University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
ON HIS TRACKS.

“Abel!” said the old Doctor, one morning,
`after you've harnessed Caustic, come into the
study a few minutes, will you?”

Abel nodded. He was a man of few words,
and he knew that the “will you” did not require
an answer, being the true New-England way of
rounding the corners of an employer's order, — a
tribute to the personal independence of an American
citizen.

The hired man came into the study in the
course of a few minutes. His face was perfectly
still, and he waited to be spoken to; but the
Doctor's eye detected a certain meaning in his
expression, which looked as if he had something
to communicate.

“Well?” said the Doctor.

“He's up to mischief o' some kind, I guess,”
said Abel. “I jest happened daown by the mansion-haouse
last night, 'n' he come aout o' the gate
on that queer-lookin' creatur' o' his. I watched
him, 'n' he rid, very slow, all raoun' by the Institoot,
'n' acted as ef he was spyin' abaout. He

looks to me like a man that's calc'latin' to do
some kind of ill-turn to somebody. I shouldn't
like to have him raoun' me, 'f there wa'n't a
pitchfork or an eel-spear or some sech weep'n
within reach. He may be all right; but I don't
like his looks, 'n' I don't see what he's lurkin'
raoun' the Institoot for, after folks is abed.”

“Have you watched him pretty close for the
last few days?” said the Doctor.

“W'll, yes, — I've had my eye on him consid'ble
o' the time. I haf to be pooty shy abaout it,
or he'll find aout th't I'm on his tracks. I don'
want him to get a spite ag'inst me, 'f I c'n help it;
he looks to me like one o' them kind that kerries
what they call slung-shot, 'n' hits ye on the side
o' th' head with 'em so suddin y' never know
what hurts ye.”

“Why,” said the Doctor, sharply, — “have you
ever seen him with any such weapon about
him?”

“W'll, no, — I caän't say that I hev,” Abel
answered. “On'y he looks kin' o' dangerous.
Maybe he's all jest 'z he ought to be, — I caän't
say that he a'n't, — but he's aout late nights, 'n'
lurkin' raoun' jest 'z ef he wus spyin' somebody;
'n' somehaow I caän't help mistrustin' them Portagee-lookin'
fellahs. I caän't keep the run o'
this chap all the time; but I've a notion that old
black woman daown 't the mansion-haouse knows
'z much abaout him 'z anybody.”

The Doctor paused a moment, after hearing

this report from his private detective, and then
got into his chaise, and turned Caustic's head in
the direction of the Dudley mansion. He had
been suspicious of Dick from the first. He did
not like his mixed blood, nor his looks, nor his
ways. He had formed a conjecture about his
projects early. He had made a shrewd guess as
to the probable jealousy Dick would feel of the
school-master, had found out something of his
movements, and had cautioned Mr. Bernard, —
as we have seen. He felt an interest in the young
man, — a student of his own profession, an intelligent
and ingenuously unsuspecting young fellow,
who had been thrown by accident into the
companionship or the neighborhood of two persons,
one of whom he knew to be dangerous, and
the other he believed instinctively might be capable
of crime.

The Doctor rode down to the Dudley mansion
solely for the sake of seeing Old Sophy. He was
lucky enough to find her alone in her kitchen.
He began talking with her as a physician; he
wanted to know how her rheumatism had been.
The shrewd old woman saw through all that with
her little beady black eyes. It was something
quite different he had come for, and Old Sophy
answered very briefly for her aches and ails.

“Old folks' bones a'n't like young folks',” she
said. “It's the Lord's doin's, 'n' 't a'n't much
matter. I sha'n' be long roun' this kitchen. It's
the young Missis, Doctor, — it's our Elsie, — it's

the baby, as we use' t' call her, — don' you remember,
Doctor? Seventeen year ago, 'n' her poor
mother cryin' for her, — `Where is she? where is
she? Let me see her!' — 'n' how I run up-stairs,
— I could run then, — 'n' got the coral necklace
'n' put it round her little neck, 'n' then showed
her to her mother, — 'n' how her mother looked at
her, 'n' looked, 'n' then put out her poor thin fingers
'n' lifted the necklace, — 'n' fell right back on
her piller, as white as though she was laid out to
bury?”

The Doctor answered her by silence and a look
of grave assent. He had never chosen to let Old
Sophy dwell upon these matters, for obvious reasons.
The girl must not grow up haunted by
perpetual fears and prophecies, if it were possible
to prevent it.

“Well, how has Elsie seemed of late?” he said,
after this brief pause.

The old woman shook her head. Then she
looked up at the Doctor so steadily and searchingly
that the diamond eyes of Elsie herself could
hardly have pierced more deeply.

The Doctor raised his head, by his habitual
movement, and met the old woman's look with
his own calm and scrutinizing gaze, sharpened by
the glasses through which he now saw her.

