 | XXXIV.
THE NIGHT. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
34. XXXIV.
THE NIGHT.
The night set in, wild and stormy. The rain increased, the
gale blew fitfully, the far-off forest roared. With her hands
clasped upon her breast, Charlotte lay gazing out into the dark,
and listening to the storm, until the night, the wind, and the rain,
seemed no longer anything of themselves, but a part of herself,
and all within her own soul.
“O, heaven! O, grief! O, love!” were the thoughts that filled
her universe.
The last glimmer of day had faded, and darkness lay like a
thick substance on the earth, when the footsteps she had long
expected came plashing through the snow.
“Cha'lotte!” said the voice of Mr. Jackwood.
“I am here!” breathed Charlotte, with a joyous thrill.
“I 've brought ye some supper, and some dry stockin's,”
returned the farmer. “Where be ye?”
“Here!” and Charlotte reached out her hand. “O, Mr.
Jackwood!”
“It 's a dre'ful tejus night!” observed the farmer, getting
down by the stack. “I wish you was safe to the house, once.”
“I wish I was safe somewhere! But it is all well, good Mr.
Jackwood. If I can be kept concealed here —”
“Sence Bim'lech told me o' the hole, I ben thinkin',” said
the farmer, “'t would be as well. The men have ben to my
house, — two come by the road, an' t' other acrost the meader;
an' they 'll be there agin, prob'bly, for they 've got the notion
that we know where you be. Oliver Dole was there, an'
they made a s'arch in the barn, an' wood-shed, an' all over
well to let 'em have a good time on 't, long as you wan't there.
Take your choice, though,” added Mr. Jackwood; “if ye don't
fancy stoppin' here, I 'll git ye up to the house some way, and do
my best to take care on ye, while ye 're there.”
“Let me stay here; I would rather.”
“How much room ye got? Dear me! it 's quite a house, an't
it? — I never see the beat o' that boy's mischief! I 've told him,
time an' agin, not to be makin' holes in the stacks; but I guess
I 'll let him off easy, seein' it 's turned out so well for you!”
“You know,” faltered Charlotte, “why I am here?”
“I kind o' ketched a little on 't, from what was said. But
never mind about that. I 'd as soon think of givin' up my own
darter to 'em as you!”
Charlotte held the farmer's hard and knotty hand, and kissed it
fervently.
“You need n't have no fears 'bout me,” he continued, with
hearty sympathy. “I guess Bim'lech Jackwood 'll turn out a perty
sound kind o' wood, at heart. I told ye so, perhaps you recollect,
the fust time 't ever I see ye: 't was in one o' these very meaders,
but a leetle furder down. I han't forgot it, if you have. Shall
I send word to Mist' Dunb'ry's folks 't you are here?”
“O, no! — unless — unless Hector comes home!”
“Wal, we 'll talk o' that to-morrow. Mist' Dunb'ry 'll be
harder 'n ever on our country, now. He 's English; and I don't
know 't I ever talked with him in the world, 't he had n't some
flaw to pick in our institutions. I 've kep' up my eend o' the
argument perty well, so fur; but I guess he 'll git the start o' me
now. I should think he 'd move heaven an' 'arth to git you clear
What did he say about it?”
Charlotte's bosom heaved, and the farmer felt her tears fall
upon his hand.
“Wal, never mind to-night. O! did I tell ye little Etty
Grinnich stopped to our house, on her way hum? That was a
good joke, sendin' the kidnabbers arter Bridget, while you got
away! Wal, I don't know as there's anything more, 'less
you 'd like to have me stay with ye a little while, for company.”
“O, no!” replied Charlotte. “The rain is dripping on you.”
“I don't mind the rain a mite. Besides, if you 'd like to have
me, I 'll git a board off 'm the stack, an' put it down here; then
I 'll set an' talk, while you 're eatin' your supper.”
Mr. Jackwood was going for the board, but Charlotte entreated
him to give himself no more trouble and discomfort on her account.
“Wal, good-night, then. You may depend on seein' some
of us 'arly in the mornin'. But it 's dre'ful tough,” added the
farmer, with compunctions. “The rain 'll turn to snow, and it 'll
freeze up, tight as a drum, 'bout midnight. I 'm 'fraid you 'll be
cold here; an' I d'n'no but you 'd better go up to the house,
arter all.”
“No,” said Charlotte. “You have done all you can. I wish
I could thank you! — but — good-night!”
“Wal, good-night it is, then!” returned the farmer. “Keep
up good heart — that 's all I got to say. 'T 'll all be right, —
't 'll all be right, — in the eend.”
Mr. Jackwood departed. Charlotte listened, as his footsteps
went away in the dreary dark. Then she was once more alone;
and the storm beat still, and the wind whistled, and the far-off
forest roared.
