University of Virginia Library

39. XXXIX.
HOW DICKSON TOOK LEAVE.

On his way home, Mr. Jackwood met Corny riding out of Mr.
Dunbury's yard. “You 're stirrin' arly, young man,” said the
farmer.

“Ya-a-s,” drawled Corny; “I got to go for the doctor.”

“Is Mis' Dunbury wus agin?”

“'Pears so; they thought she was dyin' one spell. They an't
nobody to hum, now, but Bridget an' the ol' man. Hector's
gone; an' I s'pose ye heard about Charlotte.”

“If you 're goin' for the doctor,” said the farmer, “I won't
hender. I guess I 'll step in a minute, an' see if my folks can be
of any sarvice.”

The farmer entered at the kitchen door, which was opened by
Bridget. “Faix!” cried the girl, “I was never so glad wid the
sight iv a Yankee face since the day I was barn! They 're havin'
the craziest time here that iver was! Not a wink have I slept,
ahl the whole blissid night, but jist a little this marnin'. I was
woke fifty times 'fore the peep o' day, if I was iver a once. But
it 's not a straw I 'd be carin' for it ahl, if I could only jist cure
my eyes wid seein' the daar, swate face of Miss Charlotte, afther
ahl the throuble an' fuss. I was hopin' ye 'd be tellin' ye 'd seen
her. And Misther Edward, ye 've seen nothin' of him? He 's
the crazy man, that 's been kickin' up ahl the row. It begun wid
his coomin' here yistherday. Och! it was a shabby thrick he
played me up in the woods there, lavin' me to get the hoss around
afther the scoundrels had cotched us. He followed 'em back doon
the river; and there I worked, a'most ahl the night, tryin' to turn
the cutter in the woods, an' backin' the hoss out o' the brush an'

snow. Faix, it was beginnin' to be dark an' lonesome up there;
an' what should I be afther doin', but lavin' the cutter where
it stuck, an' ridin' home man-fashion, wid the harness for a
saddle!”

“Where is yer crazy-man now?” inquired the farmer.

“I balave the divil has him carryin' him off!” cried Bridget.
“He was up ahl the night, wild as a brindle cat, an' the last I was
hearin' on him, he went out howlin' in the starm. But it 's little
I throuble mesilf about him; only I tha'ht he might be knowin'
what had coom on Miss Charlotte. If he 'd but jist be bringin'
her back, then he might go to Bedlam, where he belongs, — bad
luck to him!”

For four mortal hours Dickson had kept solitary watch upon
the stack. During this time he saw the lantern burn dimly, then
go out, and broad day dawn upon the valley and the flood.
The weather was growing cold. Only a fine hail fell, mixed with
sleet. The straw of the stack froze into brittle glass, and the
boards bound upon it became slippery with ice. Dickson would
have suffered from the cold and discomfort of his situation, but
that his rage kept him warm. At length he saw Mr. Jackwood
walk leisurely across the fields with Abimelech, to the water's
edge, launch the boat, and row out towards the stack.

“I thought per'aps you 'd be impatient to git ashore,” remarked
the farmer.

“Any time!” muttered Dickson, through his teeth.

“If he waited long enough, he could cross on the ice,” cried
Abimelech. “The water 's all scummed over, a'ready, where it
don't run fast.”

“Hush, Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood. “Doin' my pertiest,
I could n't save all them dumb beasts. I 've lost one o' the likeliest
pair o' two-year-olds ever raised in the county. The lambs
I don't care so much about, though they 'd a' ben as han'some
wethers as anybody's, come spring. Sorry to keep you waitin'.”

“It 's all right,” growled Dickson. “I shall have my pay for
this, I reck'n!”

“Wal, you 'd oughter!” exclaimed the farmer. “A man 't

puts his hand to your kind o' business desarves to git his pay.
Don't forgit to hand down that 'ere lantern. Then we 'll go to
breakfast.”

As the wrathful Dickson paid no attention to the request, thinking
only of getting his feet safely planted in the boat, Mr. Jackwood
quietly put out his oar, and shoved off from the stack.

“We can't see to git up to the stack, till he holds the lantern,”
chuckled Bim.

“Hush, Bim'lech!” said his father. “Thank ye,” — as the
man, stifling his wrath, handed down the lantern. “Ye han't seen
them steers nowheres, have ye?”

“I 've had someth'n' else to think of,” replied Dickson,
savagely.

“Glad to hear it,” remarked the farmer. “It 's Sunday mornin',
an' we 'd ought all on us to be thinkin' o' suthin else. But
you had sich a chance to look around, up there, I thought you
might a' seen 'em, if they was in the woods, or anywheres. Per'aps
ye 'd like to take one o' these oars, to warm ye?”

Dickson accepted, without comment, and worked his passage.
After a long silence, he inquired, in a sinister tone, what value the
farmer set upon his real and personal estate.

“D' ye think o' buyin' an' settlin' amongst us?” asked Mr.
Jackwood. “Took with our manners an' customs, I s'pose?”

“I only asked for information,” sneered Dickson.

“Wal, in that case, — though 't is Sunday, — I han't no objection
to sayin' 't the vally I set on my property, live stock, farmin'
utensils, an' everything, is seven thousan' dollars, cash on the
nail. I don't 'spect to git it right away, but I won't part with an
acre for less.”

“And suppos'n' you should wake up, some fine mornin', and
find you had n't no farm, nor no seven thous'n' dollars, neither?”

“Wal, then I should try to git along without 'em, an' be thankful
for what I did have.”

“I 'd advise ye to cultivate that feel'n',” said Dickson, “aginst
the time comes; an' I prophesy 't won't be slow com'n'.”

“That 's perty talk from a man 't I 've invited to breakfast!”
returned the farmer. “What d' ye mean?”

