 | XXXII.
FLIGHT. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
32. XXXII.
FLIGHT.
Recovering from her swoon, Charlotte put her friend gently
from her, and, holding her hand upon her heart with an expression
of unutterable suffering, withdrew quietly to her chamber.
“The gentleman's victuals is ready,” said Bridget at the door.
“Truth is eternal; but cooking is a necessary evil;” and
Edward arose with alacrity. “When the state of innocence is
reached, men will winter upon acorns and dried snails. Meanwhile
greatness must crunch! Lead the way, Elephant's-foot! —
If I fast too long, the hungry tiger haunts me; but after the lunch,
Solon will shine out.”
The invalid lay, pallid, and sighing at long intervals, upon the
lounge.
“You, then,” burst forth her husband, “you have encouraged
the imposition, you have helped to make me a dupe, you have
countenanced your son's folly!”
“O, sir,” cried the invalid, rising slowly upon her arm, and
answering his furious look with a sad and earnest glance, “it was
in fear of a worse folly, of which you are not ignorant, that I consented
to the marriage. Look at Edward! — then think of Hector,
who inherits the same blood, the same dangerous temperament,
from our ancestors! O, what is family pride, compared with the
welfare of a heart and mind like his? — And think of Charlotte!
consider how tender, and lovable, and true, she is; and that Hector's
feelings, with all their depth and intensity, have centred in
her; then, for his sake, if not for her sake, be merciful!”
“What does talk amount to? Go on till dooms-day; make
Hector a saint, make Charlotte an angel, make me a brute! then
should have been duped!”
“O, would I could explain! But when Hector went to bring
Charlotte back, and when we both longed to tell you their history
up to that hour, he could not approach you — I could not!”
“Was I so terrible a monster?”
“You force me to say what I would leave unsaid! When you
are yourself, you are to me a husband, — to him, a father. But
there are times when you are not yourself, as you know!”
The quiet tone in which the invalid uttered the notorious truth
of her husband's inebriety for a moment staggered him, and
left him quivering with inarticulate rage.
“No one wished to deceive you; but, considering your state,
we deemed it advisable to wait until Charlotte's affairs were
settled. — But of this I cannot speak; you would not hear me,
you would not understand; and I must leave the rest to Hector,
on his return. Would he were here to-day!”
“So say I!” and the inebriate stamped the floor with his
infuriate heel.
“You forget,” said Mrs. Dunbury, “that he is of an age to act
for himself.”
“And let him! Had he chosen a negress or a squaw, he might
have married in spite of me. But when he thinks to harbor his
baggage under my roof, — he shall see!”
“He will be quite ready, sir, to remove his wife to another and
pleasanter home, let me assure you; and, no doubt, Charlotte will
be as ready to go. Why did they come back here at all? Was it
not for my sake, and for your sake? because you needed him, and
I needed both? Had they acted only for themselves, your house
would never have been insulted by their presence, as you complain!
Young, strong, courageous, they can spare us very well; it remains
to be seen how well we can spare them.”
“It 's Miss Charlotte I 'd be findin',” said Bridget at the door.
“There 's a visitor for her,” — scratching her elbow, and glancing
about the room. Having seized the opportunity to look in upon
an interesting family scene, she was in no hurry to retire. Mr.
Dunbury breathed hard.
“A visitor?” said the invalid.
Bridget scratched the other elbow, grinning with conscious impertinence.
“Yes 'm — it 's the little janus — what ye cahl her
— Mr. Robert's sister.”
“Etty! who is with her?”
“It 's nobody at ahl wid her, but her own silf jist! It 's alone
an' a cryin' she is; an' her fate 's as soppin' wet as iver they can
be, wid the thahin' snow. I 've got her by the stove, an' the
quair gintleman 's tellin' her the crackin'est stories! But she 's
ahl in the fidgets to see Miss Charlotte; an' she 'll not be thinkin'
of her soakin' fate, nor nothin' at ahl, a bit!”
Etty's large forehead and pale face emerged from the eclipse of
Bridget's shoulder. Mrs. Dunbury called her, and she came
eagerly into the room. “I want to see Miss Woods! Is she in
her chamber? Can I go and find her?”
