University of Virginia Library

33. XXXIII.
HOUSELESS.

“The law, Mrs. Dunbury,” said Oliver Dole, with the grimace
of authority, “the LAW must be put in force. It is a painful
duty we have to perform, — but, then, you know, the LAW!”

He was a gaunt, bony individual, with a hooked nose, and a
massive nether jaw. He was the third person of Dickson's party,
being an officer resident in the county, who had been selected to
give character and dignity to the enterprise. A fitter choice could
hardly have been made. The man was sunk in the officer; the
waters of human feeling were in him congealed into the fixed, unswerving
ice of public conscience. But Mrs. Dunbury was a mere
woman. She fondly believed that the elements of love and mercy
enthroned in the heart were a law above all laws. When Dickson
and his companion rushed in pursuit of the cutter, she clung
to Oliver Dole. With clasped hands, with sobs and tears, she
pleaded for Charlotte.

“She is a being like one of us! She has all human attributes
and feelings! She is a woman — a wife — my son's wife; my
own beloved child! Do not subject her to the ignominy, the
horror, the death, of such an ordeal. If money can satisfy the
claims upon her, they shall be satisfied. Even now my son has
gone to treat for her. Spare her, spare him, spare us, this terrible
exposure! You are a man, a citizen; it is in your power to
save her!”

“Mrs. Dunbury,” responded Oliver Dole, with an official smack
of his lips, “nothing is in my power that is not the law. I cannot
be detained from my duty; and I charge you, Mrs. Dunbury,
not to resist the law!”

Still she clung to him. She seemed endowed with a strength
above her own. She would not loose her hold.

“Mr. Dunbury!” cried Oliver Dole, “I appeal to you!”

Mr. Dunbury stood by, a picture of apoplectic rage. His face
was purple, his eyes blood-shot, the muscles of his mouth and
throat moved convulsively. He heeded the officer no more than
the eaves that dripped. The latter wrenched away the invalid's
hands, and she fell upon the floor.

“Mr. Dunbury,” then said Oliver Dole, “I anticipated nothing
of this; and now I call upon you for support in the performance
of my duty. If the girl escapes, this resistance may cost you
dear. If you have a horse in your stable, I will take it, and
follow on.”

No word from Mr. Dunbury; but, with a look of strangulation,
— clutching his breast as if to free his lungs, — he strode over his
wife's prostrate form, and followed the officer from the room. At
the entrance to the barn stood Etty, white and trembling. It was
well the stanch Oliver did not observe the look she gave him, as
he stepped into the stall of the remaining horse. A gleam of hope
and joy broke through the pale anxiety of her features when she
saw him untie the halter, and lead the animal out. To slip on a
bridle, and leap upon the horse's back, was the work of a moment
for Oliver Dole; and an instant after, riding over the broken gate,
he joined in the noble chase. Etty clasped her hands, and ran
to Mr. Dunbury.

“Here she is!” she uttered, hurriedly. “It was Bridget that
went in the cutter! Be quick, and hide her somewhere!”

As she spoke, from beneath the manger crept a pitiful human
figure, slender, bent, and trembling with excessive fear. It was
Charlotte. She tottered forward, and fell down at Mr. Dunbury's
feet. As she covered her face from his sight, one might have seen
that her hand was wounded and bloody. Oliver Dole had crushed
it with his iron heel, in leading the horse from the stall. It was
doubtful if she had felt the pain at the time. Certainly she was
insensible to it now; but Etty cried out with pity at the sight.

“O, Mr. Dunbury!” said the child, “what can she do? Don't
let them take her away!”

No word yet from Mr. Dunbury; none from Charlotte; but
shrinkingly she knelt there, as if it was his wrath alone she feared,
and only his forgiveness she implored.

“O, Charlotte!” cried Etty, trying to lift her up; “there is
some place where they cannot find you! Come! O, sir, why do
you let her be here?”

Mr. Dunbury raised his remorseless arm. “Begone!” — his
words flamed and hissed with fury, — “lose yourself, drown yourself,
I care not, — but BEGONE!”

Charlotte arose and fled.

There was a cow-path trodden through the snow, leading across
the meadows, over the bridge and along the banks of the stream.
This path Charlotte took; passing in her flight scenes which she
had first visited in company with Hector, and which had become
linked in her memory with warm and dear associations. But now
how changed, how cold, how desolate, were they all! The snow
lay heavy and deep on the interval; the willows were naked and
dark; the stream was blocked with ice. Beyond, frowned the
inhospitable forest on the mountain side. The heavens above
were leaden, with grayish streaks; and now the slow, dull, wintry
rain began to fall.

