 | XIV. Edwin Brothertoft |  |
14. XIV.
Jierck Dewitt's companions waited, at first
silently, then anxiously, for his return.
Moments passed, and he was still gone.
“I hope he hain't played us a trick,” whispered
Van Wart.
“Not he!” says honest Sam Galsworthy.
“I 'll tell you what it is, boys,” whispers the
root-doctor's son. Jierck has got liquor aboard.
Taint mutiny to say so, now he 's gone. I heard
him walk tipsy when we came from the barn.
When we got here, I saw he stood too ramrod
for a sober man. You know how it is. Since
his wife went bad, he 's lived on rum for stiddy
victuals. He swore off to Major Skerrett. But
he did n't swear strong enough, or else somethin'
strange has drawed his cork.”
“If that is so,” said Lincoln-Brothertoft, “I
must follow, and see that he does not risk himself
or us. Watch, men, for your lives!”
“They may call that man Orderly Lincoln,”
says Hendrecus Canady, as the other disappeared
about the house, “but I believe he 's Tommy
He talks powerful dictionary. And how
did he come to know this country like a hawk
and like a hoppertoad both?”
It seemed sad and sorry business to Edwin
Brothertoft to go prowling like a burglar about
the home of his forefathers.
He followed Jierck around the rear of the
house. All the familiar objects wore an unkindly,
alienated look. The walls were grim,
the windows were dark, the whole building said
to him, “You are an exile and an intruder.”
But he had no time for sentimental regrets.
He turned the northern side of the house. A
bright light burned in Lucy's chamber in the
tower. He could see a shadowy figure moving
behind the curtain.
“My child! in a few moments we shall meet,”
he thought.
Nothing to be seen of Jierck Dewitt! The
sight of his daughter's form revived his anxiety.
Peering into the dark, he passed about the
corner of the turret.
He stopped opposite the parlor windows on
the front. A shutter stood open. A faint light,
as from a flickering wood-fire within, gleamed
out into the hazy night. The window-sill was
breast high to a man.
“There we used to sit,” he murmured, “my
wife and I. There by the fire, in the evenings
of autumns long passed, I have watched her
love dying, and all my hopeful vigor dying, —
dying into ashes.”
The mighty despotism of an old love mastered
him for a moment. There was little bitterness
in his heart. These scenes, once so dear, became
dear to him again. He pardoned them for
their unconscious share in the tragedy of his life.
“I must have one glance into that room,” he
thought. “My memory of it will be a troublesome
ghost in my brain, until I have laid the
ghost with a sight of the reality.”
He stole forward softly over the crisp, frosty
grass, and looked cautiously in at the window.
Mrs. Brothertoft was seated alone before the
fire. Guilt must sit alone and dwell alone.
Loneliness is the necessity and the punishment
of guilty hearts. No friends are faithful but the
noble and the pure, and them guilt dreads and
rejects. Mrs. Brothertoft was sitting alone in
the fire-lit room. It was an instant before her
husband's eyes could distinguish objects within.
He drew close to the window. He perceived
her. A thrill of pity and pardon killed all his
old rancors. He felt that, though he must war
against her for his daughter's sake, he fought,
reserving an infinite tenderness for his foe.
And she within, — had she heard that stealthy
step of his upon the stiffened grass and the dry
leaves? Had his faint sigh penetrated to her, as
she sat silent and moody? Did she feel the
magnetism of human presence, — the spiritual
touch of a spirit wounded by her wrong? Or
was it merely that in these days of alarm and
violence she kept her senses trained and alert?
He saw her cruel face turn suddenly, stare
into the night, and mark an intruder.
For one breath he stood motionless.
Then, as she sprang forward to the window and
shouted for help, he turned and ran around the
rear of the house to the spot where he had left
his comrades.
| XIV. Edwin Brothertoft | |