“Sit down, my dear child, and Bridget will speak to her for
you. How wet your dress is!”
“Yes — and I must go right back!” Etty began to cry. “I
would n't care, but I don't know what my mother will say! I
was at my cousins' — I had something to tell Miss Woods — O,
if you will let me go and find her! I know her room!”
The invalid gave her consent, and the child hastened to climb
the chamber-stairs, and knock with her trembling hand at Charlotte's
door. Then, having thrust Bridget from the room, Mr.
Dunbury stood fuming before the invalid's lounge.
“I 'll know the rest! Who are my son's connections? Who
is this adventuress? Is she so much worse than a beggar, that
you dare not speak? Is she some creature who has first brought
shame upon her own family, then upon mine? Has Hector gone
to appease the anger of an outraged parent, or the vengeance of a
dishonored husband? Has the name of Dunbury come to this?”
“It is well for you, sir, to speak of the name of Dunbury! —
you, who have done so much for it!”
The words pierced and stung. The proud Englishman writhed
a moment, then burst forth with redoubled fury. In the very
hurricane of his speech, the door was again opened. Charlotte
entered. She was very pale, her lips were colorless, her eyes
for a journey.
“Charlotte!” the invalid cried out.
“Will you let Cornelius carry me over Wild River in the
sleigh?”
“My child! where are you going?”
“I could walk,” said Charlotte, — “but there is water around
the bridge: beyond that, I shall need no assistance.”
The invalid saw Etty's frightened face behind the door. Something
like the truth flashed upon her. She glanced despairingly
from Charlotte to her husband.
“Cornelius can go — can he not — to the river —”
“To the river, — to the end of creation!”
Charlotte spoke a hasty word of thanks, which died in her
throat, and hurried from the room. Mrs. Dunbury followed to
the hall. A few incoherent and terrified words passed between
them; and Charlotte, bursting from the other's trembling embrace,
went swiftly from the house. Bridget was calling Corny, but
no Corny appeared.
“O, Bridget, I cannot wait! — I will walk!”
“He 's gahn ahf wid the quair gintleman,” scolded Bridget.
“But I can be tacklin' the hoss for ye, — if that 's ahl, — an'
dhrive ye ahf, into the bargain.”
“O!” said Charlotte, “if you will!”
“Let me help!” cried Etty.
“No, child! — stay with Mrs. Dunbury. And may God bless
you, my dear, dear Etty!”
Bridget preceded Charlotte to the barn. This was a species
of stable and wagon-house combined, with two doors on the
side of the street, and with light and space within to harness a
team.
“Wat n'ise was that?” asked Bridget, standing agape at the
entrance of the smaller door.
“Bridget,” said Charlotte, with singular earnestness, “I believe
you love me!”
“Ye may well say that same, Miss Charlotte! Ye 's the very
fust Yankee woman iver I —”
“Good, Bridget! I knew it was so! And now that I have
only you to depend upon, you will — you will help me, I am sure!”
Bridget pledged herself with true Hibernian enthusiasm. “But
what shall I be afther doin' for a beginnin'?”
“Get out the horse! Do not waste a minute!”
“Howly Mither! there 's that n'ise again! It 's somebody
that 's been murthered!” It was a muffled cry, that appeared to
proceed from the direction of the granary.
“It is Cornelius,” said Charlotte.
“The owl!” cried Bridget; “he 's been lockin' himself up, wid
the kay on the outside!”
“Open for him! O, be quick!”
“But what if he should n't be Carny? What if he 's only purtendin'
to be there, an' it 's a robber afther ahl? 'T would be jist
one o' Carny's thricks!”
The cries increased. Corny began to kick and pound. There
could be no doubt concerning his identity. Still, Bridget was
cautious, and Charlotte unlocked the door. Corny came out,
rubbing his eyes, and winking at the light.
“Ye 're a pooty feller, to be alluz lockin' yerself up when ye 're
wanted!” exclaimed the indignant Bridget. “Coom an' be afther
helpin' wid the harness.”
“I did n't lock myself up! I went in arter some oats for ol'
Maj., when that con—founded —” The speech was interrupted,
Corny stumbling over a measure, and sprawling upon the floor.
