66. CHAPTER LXVI.
THE HOUR AND THE NACKLACE.
As they entered the town, something strange seemed to be
going on; the place was evidently in commotion. A great thrill
seemed to run through the population, who were gathered at the
doors and windows—such of them as did not throng the streets;
and as the hoofs of the horses struck upon the beaten way, a
drum suddenly was heard thundering indignantly through the
narrow streets.
The crowd rushed toward it—hurried, muttering, armed with
nondescript weapons, as though the Indians were come down
from the mountain fastnesses once more; and then, as the
cortege from Apple Orchard passed beyond the old fort, the
meaning of all the commotion was visible.
Marching slowly along in confused masses, a large portion of
the Irish population came toward the fort, and from their appearance,
these men seemed ripe for commotion.
They were armed with clubs, heavy canes, bludgeons, and old
rusty swords; and these weapons were flourished in the air in a
way which seemed to indicate the desire to inflict death and
destruction on some hostile party which did not appear.
But the most singular portion of the pageant was undoubtedly
the personage borne aloft by the shouting crowd. This was the
Dutch St. Michael himself—portly, redfaced, with a necklace of
sour krout, clad, as had been said by Mr. Jinks, in six pairs of
pantaloons, and resembling a hogshead.
St. Michael was borne aloft on a species of platform, supported
on the shoulders of a dozen men; and when the saint raised the
huge beer glass from his knee, and buried his white beard in it,
the swaying crowd set up a shout which shook the houses.
This was the Irish defiance of the Dutch: the Emerald Isle
against the Low Countries—St. Patrick against St. Michael.
The figure of St. Michael was paraded in defiance of the Dutch
—the thundering drum and echoing shouts were all so many
ironical and triumphant defiances.
The shouting crowd came on, tramping heavily, brandishing
their clubs, and eager for the fray.
Miss Lavinia becomes terrified; the ladies of the party, by an
unanimous vote, decide that they will draw up to one side by Mr.
Rushton's office, and permit the crowd to pass. Mr. Rushton
desires to advance upon the peacebreakers, and engage in single
combat with St. Michael and all his supporters.
The Squire dissuades him—and growling contemptuously, the
lawyer does not further oppose the desire of the ladies.
Then from Mr. Rushton's office comes hastily our friend Mr.
Roundjacket—smiling, flourishing his ruler, and pointing, with
well-bred amusement, to the crowd. The crowd look sidewise at
Mr. Roundjacket, who returns them amiable smiles, and brandishes
his ruler in pleasant recognition of Hibernian friends and clients
in the assemblage.
Roundjacket thinks the ladies need not be alarmed. Still, as
there will probably be a fight soon, they had better get out and
come in.
Roundjacket is the public character when he speaks thus—he
is flourishing his ruler. It is only when Miss Lavinia has descended
that he ogles that lady. Suddenly, however, he resumes
his noble and lofty carriage, and waves the ruler at his friend,
St. Michael—tailor and client—by name, O'Brallaghan.
The crowd passes on, with thundering drums and defiant
shouts; and our party, from Apple Orchard, having affixed their
horses to the wall, near at hand, gaze on the masquerade from
Mr. Rushton's office.
We have given but a few words to the strange pageant which
swept on through the main street of the old border town; and
this because any accurate description is almost wholly impossible.
Let the reader endeavor to imagine Pandemonium broke
loose, with all its burly inmates, and thundering voices, and outré
forms, and, perhaps, the general idea in his mind may convey to
him some impression of the rout which swept by with its shouts
and mad defiances.
Some were clad in coat and pantaloons only; others had forgotten
the coat, and exposed brawny and hirsute torsos to the
October sun, and swelling muscles worthy of Athletes.
Others, again, were almost sans-culottes, only a remnant being
left, which made the deficiency more tantalizingly painful to the
eye.
Let the reader, then, imagine this spectacle of torn garments,
tattered hats, and brandished clubs—not forgetting the tatterdemalion
negro children, who ran after the crowd in the last state
of dilapidation, and he will have some slight idea of the masquerade,
over which rode, in supreme majesty, the trunk-nosed
Mr. O'Brallaghan.
We need not repeat the observations of the ladies; or detail
their exclamations, fears, and general behavior. Like all members
of the fair sex, they made a virtue of necessity, and assumed
the most winning expressions of timidity and reliance on their
cavaliers; and even Miss Lavinia reposed upon a settee, and exclaimed
that it was dreadful—very dreadful and terrifying.
