 | XLIII.
THE LAW TAKES ITS COURSE. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
43. XLIII.
THE LAW TAKES ITS COURSE.
“All right!” chuckled Dickson, as his hand grasped Camille's
shoulder. “Come, my chick! I reck'n you 'll go along 'thout
any more fuss; there 's been fool'n' enough for one while.”
“No violence!” interposed Oliver Dole. “Let the law quietly
take its course; that 's all we want.”
Camille, who had fallen upon her knees by the bed, attempted
to rise, turning her suffering, bewildered looks upon the man of
law. Such gentleness and frailness, such loveliness and distress,
he had little expected to behold. His stern face contracted with
pain, as his public conscience was momentarily surprised by a ray
of human feeling that stole into his heart. With a softened look,
he extended his hand, to support her faltering step; when suddenly
she fell like one dead at his feet.
“Jones!” cried Dickson, “pass yer flask! I 'll fetch her out
of this! I 've seen sech tricks 'fore to-day.”
“What you going to do with her?” screamed the affrighted
duchess.
“Jest you stan' one side, and hold yer clatter, — that 's all I
ask of you!” And Dickson roughly administered the restorative
to his victim, holding her head upon his knee.
“I 'm astonished to find her so feeble!” exclaimed Oliver Dole.
“She ought n't to be moved till she 's stronger.”
“If she could run away, she can go with us!” growled
Dickson.
“Greenwich has give us the slip!” cried Jones. “There he
goes, by Jehu!”
“After him, Jones! Take the little sleigh. Ketch him, if
barg'in!”
“Keep yer fist onto her!” cried Jones, at parting.
“Resk me, for that! I don't quit my holt, till she 's safe
under lock and bar, make sure o' that! Ah! com'n' to, a bit,
be ye? That 's right; spunk up! It 's got to come; and the
sooner it 's over, the quicker. Here, you apple-face,” — to
the duchess, — “han't she got no bunnit, nor noth'n'?”
Mrs. Sperkley brought Camille's things, and, in great trepidation,
assisted to put them on. Then the helpless form was
lifted in the arms of the brutal man, and borne to the sleigh.
“Be careful with her,” said Oliver Dole. “It 's hard business
enough, make the best on 't.”
“Don't ye s'pose I know what 's for my interest? Of course
I 'll be car'ful; I 'll handle her like an egg. Make a place on
the sleigh-bottom; we can keep her warm 'twixt our feet.”
“Good heavens, don't drop her head that way!”
“Lord, she 'll live through it, only fix her so 's 't she can
breathe!” said Dickson. “Seems to me ye 've growed mighty
chick'n-hearted, since our 'quaint'nce begun. You was fierce
enough for the business! But, since these cussed north'n dough-faces
set up sech a yell aginst us, you 've looked a mighty sight
like flunk'n'. There, she 'll go so, comf'table enough, I reck'n.
Now, driver, git out o' this bush fast as yer horses 'll carry us!”
The horses were fleet; the driver stanch, well-paid, and eager
in the hunt; and they soon reached the opening of the wood.
“Slack up, half a sec'nt!” cried Dickson. “I 's in hopes we 'd
ketch Jones and Greenwich; but let 'em go! How d' ye git on,
my gal? Pooty comf'table?”
Camille lay still and pale as death, in the position in which she
had been placed. Her eyes were closed; she did not speak; she
appeared scarce to breathe. Dickson's brows gathered.
“I don't like the looks o' that face! I reck'ned she 'd come
to, 'fore this, and scream, and take on, like they gen'ly do. I
don't fancy driv'n' through the village with her, nuther; 't would
be hard keep'n' her out o' sight; and yer north'n ab'lish'n folks
are sech cussed fools!”
“T' other road 'll be 'bout as near,” remarked the driver.
“Then take it; and don't let next spring's grass grow under
yer runners, nuther! S'pos'n' we git her up, so 's 't she can suck
the air a little freer. I wish I 'd kep' Jones' flask! Why the devil
did n't I? That would fix her.”
Oliver's face was troubled. He bent anxiously over the helpless
captive, endeavoring to raise her to an easier position. “How
do you feel now? A little better, an't ye? You must pluck up
courage; you 're perfectly safe; you 're in the hands of the law,
and there 'll be no injustice; try to go through it bravely, — you
will, won't ye?” But only a low moan escaped her, and her head
sank powerlessly upon his arm.
“There, I like that better!” exclaimed Dickson. “'S long 's
they can make that noise, there 's hopes on 'em. O, she 'll git
through 't, somehow. They all act so. Thar 's a mighty sight o'
sham 'bout these yer white ones. They 're 'maz'n' shrewd; tough,
too, some on 'em are.”
