 | CHAPTER XVII.
“PROMISE OR DIE.” Opening a chestnut burr |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
“PROMISE OR DIE.”
WHILE they were thus standing irresolutely
after the accident, at a loss what to do, suddenly
a light glimmered upon them. It appeared to
come from a house standing a little off from the
road.
“Shall I leave you here and go for assistance?”
asked Walter.
“I think I would rather go with you. Dolly will
stand, and I do not wish to be left alone.”
They soon found a grassy path leading to a
small house, from which the light shone but faintly
through closely curtained windows. They met no
one, nor were their footsteps heard till they knocked
at the door. A gruff voice said:
“Come in.”
They entered. A middle-aged man with his coat
off sat at work with his back toward them. A huge
bull-dog started up from near the fire with a savage
growl. The man rose hastily and stared at them
with a strangely blended look of consternation and
anger.
“Call off your dog,” said Walter, sharply.
“Down, Bull,” said the man harshly, and the dog
ugly gleam in his eyes.
The man's expression was quite as sinister and
threatening.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” he
asked sternly.
“We want help,” said Gregory, with a quick and
apprehensive glance around, which at once revealed
to him why their visit was so unwelcome. The man
had been at work counterfeiting money, and the
evidences of his guilt were only too apparent. “We
have lost our way our wagon broke. I hope you
have sufficient humanity to act the part of a neighbor.”
“Humanity to the devil!” said the man brutally.
“I am neighbor to no one. You have come here to
pry into what is none of your business.”
“We have not,” said Walter eagerly. “You will
find our broken wagon in the road but a little way
from here.”
The man's eye was cold, hard, and now had a
snake-like glitter as he looked at them askance with
a gloomy scowl. He seemed thinking over the situation
in which he found himself.
Gregory, in his weak, exhausted state, and shaken
somewhat by his fall, was nervous and apprehensive.
Annie, though pale, stood firmly and quietly by.
Slowly and hesitatingly, as if deliberating as to
the best course, the man reached up to a shelf and
took down a revolver, saying with an evil-boding look
at them:
“If I thought you had come as detectives, you
would have no chance to use your knowledge. You,
sir, I do not know, but I think this lady is Squire
Walton's daughter. As it is, you must both solemnly
promise me before God that you will never
reveal what you have seen here. Otherwise I have
but one method of self-protection,” and he cocked
his pistol. “Let me tell you,” he added in a bloodcurdling
tone, “you are not the first ones I have
silenced. And mark this—if you go away and break
this promise, I have confederates who will take vengeance
on you and yours.”
“No need of any further threats,” said Gregory
with a shrug. “I promise. As you say, it is none
of my business how much of the `queer' you make.”
Though naturally not a coward, Gregory, in his
habit of self-pleasing and instinctively shunning all
sources of annoyance, would not have gone out of his
way under any circumstances to bring a criminal to
justice, and the thought of risking anything in this
case did not occur to him. Why should they peril
their lives for the good of the commonwealth. If
he had been alone and escaped without further
trouble, he would have thought of the matter afterward
as of a crime recorded in the morning paper,
and with which he had no concern, except perhaps
to scrutinize more sharply the currency he received.
But with conscientious Annie it was very different.
Her father was a magistrate of the right kind,
who sincerely sought to do justice and protect the
people in their rights. From almost daily conversation
of the law. When she was inclined to induce
her father to give a lighter sentence than he believed
right, he had explained how the well-being and indeed
the very existence of society depended upon
the righteous enforcement of the law, and that
true mercy lay in such enforcement. She had been
made to feel that the responsibility for good order
and morals rested on every one, and that to conceal
a known crime was to share deeply in the guilt.
She also was not skilled in that casuistry which
would enable her to promise anything with mental
reservations. The shock of their savage and threatening
reception had been severe, but she was not at
all inclined to be hysterical; and though her heart
seemed to stand still with a chill of dread which
deepened every moment as she realized what would
be exacted of her, she seemed more self-possessed
than Gregory. Indeed, in the sudden and awful
emergencies of life, woman's fortitude is often superior
to man's, and Annie's faith was no decorous
and conventional profession for Sabbath uses, but
a constant and living reality. She was like the
maidens of martyr days, who tremblingly but unhesitatingly
died for conscience' sake. While there
was no wavering of purpose, there was an agony of
fear and sorrow, as, after the momentary confusion
of mind caused by the suddenness of the thing, the
terrible nature of the ordeal before her became
evident.