In a thoughtful mood the farmer tramped on through the rain
and snow. More than once he stopped, and was on the point of
going back for Charlotte. It seemed to him, as he afterwards
confessed, as though “suthin was goin' to happen;” and he could
not feel right about leaving her.
“But I 'll push on up to the house,” said he, “any way; and
then see how the weather acts.”
Arrived, dripping wet, at the kitchen, he was astonished to find
a burly, low-browed man sitting before the stove, in an attitude
and with looks of dogged discontent. It was Dickson, who, after
pretending to depart with his companions, had returned to spend
the night in the suspected house.
“Why, what does ail you, father?” said Mrs. Jackwood, in
the middle of the night. “How narvous you be!”
“I 'm consarned about Cha'lotte!” replied the farmer. “I
'fore this. If it keeps on rainin', there 'll be a foot o' water on
the interval, by mornin'.”
“You don't think the crick 'll break up, do ye?”
“No; 't an't thawed enough for that, — though the snow has
gone off like smoke the last four-'n'-twenty hours!” Mr. Jackwood
tossed about sleeplessly for an hour or two longer. “I
guess I 'll git up,” said he, at length, “and see how the weather
looks. It don't rain so hard as it did, and seems to me the wind
sounds colder.” He put on his clothes, and went out. “There 's
more rain fell than I thought for,” he said, returning presently.
“I do'no' 'bout the crick. I guess I better go down an' git
Cha'lotte up to the barn, to ventur'. — If 't had n't been for that
plaguy kidnabber! I would n't begrudge a night's lodgin' to the
wust enemy I got, but I could a' turned him ou' doors into the
storm with a good stomach, if there 'd ben any way of gittin' red
of him. I 'll take the hoss an' an umbrel, an' I guess we 'll git
along.”
“What was that?” said Mrs. Jackwood. “I thought I heard
something on the stairs.”
Mr. Jackwood went to examine, and met Dickson coming softly
from the chamber.
“You 're up late,” said the latter, with a sinister smile.
“I should ruther say 't was airly,” retorted the farmer. “D' ye
want anything p'tic'lar?”
“I come down to see if I could git a drink o' water.”
“Wal, sir, that ye can have. The pump 's in here; 't 'll want
primin'. If you 'll wait a minute, I 'll bring ye a glass.”
“It 's a rainy night,” observed Dickson.
“Terrible,” said Mr. Jackwood, plying the wheezy pump.
“I hope that gal an't out nowheres!” returned the other.
“I hope not,” said the farmer.
“Look a' here!” exclaimed Dickson, in an under-tone;
“I 'm bent on findin' that gal; and 't an't no use her tryin' to
git away. Now, I tell ye what: it 's my opinion you know
where she is.”
“I wish I did!”
“I 've thought so, all along; and I 'm as good as sure now.
You an't up at four in the mornin' for nothin'. Now, be reason'ble,
and own up. It 'll be better for the gal, for the job will be
over with sooner; and it 's got to come, first or last. It 'll be
better for you, too, in more senses than one. I s'pose you know
the consequences o' harborin' or concealin' a fugitive, and resistin'
the execush'n o' the law? Now, look a' here!” Dickson took a
heavy purse from his pocket, and counted out some pieces of
money. “There 's fifty dollars for ye, if you 'd like to earn it.”
“'Arn it? how?”
“By simply sayin' three words that 'll set me on the right
track. Ye don't find fifty dollars in the dirt every day.”
“I should like to find fifty dollars well enough,” replied the
farmer; “but I do'no' 'bout pickin' it out o' jest that kind o'
dirt — even s'posin' I could.”
Dickson felt encouraged. “I 'll make it — le' me see — sixty,
seventy, seventy-five. Now, there 's a chance! Come,” — looking
at his watch, — “'t won't pay to go to bed agin to-night, I
reck'n; so, le's set down and talk it over.”
“You 'll have to wait for me a little while,” said the farmer,
taking down the lantern.
“You goin' out in the rain?”
“Yes; I got to look to my hosses.”
“If that 's all,” cried Dickson, “I 'll go along with ye, and
we 'll be talkin'.”
The farmer, exasperated, felt an impulse to smash the lantern
in the villain's face. Dickson smiled: in that smile there was
low cunning and surly determination, which showed that it was
useless to attempt, either by stratagem or force, to shake him off.
As they stood there, a fresh volley of wind and rain, lashing
the kitchen window, filled Mr. Jackwood with fresh anxiety for
Charlotte's safety. He hurried forth, pulling the door after him;
but Dickson wrenched it open with a powerful hand, and stalked
to his side.
“None o' that!” he growled, taking the farmer's arm. “We
may as well keep together, I reck'n. I don't mind the rain.”
| XXXIV.
THE NIGHT. Neighbor Jackwood | |