“There 's no sham here!” said Oliver Dole.
“Wal, sham or no sham, she 's got to go! Git her safe once,
then I 'll have a doctor look to her; but I an't go'n' to run no
resks! Don't her bunnet choke her?”
Dickson's impatient fingers tore the strings. A slight shrinking
and shuddering, as his rough hand touched her throat, was the
only sign of consciousness she gave. All external things had
grown dim and shadowy around her. To Dickson's brutal speech,
to the officer's kinder words, to cruelty, humiliation, bodily pain,
she was alike insensible. Not that feeling was dead, — but one
deep, unspeakable agony absorbed all. She knew not when the
steeples and chimneys of the town appeared in view; when the
sight of the jail, with its barred windows and grim stone walls,
gladdened Dickson's ferocious eyes; nor when the commissioner's
house was reached.
A bald, hump-backed, pursy, Union-saving judge, threw open
the door of welcome to the hunters of human flesh. Then once
more she was lifted rudely; strong arms bore her from the
sleigh; behind her, doors were closed; she was in a strange-looking
apartment; — all this flitted like mist over the agonizing
upon her face and in her heart, while the sickening, horrid
dream went on.
She was now half conscious of human shapes thronging the
room; of eyes fixed upon her, some in stony curiosity, some in feeble
pity; of low, fierce, rapid words spoken, which seemed somehow
mixed with her fate; of a stern-visaged man at a desk, questioning
and writing; of a pale-faced, solemn clock staring upon her,
from the wall; and of many things mingled, undefined, whirling
and whirling in filmy indistinctness around her.
She had no sense of the time that elapsed. To Dickson, it
was just twenty-seven minutes, by his hunting-watch. His
brows blackened with impatience. He thrust the timepiece
back into his pocket, and dashed the sweat from his forehead.
“An't we never go'n' to git through? What yer wait'n' for
now?” The hump-backed judge sat at his desk, signing a jail order,
with a grimace of official wisdom. Oliver Dole stood to receive
the document. Dickson, furious, stamped the floor. Lawyers
and spectators pressed around. In the midst, two men supported
Camille upon her chair. Others, stationed at the doors and windows,
kept back the clamorous crowd.
“Marshal Dole!” spoke the judge's iron voice. There was a
hush of expectation, as, shaking the ink-sand from the paper, he
folded it, with a calm stroke of his fingers, and passed it over the
desk. Oliver thrust it in his breast-pocket, and with a trouble of
face that might have impeached his public conscience, turned to
his poor captive.
“Got it?” cried Dickson. “Cl'ar the way! Have yer men
on hand, marshal! If the mob wants fun, they shall have it!”
And he adjusted a pistol beneath his coat.
“Don't offer provocation!” exclaimed Oliver, huskily. “March
out peaceable, and in order. Let the girl take my arm, — 't will
look better.”
“Come!” muttered Dickson, shaking Camille's shoulder.
She started, and breathed quick, a momentary gleam of reason
flashing from her vacant eyes.
“Is it — to-night?” she uttered, like one half awake.
“Yes, it 's to-night!” said Dickson, coarsely. “Come, ye 're
go'n' to walk a step or two, d' ye know it?”
“Am I — going?”
“Yes, my gal; you 're goin'. Can't be helped, ye know; so
cheer up, look bright, show yer pluck once!”
“Let me stay one night!” pleaded Camille, in a voice so
utterly weak and helpless, that only those immediately surrounding
her could hear.
“Have this veil over yer face!” said Dickson. “Ye don't
want to be seen look'n' babyish, ye know. Now take the marshal's
arm. I 'll hold on t' other side, so 's 't ye shan't fall. Be
accommodat'n', and 't 'll go a mighty sight easier with ye than if
ye 're contrary, ye know.” And, with a rude grasp, he attempted
to lift her to her feet.
“Shall I never see him again?” she implored, in a faint, sobbing
utterance. “Am I to be taken right away?”
“Hang it!” cried Dickson, “ye 're only go'n' to jail, ye
know. So don't be scart, my gal. You 'll be kep' there to-night,
— and it may be a day or two 'fore the judge gives his
decish'n. So spunk up; it 's got to come, ye know; 't an't no
use cavin' in.”
Thereupon, gathering some little hope, she knew not what, or
wherefore, Camille made a feeble effort to arise.
“That 's the talk!” said Dickson, clasping her with brute force.
“I got ye; ye can't fall, if ye try. Keep up your side, marshal.