Through her father she had heard a vague
and was so reticent, his somewhat mysterious
movements had awakened suspicion. But his fierce
dog and his own manner had kept all obtrusive curiosity
at a distance. Now she saw her father's worst
fears and surmises realized.
But the counterfeiter at first gave all his attention
to her companion, thinking that he would have but
little trouble with a timid girl; and after Gregory's
ready promise, looked searchingly at him for a moment,
and then said, with a coarse, scornful laugh:
“No fear of you. You will keep your skin
whole. You are a city chap, and know enough of
me and my tribe to be sure I can strike you there
as well as here. I can trust to your fears, and don't
wish to shed blood when it is unnecessary. And
now this girl must make the same promise. Her
father is a magistrate, and I intend to have no posse
of men up here after me to-morrow.”
“I can make no such promise,” said Annie in a
low tone.
“What!” exclaimed the man harshly, and a savage
growl from the dog made a kindred echo to his
tone.
Deathly pale, but with firm bearing, Annie said:
“I cannot promise to shield crime by silence. I
should be a partaker in your guilty secrets.”
“Oh, for God's sake promise!” cried Walter in
an agony of fear, but in justice it must be said that
it was more for her than himself.
“For God's sake I cannot promise.”
The man stepped menacingly toward her, and
the great dog also advanced unchecked out of his
corner.
“Young woman,” he hissed in her ear, “you
must promise or die. I have sworn never to go to
prison again if I wade knee-deep in blood.”
There came a rush of tears to Annie's eyes. Her
bosom heaved convulsively a moment, and then she
said in a tone of agony:
“It is dreadful to die in such a way, but I cannot
make the promise you ask. It would burden my
conscience and blight my life. I will trust to God's
mercy and do right. But think twice before you
shed my innocent blood.”
Walter covered his face with his hands and
groaned aloud.
The man hesitated. He had evidently hoped by
his threats to frighten her into compliance, and her
unexpected refusal, while it half frenzied him with
fear and anger, made his course difficult to determine
upon. He was not quite hardened enough to
slay the defenceless girl as she stood so bravely
before him, and the killing of her would also involve
the putting of Gregory out of the way, making a
double murder that would be hard to conceal. He
looked at the dog, and the thought occurred that by
turning them out of doors and leaving them to the
brute's tender mercies their silence might be effectually
secured.
It is hard to say what he would have done, left
to his own fears and evil passions; but a moment
woman entered with a pail of water, which she had
just brought from a spring some little distance from
the house.
“What does this mean?” she asked, with a
quick, startled glance around.
“It means mischief to all concerned,” said the
man sullenly.
“This is Miss Walton,” said the woman, stepping
forward.
“Yes,” exclaimed Annie, and she rushed forward
and sobbed out:
“Save me from your husband—he threatened to
take my life.”
“Your husband!” said the woman with intense
bitterness, turning toward the man; “do you hear
that, Vight? Quiet your fears, young lady. Do you
remember the sick, weary woman that you found one
hot day last summer by the roadside? I was faint,
and it seemed to me that I was dying. I often wish
to, but when it comes to the point and I look over
into the black gulf, I'm afraid—”
“But, woman—” interrupted the man harshly.
“Be still,” she said, imperiously waving her hand.
“Don't rouse a devil you can't control.” Then turning
to Annie, she continued:
“I was afraid then—I was in an agony of terror.
I was so weak that I could scarcely do more than
look appealingly to you and stretch out my hands.
Most ladies would have said, `She's drunk,' and
passed contemptuously on. But you got out of
`I'm sick; for God's sake help me,' and you believed
me and said, `I will help you, for God's sake and
your own.' Then you went to the carriage, and got
some cordial which you said was for some other sick
person, and gave me some; and when I revived, you
half carried me and lifted me into your nice covered
little wagon, that kept the burning sun off my head,
and you took me miles out of your way to a little
house which I falsely told you was my home. I
heard that you afterward came to see me. You
spoke kindly. When I could speak I said that `I
was not fit for you to touch,' and you answered,
`Jesus Christ was glad to help and touch any human
creature, and that you were not better than He!'