Beyond the bridge, the track threw out branches in several
directions; for here, all winter long, Mr. Dunbury's cattle and
sheep had been foddered from the stacks in the valley. But the
main path led along the banks of the creek; this Charlotte chose,
perhaps because among the willows her flight would be concealed,
or it may be that she cherished some half-formed design of reaching
Mr. Jackwood's house.

But the way was rude and difficult for her unaccustomed feet.
Since the thaw, the track had been broken through by sharp hoofs;
water had settled in the low places; and often, slipping upon the
icy cakes, she fell, hurting her naked hands, bruising her limbs,
and saturating her garments in the pools. Then, palpitating and
breathless from the shock, she would pause, and glance up and
down the wide, white valley, with fearful looks, as if expecting
momently to see her pursuers appear.

A glimpse she caught of Mr. Jackwood's house in the distance

inspired her with courage to keep on. She saw the red-painted
kitchen dimly defined upon the field of snow; the trees and fences
speckling the ground; the heavy plume of smoke from the chimney,
trailing low across the plain; and a vision of hope, and
help, and rest, in that humble home, flitted before her mind. But
the path by the willows had now dwindled to a scarcely-trodden
track. At each step, her feet sank down in the soft, wet snow.
Her efforts to proceed cost all her remaining strength. Only the
desperate extremity in which she was sustained her. But hope
and fear alike failed her at last; and, having climbed the tangled
brush of a valley fence, she fell powerless in the snow, upon the
other side.

The short winter's day was drawing to a close. The shades of
the solemn hills shut in the plain. A dreary silence reigned,
broken only by the lowing of cattle, and the faint, sad bleating
of sheep in the distance, the sighing of the wind among the willows,
and the melancholy drip of the rain. Having got a little
rest, Charlotte summoned her energies for a fresh attempt to
traverse the snowy track. But now formidable doubts stood in her
way. She had faith in her old friends; but would Mr. Jackwood's
house, which had twice received her in its hospitable retreat, be
overlooked by her pursuers? Perhaps already they were there,
before her; and to proceed might be to fall at once into their
hands. In her deep perplexity, she crept under the fence, with
a wild thought of passing the night in that wretched place. But
the rain beat upon her still; her bruised hands ached from contact
with the snow; and her feet were drenched and cold.

The approach of footsteps startled her; but she dared not look
around, nor move; she lay still as death in her retreat. The
sounds drew near, and presently a dog began to bark, plunging
into the snow, close by where she lay.

“Come here, Rove!” cried an authoritative voice.

It was the voice of Abimelech Jackwood, the younger. The
dog ran back, with excited yelps, and jumped upon his arm; then
rushed to the attack again, bristling up, and barking furiously at
the object by the fence. Charlotte spoke, “Rover!” Instantly
he sprang towards her, with a joyous demonstration; hesitated at

half way, and ran back again to his master; whisked about in the
snow; and finally, having fulfilled all the requirements of canine
etiquette on the occasion, leaped upon her lap, wagging his tail
violently, caressing her with his feet, and licking her wounded
hand.

Abimelech stood at a discreet distance, and cried to Rover to
come there. Charlotte arose to her feet, and called his name.

“Hello!” cried Bim; “that you?”

She tottered forward. The boy, not so easily satisfied as the
dog, showed a disposition to retire. But, in a few hurried words;
she gave him to understand that she was no apparition, — that it
was indeed Charlotte who spoke to him, — and that he was not to
fear, but to aid her.

“Be ye goin' up to the house?” asked the boy.

“Abimelech, some men are hunting for me! I would rather
die than have them find me! And I don't know where to
go!”

“Who be they?” demanded Bim, with forced courage, looking
around. “I 'll set Rover on to 'em! Here!”

“Where is your father?”

“Up to the house, I guess,” replied Bim.

“Will you go for him,” said Charlotte; “and tell him I am
here, and tell no one else?”

“Yes, I 'll go!” cried Bim. “But,” — hesitatingly, — “had n't
you better go up to the stack, and wait there? I 'd ruther ye
would; I come down here to fodder the steers and lambs, and
father told me not to go and look at my muskrat-trap, 'cause 't was
goin' to rain. It 's righ' down here; an' if he knows where I found
ye, he 'll s'pect I was goin' there.”

Charlotte accepted the boy's guidance; and immediately around
the bend in the creek, they came in sight of the stack. It was a
low, gloomy mass, in the midst of a dark, trodden space, around
the edges of which appeared Abimelech's steers and lambs, feeding
on wisps of hay he had scattered over the snow. The stack
was defended by a fence, on one side of which was a temporary
shelter, formed of rails and boards, thatched with straw.

“If you 'd like to hide,” observed Bim, “I know a place, —

only I don't want father to find it out, for he tells me not to be
makin' holes in the stack.”

“Is it here?”