Sophy spoke presently in an awed tone, as if
telling a vision.

“We shall be havin' trouble before long.
The' 's somethin' comin' from the Lord. I've

had dreams, Doctor. It's many a year I've
been a-dreamin', but now they're comin' over 'n'
over the same thing. Three times I've dreamed
one thing, Doctor, — one thing!”

“And what was that?” the Doctor said, with
that shade of curiosity in his tone which a metaphysician
would probably say is an index of a
certain tendency to belief in the superstition to
which the question refers.

“I ca'n' jestly tell y' what it was, Doctor,” the
old woman answered, as if bewildered and trying
to clear up her recollections; “but it was somethin'
fearful, with a great noise 'n' a great cryin'
o' people, — like the Las' Day, Doctor! The
Lord have mercy on my poor chil', 'n' take care
of her, if anything happens! But I's feared
she'll never live to see the Las' Day, 'f 't don'
come pooty quick.”

Poor Sophy, only the third generation from
cannibalism, was, not unnaturally, somewhat confused
in her theological notions. Some of the
Second-Advent preachers had been about, and
circulated their predictions among the kitchen-population
of Rockland. This was the way in
which it happened that she mingled her fears in
such a strange manner with their doctrines.

The Doctor answered solemnly, that of the day
and hour we knew not, but it became us to be
always ready. — “Is there anything going on in
the household different from common?”

Old Sophy's wrinkled face looked as full of

life and intelligence, when she turned it full upon
the Doctor, as if she had slipped off her infirmities
and years like an outer garment. All those fine
instincts of observation which came straight to
her from her savage grandfather looked out of her
little eyes. She had a kind of faith that the Doctor
was a mighty conjurer, who, if he would,
could bewitch any of them. She had relieved
her feelings by her long talk with the minister,
but the Doctor was the immediate adviser of the
family, and had watched them through all their
troubles. Perhaps he could tell them what to do.
She had but one real object of affection in the
world, — this child that she had tended from infancy
to womanhood. Troubles were gathering
thick round her; how soon they would break
upon her, and blight or destroy her, no one could
tell; but there was nothing in all the catalogue
of terrors which might not come upon the household
at any moment. Her own wits had sharpened
themselves in keeping watch by day and
night, and her face had forgotten its age in the
excitement which gave life to its features.

“Doctor,” Old Sophy said, “there's strange
things goin' on here by night and by day. I don'
like that man, — that Dick, — I never liked him.
He giv' me some o' these things I' got on; I take
'em 'cos I know it make him mad, if I no take
'em; I wear 'em, so that he needn' feel as if I
didn' like him; but, Doctor, I hate him, — jes' as
much as a member o' the church has the Lord's
leave to hate anybody.”

Her eyes sparkled with the old savage light, as
if her ill-will to Mr. Richard Venner might perhaps
go a little farther than the Christian limit
she had assigned. But remember that her grandfather
was in the habit of inviting his friends to
dine with him upon the last enemy he had bagged,
and that her grandmother's teeth were filed down
to points, so that they were as sharp as a shark's.

“What is that you have seen about Mr. Richard
Venner that gives you such a spite against him,
Sophy?” asked the Doctor.

“What I' seen 'bout Dick Venner?” she replied,
fiercely. “I'll tell y' what I' seen. Dick wan's
to marry our Elsie, — that's what he wan's; 'n'
he don' love her, Doctor, — he hates her, Doctor,
as bad as I hate him! He wan's to marry our
Elsie, 'n' live here in the big house, 'n' have nothin'
to do but jes' lay still 'n' watch Massa Venner 'n'
see how long 't 'll take him to die, 'n' 'f he don'
die fas' 'nuff, help him some way t' die fasser! —
Come close up t' me, Doctor! I wan' t' tell you
somethin' I tol' th' minister t'other day. Th' minister,
he come down 'n' prayed 'n' talked good, —
he's a good man, that Doctor Honeywood, 'n' I
tol' him all 'bout our Elsie, — but he didn' tell nobody
what to do to stop all what I been dreamin'
about happenin'. Come close up to me, Doctor!”

The Doctor drew his chair close up to that of
the old woman.

“Doctor, nobody mus'n' never marry our Elsie 's
long 's she lives! Nobody mus'n' never live with

Elsie but Ol' Sophy; 'n' Ol' Sophy won't never
die 's long 's Elsie 's alive to be took care of. But
I's feared, Doctor, I's greatly feared Elsie wan' to
marry somebody. The' 's a young gen'l'm'n up at
that school where she go, — so some of 'em tells
me, — 'n' she loves t' see him 'n' talk wi' him, 'n'
she talks about him when she's asleep sometimes.
She mus'n' never marry nobody, Doctor! If she
do, he die, certain!”