Then you told me a little about Him, but I was too
sick to listen much. God knows I've got down about
as low as any woman can. I dare not pray for myself,
but since that day I've prayed for you; and
mark what I say, Vight,” she added, her sad, weird
manner changing to sudden fierceness, “not a hair
of this lady's head shall be hurt.”
“But these two will go and blab on us,” said the
man angrily. “At least the girl will. She won't
promise to keep our secret. I have no fears for the
man; I can keep him quiet.”
“Why won't you promise?” asked the woman
gently, but with surprise.
“Because I cannot,” said Annie earnestly, though
her voice was still broken by sobs. “When we hide
crime, we take part in it.”
“And would you rather die than do what you
thought wrong?”
“It were better,” said Annie.
“Oh that I had had such a spirit in the fatal
past!” groaned the woman.
“But won't you protect me still?” exclaimed
Annie, seizing her hand. “It would kill my poor
old father too, if I should die. I cannot burden my
soul with your secrets, but save me—oh, save me,
from so dreadful a death.”
“I have said it, Miss Walton. Not a hair of your
head shall be hurt.”
“What do you advise then, madam?” asked the
man satirically. “Shall we invite Mr. Walton and
the sheriff up to-morrow to take a look at the room
as it now stands?”
“I advise nothing,” said the woman harshly.
“I only say in a way you understand, not a hair of
this girl's head shall be hurt.”
“Thank God, oh, thank God,” murmured Annie,
with a feeling of confidence and inexpressible relief,
for there was that in the woman's bearing and tone
which gave evidence of unusual power over her associate
in crime.
Then Annie added, still clinging to a hand unsanctified
by the significant plain ring, “I hope you
will keep my companion safe from harm also.”
During the scene between Annie and her strange
protectress, who was evidently a sad wreck of a beautiful
and gifted woman, Gregory had sunk into a
chair through weakness and shame, and covered his
face with his hands.
The woman turned toward him with instinctive
antipathy, and asked, “How is it, sir, you have left
this young girl to meet this danger alone!”
Gregory's white, drawn face turned scarlet as he
answered:
“Because I am like you and this man here, and
not like Miss Walton, who is an angel of truth and
goodness.”
“`Like us' indeed,” said she disdainfully. “I
don't know that you have proved us cowards yet.
And could you be bad and mean enough to see this
brave maiden slain before your eyes, and go away in
silence to save your own miserable self?”
“For aught I know I could,” answered he savagely.
“I would like to see what mean, horrible,
loathsome thing, this hateful, hated thing I call myself
could not do.”
Gregory showed in a way fearful to witness what
intense hostility and loathing a spirit naturally noble
can feel toward itself when action and conscience are
at war.
“Ah,” said the woman bitterly, “Now you
speak a language I know well. Why should I fear
the judgment-day?” she added, with a gloomy light
in her eyes, as if communing with herself. “Nothing
worse can be said of me then, than I will say now.
But,” she sneered, turning sharply to Gregory, “I do
not think I have fallen so low as you.”
“Probably not,” he replied, with a grim laugh,
and his significant shrug which he had learned
abroad. “I will not dispute my bad preëminence.
rising, “make up your mind quickly what
you are going to do. I am a weak man, morally and
physically. If you intend to shoot me, or let your
dog make a meal of me, let us have it over as soon
as possible. Since Miss Walton is safe, I am as well
prepared now as I ever shall be.”
“I intreat you,” pleaded Annie, still clinging to
the woman, “don't let any harm come to him.”
“What is the use of touching him?” said the
man gruffly. Then turning to Gregory he asked,
“Do you still promise not to use your knowledge
against me? You might do me more harm in New
York than here.”
“I have promised once, and that is enough,”
said Gregory irritably. “I keep my word for good
or evil, though you can't know that, and are fools for
trusting me.”
“I'll trust neither of you,” said the man with an
oath. “Here, Dencie, I must talk with you alone.
I'm willing to do anything that's reasonable, but I'm
not going to prison again alive, mark that” (with a
dreadful oath). “Don't leave this room or I won't
answer for the consequences,” he said sternly to
Gregory and Annie, at the same time looking significantly
at the dog.