Thereat, Mr. Roundjacket rose into the hero, and alluded to
the crowd with dignified amusement; and when Miss Lavinia
said, in a low voice, that other lives were precious to her besides
her own—evidently referring to Mr. Roundjacket—that gentleman
brandished his ruler, and declared that life was far less
valuable than her smiles.
In another part of the room Ralph and Fanny laughed and
jested—opposite them, Mr. Rushton indignantly shook his fist
in the direction of the crowd, and vituperated the Hibernian
nation, in a manner shocking to hear.
Verty was leaning on the mantel-piece, as quietly as if there
was nothing to attract his attention. He had pushed Cloud
through the mass with the unimpressed carriage of the Indian
hunter; and his dreamy eyes were far away—he listened to other
sounds than shouts, perhaps to a maiden singing.
The little singer—we refer to Miss Redbud—had been much
terrified by the crowd, and felt weak, owing to the recent sickness.
She looked round for a seat, and saw none.
The door leading into the inner sanctum of Mr. Rushton then
attracted her attention, and seeing a comfortable chair within,
she entered, and sat down.
Redbud uttered a sigh of weariness and relief, and then gazed
around her.
The curtain was drawn back from the picture—the child's face
was visible.
She went to it, and was lost in contemplation of the bright,
pretty face; when, as had happened with Verty, she felt a hand
upon her shoulder, and started.
Mr. Rushton stood beside her.
“Well, Miss!” he said, roughly, “what are you doing?”
“Oh, sir!” Redbud replied, “I am sorry I offended you—but
I saw this pretty picture, and just come to look at it.”
“Humph!” growled the lawyer, “nothing can be kept private
here.”
And, with a softened expression, he gazed at the picture.
“It is very pretty,” said Redbud, gently; “who was she, sir?”
The lawyer was silent; he seemed afraid to trust his voice.
At last he said:
“My child.”
And his voice was so pathetic, that Redbud felt the tears come
to her eyes.
“Pardon me for making you grieve, Mr. Rushton,” she said,
softly, “it was very thoughtless in me. But will you let me
speak? She is in heaven, you know; the dear Savior said himself,
that the kingdom of heaven was full of such.”
The lawyer's head bent down, and a hoarse sigh, which resembled
the growl of a lion, shook his bosom.
Redbud's eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, do not grieve, sir,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “trust
in God, and believe that He is merciful and good.”
The poor stricken heart brimmed with its bitter and corroding
agony; and, raising his head, the lawyer said, coldly:
“Enough! this may be very well for you, who have never
suffered—it is the idle wind to me! Trust in God? Away!
the words are fatuitous!—ough!” and wiping his moist brow, he
added, coldly, “What a fool I am, to be listening to a child!”
Redbud, with her head bent down, made no reply.
Her hand played, absently, with the coral necklace; without
thinking, she drew it with her hand.
The time had come.
The old necklace, worn by use, parted asunder, and fell upon
the floor. The lawyer, with his cold courtesy, picked it up.
As he did so,—as his eye dwelt upon it, a strange expression
flitted across his rugged features.
With a movement, as rapid as thought, he seized the gold clasp
with his left hand, and turned the inner side up.
His eye was glued to it for a moment, his brow grew as pale as
death, and sinking into the old chair, he murmured hoarsely:
“Where did you get this?”
Redbud started, and almost sobbing, could not reply.
He caught her by the wrist, with sudden vehemence, and holding
the necklace before her, said:
“Look!”
Upon the inside of the gold plate were traced, in almost illegible
lines, the letters, “A. R.”
“It was my child's!” he said, hoarsely; “where did you
get it?”
Redbud, with a tremor which she could not restrain, told how
she had purchased the necklace from a pedlar; she knew no
more; did not know his name—but recollected that he was a
German, from his accent.
The lawyer fell into his chair, and was silent: his strong frame
from time to time trembled—his bosom heaved.
At last he raised his face, which seemed to have sunken away
in the last few moments, and still holding the necklace tightly,
motioned Redbud toward the door.
“We—will—speak further of this,” he said, his voice charged
with tears; and with a slow movement of his head up and down,
he again desired Redbud to leave him.
She went out:—the last she saw was Mr. Rushton clasping
the necklace to his lips, and sobbing bitterly.
In the outer room they laughed and jested gaily.