“If she has a fancy for the young man up at
the school there,” the Doctor said, “I shouldn't
think there would be much danger from Dick.”

“Doctor, nobody know nothin' 'bout Elsie but
Ol' Sophy. She no like any other creatur' th't
ever drawed the bref o' life. If she ca'n' marry
one man 'cos she love him, she marry another man
'cos she hate him.”

“Marry a man because she hates him, Sophy?
No woman ever did such a thing as that, or ever
will do it.”

“Who tol' you Elsie was a woman, Doctor?”
said Old Sophy, with a flash of strange intelligence
in her eyes.

The Doctor's face showed that he was startled.
The old woman could not know much about
Elsie that he did not know; but what strange superstition
had got into her head, he was puzzled
to guess. He had better follow Sophy's lead and
find out what she meant.

“I should call Elsie a woman, and a very handsome
one,” he said. “You don't mean that she

has any mark about her, except — you know —
under the necklace?”

The old woman resented the thought of any deformity
about her darling.

“I didn' say she had nothin' — but jes' that —
you know. My beauty have anything ugly?
She's the beautifullest-shaped lady that ever had
a shinin' silk gown drawed over her shoulders.
On'y she a'n't like no other woman in none of her
ways. She don't cry 'n' laugh like other women.
An' she ha'n' got the same kind o' feelin's as other
women. — Do you know that young gen'l'm'n up
at the school, Doctor?”

“Yes, Sophy, I've met him sometimes. He's
a very nice sort of young man, handsome, too,
and I don't much wonder Elsie takes to him.
Tell me, Sophy, what do you think would happen,
if he should chance to fall in love with Elsie,
and she with him, and he should marry her?”

“Put your ear close to my lips, Doctor, dear!”
She whispered a little to the Doctor, then added
aloud, “He die, — that's all.”

“But surely, Sophy, you a'n't afraid to have
Dick marry her, if she would have him for any
reason, are you? He can take care of himself, if
anybody can.”

“Doctor!” Sophy answered, “nobody can take
care of hisself that live wi' Elsie! Nobody never
in all this worl' mus' live wi' Elsie but Ol' Sophy,
I tell you. You don' think I care for Dick?
What do I care, if Dick Venner die? He wan's

to marry our Elsie so 's to live in the big house
'n' get all the money 'n' all the silver things 'n'
all the chists full o' linen 'n' beautiful clothes!
That's what Dick wan's. An' he hates Elsie 'cos
she don' like him. But if he marry Elsie, she'll
make him die some wrong way or other, 'n' they'll
take her 'n' hang her, or he'll get mad with her
'n' choke her. — Oh, I know his chokin' tricks! —
he don' leave his keys roun' for nothin'!”

“What's that you say, Sophy? Tell me what
you mean by all that.”

So poor Sophy had to explain certain facts not
in all respects to her credit. She had taken the
opportunity of his absence to look about his chamber,
and, having found a key in one of his drawers,
had applied it to a trunk, and, finding that it
opened the trunk, had made a kind of inspection
for contraband articles, and, seeing the end of a
leather thong, had followed it up until she saw
that it finished with a noose, which, from certain
appearances, she inferred to have seen service of
at least doubtful nature. An unauthorized search;
but Old Sophy considered that a game of life and
death was going on in the household, and that she
was bound to look out for her darling.

The Doctor paused a moment to think over this
odd piece of information. Without sharing Sophy's
belief as to the kind of use this mischievous-looking
piece of property had been put to, it was
certainly very odd that Dick should have such a
thing at the bottom of his trunk. The Doctor remembered

reading or hearing something about
the lasso and the lariat and the bolas, and had an
indistinct idea that they had been sometimes used
as weapons of warfare or private revenge; but
they were essentially a huntsman's implements,
after all, and it was not very strange that this
young man had brought one of them with him.
Not strange, perhaps, but worth noting.

“Do you really think Dick means mischief to
anybody, that he has such dangerous-looking
things?” the Doctor said, presently.

“I tell you, Doctor. Dick means to have Elsie.
If he ca'n' get her, he never let nobody else have
her. Oh, Dick's a dark man, Doctor! I know
him! I 'member him when he was little boy, —
he always cunnin'. I think he mean mischief to
somebody. He come home late nights, — come
in softly, — oh, I hear him! I lay awake, 'n' got
sharp ears, — I hear the cats walkin' over the
roofs, — 'n' I hear Dick Venner, when he comes
up in his stockin'-feet as still as a cat. I think
he mean mischief to somebody. I no like his
looks these las' days. — Is that a very pooty
gen'l'm'n up at the school-house, Doctor?”

“I told you he was good-looking. What if he
is?”

“I should like to see him, Doctor, — I should
like to see the pooty gen'l'm'n that my poor Elsie
loves. She mus'n' never marry nobody, — but,
oh, Doctor, I should like to see him, 'n' jes' think
a little how it would ha' been, if the Lord hadn'
been so hard on Elsie.”