Then he and the woman went into the rear
apartment, and there was an earnest and somewhat
angry consultation.
Gregory sat down and leaned his head on the
table in a manner that showed he had passed beyond
to what became of him. He felt that henceforth he
must be simply odious to Miss Walton—that she
would only tolerate his presence as long as it was
necessary, veiling her contempt by mere politeness.
In his shame and weakness he would almost rather
die than meet her true, honest eyes again.
Annie had the courage of principle and firm
resolve, rather than that which is natural and physical.
The thought of sudden and violent death
appalled her. If her impulsive nature were excited,
like that of a soldier in battle, she could forget danger.
If in her bed at home she were wasting with
disease, she would soon have submitted to the Divine
will with child-like trust. But her whole being
shrank inexpressibly from violent and unnatural
death. Never before did life seem so sweet. Never
before was there so much to live for. She could
have been a martyr in any age and in any horrible
form for conscience' sake, but she would have met
her fate tremblingly, shrinkingly, and with intense
longings for life. And yet with all this instinctive
dread, her faith in God and his word of promise
would not fail. But instead of standing calmly erect
on her faith, and confronting destiny, it was her
nature in such terrible emergencies, to cling in loving
and utter dependence, and obey.
She therefore in no respect shared Gregory's
indifference, but was keenly alive to the situation.
At first, with her hand upon her heart to still its
wild throbbings, she listened intently, and tried to
This being vain, her eyes wandered hurriedly around
the room. Standing thus, she unconsciously completed
a strange picture in that incongruous place,
with her dejected companion on one side, and
the great dog, eying her savagely, on the other.
Gregory's despairing attitude impressed her deeply.
In a sudden rush of pity she felt that he was not as
cowardly as he had seemed. A woman with difficulty
forgives this sin. His harsh condemnation and
evident detestation of himself impelled her generous
nature instinctively to take the part of his weak
and wronged self. She had early been taught to
pity those whom evil is destroying, rather than condemn.
In all his depravity he did not repel her, for
though proud, he had no petty, shallow vanity; and
the evident fact that he suffered so deeply because
of his sin, disarmed her.
Moreover, companionship in trouble which she
felt was partly her fault, drew her toward him, and
stepping to his side, she laid her hand on his shoulder
and said gently:
“Cheer up, my friend; I understand you better
than you do yourself. God will bring us safely
through.”
He shrank even from her touch, and said drearily:
“With better reason than yonder woman I can
say, `I am not fit for you to touch;' as for God, he
has nothing to do with me.”
Without removing her hand, she answered kindly,
“I do not think either of those things is true. But,
not dare—”
She was interrupted by the entrance of the
strangely assorted couple into whose crime-stained
hands they had so unexpectedly fallen. Both felt
but little trust could be placed in such perverted and
passion-swept natures—that they would be guided
by their fears, impulses, and interests. Annie's main
hope was in the hold she had on the woman's sympathies;
but the latter, as she entered, wore a somewhat
sullen and disappointed look, as if she had not
been given her own way. Annie at once stepped to
her side and again took her hand, as if she were her
best hope of safety. It was evident that her confidence
and unshrinking touch affected the poor creature
deeply, and her hand closed over Annie's in a
way that was reassuring.
“I suppose you would scarcely like to trust
yourselves to me or my dog,” said the man with a
grim laugh. “What's more, I've no time to bother
with you. Since my companion here feels she owes
you something, Miss, she can now pay you a hundred-fold.
But follow her directions closely as you
value your lives,” and he left the house with the
dog. Soon after, they heard in the forest what
seemed the notes of the whippowill repeated three
times, but it was so near and importunate that Annie
was startled, and the woman's manner indicated that
she was not listening to a bird. After a few moments
she said gloomily:
“Miss Walton, I promised you should receive no
send you directly home to-night, but that's impossible.
I can do much with Vight, but not everything.
He has sworn never to go to prison again alive, and
none of our lives would be worth much if he had to
take them in order to escape. We meant to leave
this region before many months, for troublesome
stories are getting around, and now we must go at
once. I will take you to a place of safety, from
which you can return to-morrow. Come.”