“I swan!” — gathering himself up, slowly, — “if there an't that
'ere half-bushel, 't I was lookin' fur, when that chap that broke the
saw come an' shet the door on to me, an' locked me in! I 'd like
to find him once, — arter I git the oats!”
Charlotte entreated Corny to leave the oats, and assist in putting
the horse before the cutter.
“Which hoss did Mist' Dunbury tell ye to take?”
“Ould Maj., av coorse,” replied Bridget. “D' ye think I 'd
be drivin' the brute that rips up the wagons?”
“You! a good 'eal you 'll drive! B'sides, Maj. had n't oughter
go till he 's had his oats.”
The delay was torturing to Charlotte. The close air of the barn
way to the door. Supporting herself by the beam, she breathed
the open air, and felt the cold dashing of the eaves upon her
neck. A sound of hoofs and runners startled her. She looked
up. Three men in a sleigh were driving into the yard. They
stopped; two of them jumped out, and entered the house by the
front door; the third remained without.
One of those men Charlotte knew. The sight of him sent a
chill through her veins. Cold drops started upon her brow, as
she shrank back, trembling, into the obscurity of the barn. Just
then there was a shout of laughter; and some person, who had
lain concealed in the cutter, leaped up, shaking the buffalo-robes
with frantic glee. Bridget ran shrieking to the door.
“Edward — Bridget —” gasped Charlotte.
“Faix,” cried Bridget, “I was spreadin' up the skin in the cutter,
when out he jumps from under it, like the divil he is intirely!”
“O! be still!” said Charlotte, “or I am lost!”
“Ha! conspirators!” ejaculated Edward, bounding from the
sleigh. “There shall be one capital crime: that of high treason.
The punishment shall be strangling, and here are the clutches!”
— showing his hooked fingers, as he sprang towards the door.
“Let the tiger tickle them!”
Charlotte stopped him; she clung to him; she breathed out her
fears; she implored him to hear her, to aid her. He struck his
forehead with his hand.
“Stratagem! Your majesty shall be saved! After that, the
execution. Leave all to the prime minister!”
“But — Edward — what will you do?”
His reply was clear and rapid. It showed a sharp, shrewd wit,
which gleamed like a lightning-flash on Charlotte's bewildered
brain. His plan was a wild one; but in it lay her only hope;
and, adopting it desperately, she entreated Corny and Bridget to
obey and assist him.
“Darned if I know the fust thing —” began Corny.
“Be valiant,” cried Edward, “and it shall be revealed. Go to
the gate, and the instant we pass, shut it after! — Lady Bridget,
— this way!”
Etty glided into the barn. “They have come!” she uttered, —
“the same man who was in the room last night — I knew his
voice! O, make haste!”
The traces were hooked; Corny was at the gate; the large
door was thrown open; then Edward, leaping into the sleigh by
his companion's side, threw the buffalo-robe over her, and drove
headlong out of the barn. Shaking the reins, and lashing the
horse with the whip, he passed the sleigh in the yard, went
through the gate, grazing the post with the runner, and plied,
with furious speed, towards Wild River.
The man left in charge of the sleigh shouted the alarm, and
sprang to his seat. Fortunately the span was headed the wrong
way, and, before he could turn their faces towards the road, Corny
had had time, in his moderate manner, to close the gate. The
obstacle brought the sleigh to a sudden halt.
“Open, there!” cried the driver.
“Who said so?” muttered Corny.
“Open the gate!” thundered the man, shaking his whip.
“Tell me agin, then mabby I 'll hear,” said Corny, in an under
tone, taking care to get beyond reach of the lash. The man
jumped out, making a cut at Corny as he passed. The whistling
of the whip started the horses; and, springing forward, they ran
the neap against the gate. “So much for snappin' yer whip!”
said Corny, with a grin. “You 'll have to back up now, or you
can't git the gate open.”
“Smash through it!” exclaimed a terrible voice, so near Corny's
ear, that he jumped as if he had been struck. It was one of
the men from the house. He leaped into the sleigh, and gathered
up the reins. “Cl'ar the track, Jones! I 'll go over that gate
as if it was shingles!”
“Hold on, Dicks'n!” cried the other. 'T will be cheaper to
open it!”
“Out o' the way!” shouted Dickson. “No time for fool'n'!