“I 'll show ye!” and Bim, slipping a couple of rails from their
place, crept through the fence, and began to pull away the hay
from the stack. A dark cavity was exposed. “It 's a den I
made for me an' Rove! Once I had a notion o' runnin' away,
an' I was goin' to live here, and have him bring me my victuals!
It 's real slick an' warm in there!”

The opening was extremely narrow, and the cavity itself was
small. But it was all Charlotte wished for then. She could not
have entered a palace with more grateful emotions.

“Shall I leave ye a breathin'-place?” asked Abimelech, putting
back the hay. “Hello! what 's that Rover 's barkin' at?”

He crept around the stack, leaving Charlotte listening breathlessly
in her hiding-place. In a moment he returned, and whispered
hoarsely in the hay, “There 's a man a comin' with a big
hoss-whip! Say! is he one of 'em?”

Charlotte knew not what she said, if indeed she uttered any
reply. She heard the boy hastily smoothing the hay at the
entrance of her cell; then all was still, only the dog barked; and
as she strained her ear to listen, the straw beneath her rustled
with every throb of her heart.

Having climbed the stack, and thrown down a quantity of hay
before the mouth of the cavity, Bim began to arrange some
boards in a manner to shed rain.

“Git out!” growled the man with the whip, making a cut at
the dog.

“He won't bite ye,” cried Bim. “Here, Rove!”

“Say, boy! have ye seen anybody pass this way, within half an
hour or so?”

“Pass which way?”

“Any way — along by the crick.”

“What crick?”

“Answer my question!”

“I han't ben here half an hour, I should n't think,” said
Bim.

“Look a' here!” thundered Dickson, “none o' yer trash with
me! I cut a boy's trouse's-legs right off with this black snake,
t' other day! He was a boy about your size, and his trouse's was
stouter stuff than yours, too, I reck'n! Which way did that gal
go?”

“What gal?” said Bim, stepping cautiously back upon the
stack.

“Let me reach you with this lash, and I 'll tickle your recollections!
You 'll look paler than that, when I draw about a
quart of blood out of ye! I mean that gal that come along about
twenty minutes ago.”

“If there was any,” — Bim looked very candid, but very pale,
— “she must a' come along when I was off arter my traps; or
else I should think I 'd seen her.”

“That won't do, boy!” Dickson cracked his whip savagely.
“I 'll give ye jest about a minute 'n' a ha'f to think about it;
then, if ye don't walk straight up to the scratch, and spit out
what ye know, you may expect to have your clo's cut right off 'm
your back, and your hide with 'm!”

Then Charlotte heard a sound as of some one climbing the
stack-yard fence, and a heavy body jumped down upon the
ground at the very entrance to her retreat. There was a shaking
in the hay which Bim had thrown before it; Dickson was kicking
it open with his foot; he trod it down by the stack.

Bim looked anxious, but his wits did not desert him. “If
ye 'll help me with these 'ere boards, I 'll go up to the house with
ye, an' see if she 's been by there.”

“Where do you live?”

“In that house, up yender.”

“What 's yer name?”

“Bim!”

“What 's yer whole name?”

“Bim'lech!”

“What 's yer father's name?”

“His name 's Bim'lech, too!”

“Bim'lech what?”

“Bim'lech Jackwood, of course!”

“Jackwood, hey? she used to live to your house, did n't she?”

“Yes, I guess not! Who used to?”

“We 'll see!” said Dickson. Having, during the dialogue,
struck a match under his coat and lighted a cigar, he inserted the
latter between his teeth, and, once more measuring out his whip,
cracked it at the boy's ears. “Time 's up! now, what ye got to
say?”

“If you 're goin' to smoke,” said Bim, from a safe position,
“you better git over the fence; you 'll set the stack afire. Ow!”
as the whip-lash whistled by his face, “you had n't better hit me
with that! There 's father, an' I 'm darned glad!”

Dickson changed his tactics; perhaps because he found threats
of no avail; perhaps because the boy had an adroit way of dodging
over the stack beyond reach of his whip; or in consequence,
it may be, of misgivings with regard to the parent Jackwood.
He therefore opened a parley, and offered Bim half a dollar to
tell him which way Charlotte went.

“I guess so!” said Bim. “You want me to come down an
git it, then you 'll ketch me, an' gi' me a lickin', I know!” And
he made preparations to slide off the opposite side, in case Dickson
attempted to climb the stack.

But Dickson had a more important matter to attend to.
Either the match he had thrown down after lighting his cigar,
or cinders falling in the hay, had set fire to the heap. The flame,
shooting up with a sudden crackling and glare, was the first
warning he received of the danger. He had left the spot, and
was standing by the cattle-shed, when the blaze caught his eye.
He rushed to extinguish it, stamping, and trampling, and calling
to the boy to bring snow.