“But father will go wild with anxiety,” cried
Annie wringing her hands.
“It is the best I can do,” said the woman sadly.
“Come, we have no time to lose.”
She put on a woollen hood, and taking a long,
slender staff, led the way out into the darkness.
They felt that there was nothing to do but follow,
which they did in silence. They did not go
back toward their broken wagon, but continued on
down the wheel-track where their accident occurred.
Suddenly the woman left, taking a path through the
woods, and after proceeding with difficulty some distance,
stopped, and lighted a small lantern she had
carried under her shawl. Even with the aid of this
their progress was painful and precarious in the
steeply descending rocky path, which had so many
intricate windings that both Annie and Gregory felt
that they were indeed being led into a terra incognita!
Annie was consumed with anxiety as to
the issue of their strange adventure, but believed
confidence in her guide to be the wisest course.
himself, and stumbled on mechanically.
At last he said sullenly, “Madam, I can go no
farther. I may as well die here as anywhere.”
“You must go,” she said sharply; “for my sake
and Miss Walton's, if not for your own. Besides,
it's not much farther. What I do to-night must be
done rightly.”
“Well then, while there is breath left, Miss Walton
shall have the benefit of it.”
“May we not rest a few minutes?” asked Annie.
“I too am very tired.”
“Yes, before long at the place where you must
pass the night.”
The path soon came out into another wheel-track
which seemingly led down a deep ravine. Descending
this a little way, they reached an opening in
which was the dusky outline of a small house.
“Here we part,” said their guide, taking Annie's
hand, while Gregory sank exhausted on a rock near.
“The old woman and her son who live in that house
will give you shelter, and to-morrow you must find
your best way home. This seems poor return for
your kindness, but it's in keeping with my miserable
life, which is as dark and wild as the unknown flinty
path we came.”
“Then lead this life no longer. Stay with us,
and I will help you to better things,” said Annie
earnestly.
The look of intense longing on the woman's face
as the light of the flickering lantern fell on it would
haunt Annie to her dying day.
“Oh that I might!” she groaned. “Oh that I
might! A more fearful bondage never cursed a
human soul!”
“And why can you not?” pleaded Annie, putting
her hand on the trembling woman's shoulder.
“You have seen better days. You were meant for
good and noble life. You can't sin unfeelingly.
Then why sin at all? Break these chains, and by-and-by
peace in this life and heaven in the life to
to come will reward you.”
The woman sat down by the roadside, and for a
moment her whole frame seemed convulsed with
sobs. At last she said brokenly:
“You plead as my good angel did before it left
me—but it's no use—it's too late. I have indeed
seen better days, pure, happy days; and so has he.
We once stood high in the respect of all. But he fell,
and I fell in ways I can't explain. You cannot understand
that as love binds with silken cords, so
crime may bind with iron chains. No more—say
no more. You only torment me,” she broke in
harshly, as Annie was about to speak again. “You
cannot understand. How could you? We love,
hate, and fear each other at the same time, and
death only can part us. But that may soon—that
may soon,” and she clenched her hands with a dark
look.
“But enough of this. I have too much to do to
tire myself this way. You must go to that house—
I cannot. Old Mrs. Tompkins and her son will give
you shelter. I don't wish to get them into trouble.
know what your father's disposition is. And now
farewell. The only good thing about me is, I shall
still pray for you, the only one who has ever treated
me like a woman since—since—since I fell into hell,”
she said in a low, hoarse tone, and printing a passionate
kiss on Annie's hand, she blew out her lantern,
and vanished in the darkness.
It seemed to swallow her up and become a type
of the mystery and fate that enshrouded the forlorn
creature. Beyond the bare fact that she took the
train the following morning with the man she called
`Vight,' Annie never heard of her again. Still there
was hope for the wretched wanderer. However dark
and hidden her paths, the eyes of a merciful God
ever followed her, and to that God Annie prayed
unceasingly in her behalf.
Note.—This chapter has some historic basis. The man called
“Vight” is not altogether an imaginary character, for a desperate and
successful counterfeiter dwelt for a time among the mountains on the
Hudson, plying his nefarious trade. It is said that he took life more
than once to escape detection.
| CHAPTER XVII.
“PROMISE OR DIE.” Opening a chestnut burr | |