had thought of this as
the consequence. He expostulated; the severity of the
weather, the open pung in which he should be obliged to
travel, the unsuitableness of such an expedition for women
the trial to her feelings, every thing he could suggest
but it was of no use, Hannah was firm. Go she
would, — go before sunrise, in her brother's pung and in
spite of the weather, and she closed the catalogue of her
plans with the words, “Angie will go with me.”
Angie had stooped to pick up a brand from the hearth,
which she let fall at this. A look of agony overspread
her face, and she cried out, like one in terror, “Not
me? O, no!” At the same moment Margery stretched
out a hand in a frantic manner and clutched once more
at her gown. Angie, to hide the action, suffered herself
to be drawn to Margery's side of the fireplace, and beneath
the folds of her dress patted the withered hand in
a soothing, caressing manner, as one pats a child. Margery
looked comforted.
But Hannah persisted. “You wouldn't have me go
alone, child, among all those men. Besides, I can't hear
a word without you. It won't hurt young folks, I guess,
if an old woman like me can risk it, though it is bad
business we're goin' on, an' winter weather inter the bargain.”
Margery quivered like an aspen leaf. Angie, still
patting the hand, seemed to say, “There! there! — hush!
hush! — we must meet it as well as we can.”
“Wal, Han,” screamed Dick, who, paying no attention
to the question concerning Angie, — taking a rude
pleasure, perhaps, in interrupting it, — had risen to go.
“You've got to be ready 'fore sunrise, that's all; 'tain't
my fault if you ketch yer death,” he grunted, as he
went out.
There was not much sleep in the cross-road cottage
that night. Hannah's eyes were strained wide open;
and though she went to bed first, resolved, among other
things, to fortify herself with a good night's rest, the
visions which haunted her imagination were not of the
sedative order, and she lay still, but wakeful, eager,
longing for the dawn, to her so full of promise. Margery
crept into bed beside her, as the lamb might do
which has been taught to lie down by the sleeping lion,
but has seen symptoms of its companion's ferocity, and
is in dread lest the enemy may wake and pounce upon
it. Especially did this nightmare of terror seize upon
her when, through the darkness, she watched the companion
of her pillow creep out of bed, steal to the bureau,
feel in the corner of the upper drawer, to make sure that
the mitten — George's mitten, that precious bit of proof—
was safe, and satisfying herself of the fact, steal back to
bed. Could George's mother sleep that night? Her
visions were not of the stuff that dreams are made of,
though nightmares are sometimes.
Angie would gladly have sat up until morning. She
had to make ready for an early breakfast, bring out her
own and Hannah's best, warm clothes for the journey,
and hunt up bricks to heat in the ashes over night, to put
into the bottom of the sleigh as a protection against
frozen feet. She would gladly have made a pretence of
business enough to occupy her until daylight, if it were
only to keep near Margery, and now and then, on every
trifling pretext, creep into the bed-room and secretly pat
every thing absolutely necessary was done, Hannah
ordered Angie off to bed, where she lay quaking, shivering,
moaning, — not with the cold, though her windowpanes
were coated with ice, her breath frozen on the sheet,
the wind coming in at many a crack, — but because her
tears, her prayers, the faith which had supported her
through many a strait, — nothing could save her now
from a mortal dread of the morrow.
| CHAPTER XX.
A CLEW AT LAST. Haunted hearts | |