 | XXVIII.
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
28. XXVIII.
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
Charlotte could not have returned to her old home under more
disheartening circumstances. It was like entering a hospital.
Mr. Dunbury lay groaning with his injuries, and the shock of the
accident had thrown his feeble and fast-failing wife into a low and
perilous state.
But Charlotte bore up bravely, and her cheerful demeanor
carried an energizing influence to the spirit of her old friend.
“My dear child,” said the invalid to her, one day, with grateful
emotion, “how shall I ever repay you for all your sacrifices?”
“O! if you could only know how richly I feel repaid! These
are the sweetest and happiest days of my whole life!”
The invalid could not doubt it. Hector was at Charlotte's side;
and day and night, with enduring love and patience, hand in hand
they administered to the wants of the sufferers. It mattered not
how severe their duties were; the exchange of a look or word, as
they met for an instant, in passing from room to room, or at the
bedside of either of the patients, compensated for all.
“O, Charlotte!” Hector would say, with a smile of ineffable
meaning; and no answer so cheering and sweet as the glance of
her lustrous eyes. Then there were the watches of the night,
when sleep and quiet reigned, and they could steal away from
their almost incessant cares, and sit together undisturbed, conversing
low, or keeping hallowed silence, in the still hours.
One of these memorable nights found them in Mrs. Dunbury's
room. She was sleeping in the mild shade of the bed-curtains,
while a profound and measured breathing, issuing through the
open door of the adjoining sick chamber, marked Mr. Dunbury's
of the day, reclined upon the lounge; and Hector sat near, shading
her eyes from the light. Suddenly he observed a slight start,
and a cessation of her breath.
“You were dreaming,” he said, leaning over her.
It was some seconds before she spoke. — “Did you see that
face?”
“A face? Where?”
“At the window. Do not stir; it may come again.”
They waited several minutes. Both watched, but saw nothing.
“Are you sure there was a face?”
“I saw it plainly! It peered in between the curtains. But
it vanished.”
“Do not be alarmed,” said Hector; for Charlotte trembled.
“I am not; but it gave me a start! There is scarcely anything
more frightful than such an apparition at a window by
night. The darkness and mystery —” Another tremor, and
Charlotte's hand pressed Hector's arm.
“Again?” he whispered.
“It passed by the casement!”
“I was looking, but saw nothing.”
“The lamp shines in your eyes,” said Charlotte. “I saw the
outline distinctly.”
“Sit still,” — and Hector arose softly. “I will try what discoveries
I can make.”
“You will not leave the house?”
“I do not know.”
He left his lamp in the kitchen, and, muffling himself in his
cloak, went silently from the house. The heavens were starless;
but the snow upon the ground gave a faint glimmer to the night.
Hector moved cautiously towards the front yard, watching and
listening. He heard nothing, saw no living object. He advanced
to the trees, and, passing through the open gate, looked up and
down the road. No discovery. After some minutes, he gave up
the search; but, as he turned to retrace his steps, he perceived a
movement by the trunk of one of the large trees. He rushed to
the spot, and a man stepped out before him. Hector was no coward;
met gave his blood a start.
“Good-evening, sir,” said he. The figure stood silent and motionless.
“I said good-evening. It is politeness to return a salutation.
What is your business here?”
The same silence and mystery. A deep determination swelled
in Hector's tones. “Though you have no tongue, you have, at
least, a face! If I cannot hear the one, I 'll see the other!”
Still no answer; and Hector laid his hand upon the figure's arm.
“Will you speak? If not — there is the house, and you shall
march into it! You 'll find it is no jest!”
His grasp tightened; but at the instant he was shaken off, and
the man sprang upon him. He was not unprepared, but the
suddenness of the onset caused him to recoil. As he did so,
with a dexterous movement he cast off his cloak, and flung it,
outspread, full into the face of his antagonist; then, while the
latter was beating it off, he seized him by the middle, lifted him
clear from his feet, and hurled him with all his might upon the
ground.
The snow was not deep; yet it was sufficient to break the
force of the fall. And now the cloak, which had previously embarrassed
the assailant, did him excellent service. While he fell
upon one part of it, he managed to twist the opposite corner
about Hector's face and chest. The struggle was violent. Both
regained their feet together; and the assailant, literally tearing
himself from Hector's embrace, fled with all speed down the road.
Hector did not pursue, but, gathering up his cloak, returned to
the house. At the door he was met by the alarmed and eager
Charlotte. She suppressed a cry of pain. His face was streaked
with blood.
“I cannot be much hurt,” said he, “since I did not know it. I
received a slight brush in carrying away this trophy.”
“What is it?”
“It hath the appearance of a coat-button, with a strip of cloth
attached, like unto a comet with a tail. It belongs to the face
you saw at the window. You look frightened; but there 's no
occasion.”
“Who was it?”