She wept and wrung her hands. The kind
Doctor was touched, and left her a moment to her
thoughts.

“And how does Mr. Dudley Venner take all
this?” he said, by way of changing the subject a
little.

“Oh, Massa Venner, he good man, but he don'
know nothin' 'bout Elsie, as Ol' Sophy do. I
keep close by her; I help her when she go to bed,
'n' set by her sometime when she 'sleep; I come
to her in th' mornin' 'n' help her put on her
things.” — Then, in a whisper, — “Doctor, Elsie
lets Ol' Sophy take off that necklace for her.
What you think she do, 'f anybody else tech
it?”

“I don't know, I'm sure, Sophy, — strike the
person, perhaps.”

“Oh, yes, strike 'em! but not with her han's,
Doctor!” — The old woman's significant pantomime
must be guessed at.

“But you haven't told me, Sophy, what Mr.
Dudley Venner thinks of his nephew, nor whether
he has any notion that Dick wants to marry
Elsie.”

“I tell you. Massa Venner, he good man, but
he no see nothin' 'bout what goes on here in the
house. He sort o' broken-hearted, you know, —
sort o' giv' up, — don' know what to do wi' Elsie,
'xcep' say `Yes, yes.' Dick always look smilin'
'n' behave well before him. One time I thought
Massa Venner b'lieve Dick was goin' to take to

Elsie; but now he don' seem to take much notice;
— he kin' o' stupid-like 'bout sech things. It's
trouble, Doctor; 'cos Massa Venner bright man
naterally, — 'n' he's got a great heap o' books. I
don' think Massa Venner never been jes' herself
sence Elsie's born. He done all he know how, —
but, Doctor, that wa'n' a great deal. You men-folks
don' know nothin' 'bout these young gals;
'n' 'f you knowed all the young gals that ever
lived, y' wouldn' know nothin' 'bout our Elsie.”

“No, — but, Sophy, what I want to know is,
whether you think Mr. Venner has any kind of
suspicion about his nephew, — whether he has
any notion that he's a dangerous sort of fellow,
— or whether he feels safe to have him about,
or has even taken a sort of fancy to him.”

“Lor' bless you, Doctor, Massa Venner no
more idee 'f any mischief 'bout Dick than he
has 'bout you or me. Y' see, he very fond o'
the Cap'n, — that Dick's father, — 'n' he live so
long alone here, 'long wi' us, that he kin' o' like
to see mos' anybody 't 's got any o' th' ol' family-blood
in 'em. He ha'n't got no more suspicions
'n a baby, — y' never see sech a man 'n y'r life.
I kin' o' think he don' care for nothin' in this
world 'xcep' jes' t' do what Elsie wan's him to.
The fus' year after young Madam die he do
nothin' but jes' set at the window 'n' look out
at her grave, 'n' then come up 'n' look at the
baby's neck 'n' say, `It's fadin', Sophy, a'n't it?'
'n' then go down in the study 'n' walk 'n' walk, 'n'

then kneel down 'n' pray. Doctor, there was two
places in the old carpet that was all threadbare,
where his knees had worn 'em. An' sometimes,
— you remember 'bout all that, — he'd go off up
into The Mountain, 'n' be gone all day, 'n' kill all
the Ugly Things he could find up there. — Oh,
Doctor, I don' like to think o' them days! —
An' by-'n'-by he grew kin' o' still, 'n' begun to
read a little, 'n' 't las' he got 's quiet 's a lamb,
'n' that's the way he is now. I think he's got
religion, Doctor; but he a'n't so bright about
what's goin' on, 'n' I don' believe he never
suspec' nothin' till somethin' happens; — for the' 's
somethin' goin' to happen, Doctor, if the Las'
Day doesn' come to stop it; 'n' you mus' tell us
what to do, 'n' save my poor Elsie, my baby that
the Lord hasn' took care of like all his other
childer.”

The Doctor assured the old woman that he
was thinking a great deal about them all, and
that there were other eyes on Dick besides her
own. Let her watch him closely about the
house, and he would keep a look-out elsewhere.
If there was anything new, she must let him
know at once. Send up one of the men-servants,
and he would come down at a moment's
warning.

There was really nothing definite against this
young man; but the Doctor was sure that he
was meditating some evil design or other. He
rode straight up to the Institute. There he saw

Mr. Bernard, and had a brief conversation with
him, principally on matters relating to his personal
interests.

That evening, for some unknown reason, Mr.
Bernard changed the place of his desk and drew
down the shades of his windows. Late that
night Mr. Richard Venner drew the charge of
a rifle, and put the gun back among the fowling-pieces,
swearing that a leather halter was
worth a dozen of it.