“I mean that your farm an't any too big to cover this little
business o' yourn, — ye understand?”

“What business?”

“Harborin' that gal, — if ye relish bein' told in so many words.
The wuth of a fine, han'some piece o' property, like her, an't less
than fifteen hundred, in the first place. She 's to be paid for, to
begin with. Then, say nothin' 'bout imprisonment, there 's fines,
I s'pose ye know, that 'll whittle what 's left o' yer farm down to
a mighty small figur'; and if ye stand out about it, the law 'll
swaller up what 's left. I hope that 's a consolash'n for the loss
o' yer steers.”

“It 's Sunday,” said Mr. Jackwood, in a low, quiet tone, after
a thoughtful pause, “an' we won't talk over business, I guess,
'fore to-morrer. But I 'll tell ye one thing, — though I set as
much by my farm as any man, I would n't mind losin' it in a
good cause, if I could be o' sarvice to a feller-critter by so doin',
an' save 'em from pirates an' man-stealers, like you. That don't
make out, though, 't I had any hand in the business you lay to
my charge, as I see. If that 'ere poor young woman is
drownded, 't an't on my conscience; an' I defy ye to prove the
fust thing!”

“That 'll be an easy matter,” replied Dickson. “I 'm used to
these cases.”

“Wal, I an't, an' I 'm glad on 't!” said Mr. Jackwood. “But
le's drop the subject for to-day. We 'll go to breakfast; then,
if you like, you can ride to meetin' with me. I 'm goin' over to
the North Village; they 've got a famous good minister there, an'
I think 't would n't do you no harm to hear him preach.”

Arrived at the house, Dickson entered, and warmed himself
and dried his clothes by the kitchen fire. His friend Jones, whom
he had expected to call for him early that morning, had not yet
made his appearance; and he was but too happy to avail himself
of the farmer's hospitality.

“I s'pose,” said he, “you won't object to lend'n' me a hoss for
a couple of hours?”

“I 'll give ye yer breakfast, and yer last night's lodgin', too,
for that matter, but you 'll haf to excuse me if I don't lend the

hoss,” replied Mr. Jackwood. “I think too much o' both my
ponies for that.”

“D' ye fancy 't would n't be safe?” cried Dickson. “I reck'n
I 'm good for more 'n one hoss.”

“Per'aps; but I should want suthin 'sides either yer business
or your face to recommend ye, if I was goin' to trust you very
fur. Shall we read 'fore breakfast, mother?”

Mrs. Jackwood said she thought it would be as well, as the
potatoes were not quite done. The farmer accordingly took
down the big Bible from the shelf, and called the children to join
in the reading.

“I can't read this morning,” articulated Phœbe, whose eyes
were red and swollen.

“Very well; we 'll excuse ye,” replied her father. “But
don't cry any more, child; 't won't do no good. You may begin,
Bim'lech. If you 'd like to look over,” — to Mr. Dickson, —
“I 'd like to have ye. Give him your Testament, Bim'lech.”

Dickson declined the offer. But he could not easily avoid
hearing a chapter of the glorious Evangel of St. John, and the
simple, earnest prayer that followed.

The farmer's voice was tremulous with emotion, and when he
prayed that God would soften the hearts of oppressors, and pour
out his tender mercies upon all who were oppressed, Phœbe
sobbed aloud; and Dickson could see the tears run silently down
Mrs. Jackwood's face, as she knelt beside her chair. His heart
must have been of flint, not to be touched by the scene. He
glanced darkly towards the door, as if anxious to get away; but,
with knotted and flushed features, writhing in his chair, he sat
and heard the prayer to its close. The ordeal passed, he readily
accepted an invitation to breakfast.

“There 's somebody come,” said Bim, who had gone to the
door to give Rover a piece of pork he had abstracted from the
platter when his mother's back was turned.

The comer proved to be Jones. Dickson went out to meet him
and they talked some time under the stoop.

“Bim'lech,” said the farmer, “tell 'em to put their hosses under
the shed, an' come in an' have some breakfast.”

“I would n't!” exclaimed Bim, vindictively.

“Mind!” said his father, putting down his foot.

The boy, accordingly, although with a bad grace, delivered the
message; and, after some hesitation, the men came in. Mrs. Jackwood
put on an additional plate, flanked with a knife and fork;
and they sat down and ate meat with Christians. When they had
made a hasty meal, they arose to go; Dickson offering to pay the
farmer. But Mr. Jackwood declined his money.

“Don't you never take pay, when strangers put up with ye?”
asked Dickson.

“That 's neither here nor there,” replied the farmer. “What
ye have o' me, I give ye. I neither lend nor sell to sich as you.
I 've told ye the reason why I won't lend; if ye want to know
why I won't sell, it 's 'cause your money 's arnt in a bad trade,
an' I 'd ruther have nothin' to do with 't.”

“Say, father!” cried Abimelech, after the men were gone,
“they can't git yer farm away from ye, can they?”

“You may be sartin,” said the farmer, “they will if they can.
The law 's on their side, too, I s'pose. But I an't goin' to trouble
myself 'forehand. I 've done my best, 'cordin' as I see the duty
sot afore me to do; an', with a clean conscience, I 'll wait an' see
what comes of it all.”

“I would n't let 'em have it!” exclaimed Bim; “I 'd sue 'em.”

“Bim'lech,” returned his father, “I never sued a man in my
life, an' I never was sued. But we won't talk about that now.
I 'm goin' to take your mother over to Mist' Dunbury's, an' goin'
from there to meetin'; an' you can go with me, or stay to hum
with Phœbe.” And he proceeded to lather his face, and to prepare
for Mr. Rukely's great sermon. There were no “chores”
to attend to; those that Abimelech had left undone having been
despatched by the farmer after his return home, while Dickson
still kept watch at the stack.