“There an't no fire!” cried Bim, who thought it a ruse to
bring him down.

“By —!” said Dickson, “you 'll find out whether there 's a
fire!”

Already Charlotte had smelt the burning straw. Then, through
chinks in the opening of her cell, she caught fearful glimpses of
the struggling flame and smoke. She heard the alarm, the oaths,
the trample of feet. The stack was burning!

Her first impulse was to cry out, and rush from her retreat.
But the certainty of falling into the hands of Dickson paralyzed
her tongue, and chained her limbs. Death was nothing; a
moment since, she would have risked a hundred deaths sooner
than be taken; but to be burned, to perish in a slowly consuming
mass, to die by torment in a tomb of fire! the thought was maddening;
it filled her with an insensate fear, that caused her for
the instant to forget all other danger. With frantic hands
she tore the hay that blocked the opening. But a volume of
smoke, pouring in upon her, changed her purpose. She thrust
back the hay, while at the same time it was trampled and packed
from without. She heard the simmer of snow upon the flames; she
thought the fire was being extinguished. She hoped, she prayed,
that she might yet be preserved.

But now the trampling feet, and snow packed down upon the
burning hay, drove the smoke into the cell. Charlotte was suffocating.
The torture almost forced her to cry out. O, that she
might have power to endure yet a little while! She thought of
Hector. For his sake she conquered her agony. Writhing in
torment, she clasped her hands upon her face to stifle her own
cries. Yet a little while! yet a little while! O, yet one moment
more!

It could not be. She fought with death itself. It seemed that
almost the last struggle, the last mortal throe, had come. Still
Hector filled her soul. She might have endured and died; but,
no! for him she would risk all things; for him she would suffer
on; for him she would live! Again she tore the hay from the
opening of the cell. But the act was forestalled. A hand, thrust
in, met hers.

“Keep still!” whispered Bim, at the entrance. “Can ye
breathe?”

She breathed, she lived, she hoped. The fire was extinguished.
Dickson, enraged at the delay, had departed in haste, and the
boy was left alone to trample out the smouldering sparks with
snow.

“Hello, boy!” suddenly shouted Dickson, turning back, “fling
me my whip!”

There was no service Bim would more gladly have performed.
Anything rather than that Dickson should return to the stack.
He looked for the whip, but could not find it. The man had
thrown it down whilst extinguishing the fire, and thought it must
have become trodden in the hay. He returned; they looked for
it together, — Bim keeping at a respectful distance, and holding
himself ready to run the instant the whip appeared, — Dickson
growling and swearing. Suddenly, the end of the lash was discovered
hanging off the cattle-shed, close by the stack. Dickson
seized it; Abimelech fled; Charlotte, who had listened all the
time with a fluttering heart, began to breathe again. But at the
moment there was a movement at the mouth of the cell. The hay
was opening; some object forced its way into her retreat. She
was shrinking away in terror, when Rover, scrambling through,
leaped into her face, and expressed his delight by barking playfully,
licking her hands, and thumping the sides of the niche with
his animated tail.

Fortunately Dickson had turned again to go, and was at that
moment making long strides across the field. Bim returned to
Charlotte just in time to bump noses with Rover, who, not
liking the smoke, was leaping out of the hay.

“He 's gone!” whispered the boy. “Darn his old whip, I
say! Did ye know he set the stack afire?”

“Did I know it!” murmured Charlotte.

“I 'm all of a tremble yit!” said Bim. “I was a little bit
scart; but, confound his pictur'! he did n't find ye, after all, did he?
That 's all I care for!”

“And it 's all I care for, now! I feel faint! Will you give
me a handful of snow?”

The boy brought the snow: she pressed it on her forehead, as
she lay panting upon the hay.

“Shall I go up an' tell father, now?”

“If you will; but be careful, let no one else know —”

“I 'll keep it from Pheeb, anyway! She always tells everything.
Say! shall I leave Rover for company?”

A faint “no” was the response; and the excited boy, having
thrown the superfluous hay over the fence, and reärranged that at

the mouth of the cell, leaving only a breathing-place, as he called
it, went off whistling, to appear unconcerned. She listened in
her retreat; the sounds grew faint and fainter, ceasing at last;
and she was left alone, in darkness and silence, hemmed in by the
low roof and prickly walls of her cell.

For some minutes she lay still, and prayed. In that simple and
childlike act new strength was given her, and she was enabled to
think calmly of her state. She took care of her feet, removing
their wet covering, and drying them in the warm hay. Then,
finding that Abimelech had shut her in too closely, and that the
air of the cell was still poisoned with smoke, she moved the hay
from the opening, and lay down upon it, where she could look out
upon the thickening darkness, and listen to the sighing wind and
pattering rain.