“You can guess as well as I. Not a word could I force from
the villain; and his intention evidently was, to knock me down,
then make his escape. I know of but one man who could have
any possible motive for prowling around our windows. I imagine
how a jealous rage might prompt him to the act, even with no
definite purpose in view.”
“But his promises —”
“They would not be the first he has broken. However sincere
he may have been in making them, he is a slave to passion,
and there is no faith to be placed in him. O,” said Hector,
“had it not been for my father's accident, all danger from him
would be by this time at an end, and you should stand by my
side before the world! — But don't be troubled. I will know
to-morrow.”
On the following day, Hector made an errand to the village,
but sought in vain for any clue of intelligence which might lead
to a solution of the mystery. On his way home, however, stopping
to make some purchases at the store, he encountered a poor
tailor, who had his shop in an obscure street of the town.
“How do you do, Peter?”
“O, how do you do?” said Peter, obsequiously. “You are
ever so much a stranger!”
“How is business, this winter?”
“O, not over 'n above bright! Give me a call. I don't do a
very smashing business, but my work is done well.”
“So I have heard,” replied Hector; “and the first I have to be
done in town shall be given to you.”
“Thank you!” said Peter.
“You are looking at some buttons. Let me help you choose
them. What sort of a button do you want?”
“A good over-coat button,” said Peter. “Something about
this size and quality,” — showing an exact mate to the trophy
Hector had brought off the night before.
“That 's a handsome button!”
“It 's a good and durable article,” answered Peter, professionally.
“I 've an assortment of these; but I 'm doing a job for a fanciful
of one being lost from his coat, I 'm to change the whole set.”
“If I knew your customer,” said Hector, “I might tell you
just what article he would fancy.”
“Of course,” returned Peter, softly, “there 'll be no harm in
mentioning it, though he appeared a little sensitive about having
it known 't he 'd come back to town, or 't I was doing his work.
It 's Robert Greenwich.”
“Indeed!” said Hector. “Then here is just the button.
Give him a set of these, by all means!”
He chose the device of a serpent biting its own coils. Peter
admired the selection, and declared that he should abide by it.
“He shall wear serpentine buttons, and have me to thank for
it!” said Hector to himself. “Meanwhile, I must take out his
fangs.”
He visited a banking office, where he had money deposited,
and procured a draft upon New York; then hastened home to
Charlotte. “It is as I feared. Robert is in town. But don't be
disturbed. My resolution is formed.”
“You will go?” said Charlotte, pale with anxiety.
“Yes — at once. I have delayed too long. Be brave, Charlotte!
— I must speak with father.”
Mr. Dunbury was sitting up, with his feet upon a chair, and
his unfortunate shoulder in a sling, when Hector entered the
room. “What orders have you for me to-day, father?”
“None, that I know of.” Mr. Dunbury's voice sounded like a
growl. Hector was not surprised; for he had not heard him
speak pleasantly since his accident.
“Is there nothing I can do for you?”
“No. I am better. I can wait upon myself. It is time I
was doing something. I have been here long enough.”
“You could not have chosen a better time,” said Hector, “for
there is little to be done on the farm; scarce enough to keep
Corny in motion. It is as much as you ought to do to oversee
things, where you think there is need. Could you confine yourself
to this, in case I should leave you for a few days?”
“At all events, I can dispense with your services, if that is
what you wish.”
“You misunderstand me, father. I never did anything more
cheerfully than what I have had to do for you. Has it appeared
otherwise?”
There was a thrill of emotion in Hector's voice, which softened
his parent. “I acknowledge you have shown me all the kindness
I have deserved. More, perhaps; for I have not been patient;
I have given you cause to abandon me.”
“I have had no thought of abandoning you — no wish to leave
you for a day. But I have other duties to perform. I should
have gone about them within three days of my return from Canada,
with Charlotte, had it not been for your accident. It has
not been without misgivings that I have neglected them; and now
circumstances render it imperative that they should be attended
to, at once.”
“You do not see fit to impart your business to me.”
“I cannot very well do so until my return; because it is not
altogether my own.”
“Whose, then?”
“So much I can tell you, but let it be in confidence; it is Charlotte's!”
“Charlotte's, — hem!” muttered Mr. Dunbury, with a clouded
brow. “I do not understand Charlotte. She came here a servant.
One would think now she was mistress of the house.”
“Father,” replied Hector, “this is a subject we will not argue.
You know that my mother's welfare required that she should be
here; and it was by your consent, if not by your desire, that I
went for her. She yielded to our entreaties; but it was at a
sacrifice of peculiar advantages her Canadian home afforded;
and, in return, I promised to transact the personal business of
hers to which I have alluded. I have now to fulfil my promise.
On my return you shall know everything.”
“When do you leave?”
“To-morrow; and I may be absent two or three weeks.”
“Very well,” muttered Mr. Dunbury.
His countenance showed a sullen discontent; but he gave the
subject no more words; and it only remained for Hector to make
preparations for his journey.
| XXVIII.
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. Neighbor Jackwood | |