Now, then, one foot right ahead o' t' other; no flinch'n'! Thar!”
— as she made a step towards the door, — “what 'd I tell ye?
Now 's our time, marshal!”
Camille stopped; her limbs grew rigid; her form bent back,
writhing, as in a mortal spasm.
“None o' that!” muttered Dickson, shaking her. “Come,
walk! Ye want me to carry ye, hey?”
She was waking. It was no more a dream. The awful meaning
of it all burst upon her. Freedom, happiness, taken forever
away! Hope, life, love, all, all gone! A fate more horrible than
a thousand deaths awaiting her! and she alone, defenceless, helpless,
delivered over to ruffians by the LAW itself! O, God! O,
God! O, God!
With sharp agony, consciousness came. She roused, and, tearing
aside the veil, stood frenzied, casting a heart-chilling gaze around.
There was a pause, then a tumult at the door, which was broken
in; and a wild figure, with hair disordered, and eyes darting fury,
rushed into the room. Camille's voice burst in a shriek. Oliver
Dole reeled against the shattered window. Dickson was hurled
back; and a swift arm caught up the pallid girl as she was sinking
to the floor.
“She is mine!” thrilled a proud voice through the room. And
Hector, defiant, held the throbbing form upon his heart. A shudder
of awe passed through the spectators; officers and judge
recoiled before him.
“She is mine!” said Dickson, recovering himself, and clutching
Camille's arm; “by order of this court, — by the laws of the
country!”
Hector thrust him off. “She is mine,” he cried, “by the decree
of heaven, — by the one eternal Law!”
“That don't hold in our courts!” muttered Dickson. “I call
upon the marshal to do his duty!”
“Amen!” Hector turned to the court, his scorn and fury
quivering in every fibre of his frame, in every line and curve of
his lion-like face. “I call upon all to do the duty of men! There
is no power to take from me my OWN!”
“You 'll see!” spluttered Dickson. “Here 's the judge! —
here 's the marshal's force! — she 's got to go!”
“Mr. Dunbury,” spoke the judge, “you forget yourself. You
are resisting the execution of the law.”
“Ketch holt here!” roared Dickson.
Mr. Dole and his deputies pressed forward. Hector held
them off less by the might of his arm than by the terrors of
his eye.
“Hers is a human soul!” — he bore his living burden nobly
up, and a solemn power rolled through his tones. “'T is bound
to mine! And what God has joined, man cannot, SHALL NOT, put
asunder!”
“Curse his trash!” frothed Dickson. “What ye all about?
Why don't ye ketch holt?” And, clutching Camille again, he
thrust his pistol into Hector's face. “I 'll shoot ye, by —”
The oath was gulped back, and he tumbled upon the floor like
a log. Hector held — HIS OWN! He strode with strong strides
towards the door. The officers faltered; the crowd gave way
before him; the judge's feeble remonstrance died in his throat.
Then turning, with wrath and defiance stamped upon his front,
Hector beckoned to the minion of the law. “Give that to your
master!” and his hand reached forth a paper to Oliver Dole, who
delivered it to the judge.
Dickson scrambled upon his feet, and made a furious lunge at
persons in the crowd who had seized his weapon; but it was flung
from the window. Again there was a hush, as the judge glanced
his eye over the paper's contents. Dickson stood like a baffled
wild beast, that knew not which way to turn. The judge rapped
upon his desk. There was no need. Attention was breathless.
“This paper stops all legal proceedings! The girl is free!”
The strained silence broke. A commotion swelled, bursting
into the very presence of the judge, from the crowd without. In
the midst of all stood Hector, wonderful to look upon in his
bright, manly strength, with Camille still throbbing upon his
breast.
“She is free! free!” ran from mouth to mouth through the
crowd.
“A fraud!” tore forth Dickson's infuriate speech. He
rushed to the desk. His eyes flamed upon the paper. He stood
a moment, stupefied, then smote the signature with his fist, and
broke out, huskily, “By God, it 's Tanwood's!”
Hector had turned again. Oliver Dole was but too glad to
wash his hands of their shameful work. There was no opposition
from him or his deputies. Hector strode over the threshold.
The crowd would have borne him upon their shoulders.
But there was a majesty in his look, that put them off. A
sleigh was in waiting. He stepped in; he wrapped his precious
burden to his heart; and she, who was so late a thing, a slave,
a chattel, rode out of the jubilant throng a SOUL, a WOMAN, a
WIFE LOVING AND BELOVED.
| XLIII.
THE LAW TAKES ITS COURSE. Neighbor Jackwood | |