Give us the whip — jump on!”
He struck the horses smartly. With a bound they brought the
neap once more against the gate. The frame splintered, and they
went over with a crash. The off-horse, however, unused to such
against the post. Another dead halt; the men cursing, the
horses trembling and cringing, Corny grinning at a safe distance.
As it was out of the question to think of serving the gate-post as
they had served the gate, the men found themselves obliged to
follow Corny's original advice, and “back up.” This was no easy
matter, with the horses' legs entangled in the wreck. They kicked
and flung, threatening to tear both harness and sleigh to pieces.
But at last the fragments of the gate were either trodden down or
thrown out of the way; the sleigh was cleared; and Dickson and
his companion, jumping aboard, described a swift circle into the
road, making the watery snow fly from the runners as they swept
around, and dashed away in pursuit of the fugitives.
Old Maj. was no racer; but Edward exerted himself so well to
develop his latent speed, that the cutter had already passed from
sight over the hill. Arrived at the summit, Dickson and his companion
beheld the fugitives splashing through the sluggish currents
of water that crept around the bridge of Wild River; and a minute
later old Maj. was seen making vigorous leaps up the steep
road that led into the woods. By the time the pursuers had
reached the bridge, Edward and his companion had once more
disappeared.
Through the water and slush dashed the horses and sleigh.
Dickson and his friend were bespattered from head to foot. Often
the horses slumped through the hard-packed bed of the road, and
threw up heavy clods, endangering their own limbs, and the eyes
and features of the men. But Dickson held the reins and wielded
the whip; Dickson cared neither for the horses, his friend, nor himself;
his only thought was to overtake the fugitives, at every risk.
Old Maj. was no match for the strong, spirited span; and by
the time the pursuers came again in sight, he was beginning to
flag, notwithstanding Edward's efforts to keep up his courage with
the whip. Escape by direct means became hopeless. As a last
resort, the fugitives turned aside into a rough lumber-track, that
wound through the woods. But a worse route could scarce have
been chosen. Mounting a snow-covered acclivity, they reached an
impassable chasm, filled with huge, heaped, massive rocks, around
abandoned the track, and struck out among the trees on the bank.
But the snow still lay heavy in those gloomy regions. The runners
cut deep; it was no easy matter to avoid the roots and trunks, and
little progress had been made, when the horses of the pursuers came
bounding up the acclivity, and, wheeling among the trees, dashed
alongside the cutter, just at a moment when it was arrested by the
bristling tops of a fallen cedar. Dickson jumped into the snow,
and scrambled to seize his prey.
“Destiny in a tree-top!” ejaculated Edward. “Let the vultures
rage! I put my faith in the humming-bird. Come on!”
“We 'll come on fast enough!” cried Jones. “And jest you
keep quiet, or you 'll git pitch-bowled down them 'ar rocks, like a
cobble-stone! Make sure of her, Dicks'n!”
“Wal, I reck'n!” muttered Dickson, with gloating deliberation.
“When I once get my eyes on a gal, it 's as good as a bear-hug!
Here ye be, my perty!”
“Hang on!” exclaimed Jones. “If she 'd been spunky as some
gals be, she 'd made a desprit push over them 'ar rocks; it 's what
I was 'fraid of. I 'm much obleeged to her, for my part.”
“We 'll have a general thanksgiving!” said Dickson, with
brutal satisfaction. “One live gal is worth a gang of dead ones.
O, you 're safe; don't squirm; 't an't no use! Show us yer face,
my honey!”
He pulled down the buffalo-robe, and pulled up the bonnet;
then attempted to lift the head of his struggling captive.
“The Wise Men triumphant!” exclaimed Edward. “The dove
was a jackdaw, and the cat pounced upon her own paws! Look
to the feathers!”
“What 's the row?” cried Jones, rushing to the spot.
Edward danced, and, flinging his hat into a tree, made the woods
ring with his maniacal laugh.
Dickson dropped the bonnet; loosed his hold of the buffalo;
stood, stared, — his face a picture of mingled stupefaction and
fury, — as, struggling through a large quantity of tangled hair,
giggling and gasping, appeared the round, red, ludicrous features
of — Bridget!
| XXXII.
FLIGHT. Neighbor Jackwood | |