NEWS
He rose early from a restless bed, dressed, and made a cup of coffee.
Afterward he selected the clothing he meant to retain, and locked the
other in his trunk.
A little after twelve o’clock Adler came in, accompanied by a dealer
from Chatham Street, to whom Harcourt exhibited his trunk of wearing
apparel.
The dealer looked carefully over the whole assortment, and then for a
gentleman’s wardrobe worth at least two hundred dollars, trunk included,
offered—fifty.
This was indeed a sacrifice, and Adler loudly protested; but Harcourt
was anxious to conclude the bargain and be off on his journey.
So he took the fifty dollars cash and delivered over the trunk, which
the dealer agreed to send for, and did send for in the course of the
afternoon.
Adler went back to his work.
“I shall start for Washington by the night train,” Harcourt said, on
seeing him out.
“All right; that leaves at nine-thirty. I shall drop in here to see you
off. But what about your room?”
“I shall leave it just as it is, for I expect to return to it in a week
or ten days’ time.”
“Glad to hear that,” said Adler, as he hurried away.
Harcourt went back to his room and packed his traveling bag.
When all his preparations for the journey were completed Harcourt went
and rapped on the door of his neighbor’s room.
The monotonous thumper-thumper-thumper-thumper of the sewing machine
stopped while she arose and came and opened the door.
She looked surprised and pleased at the appearance of her visitor in his
genteel morning suit. It was the first time he had ever come to her
door.
“I am going away for a few days, Mrs. Moss, to see my mother. Before I
say good-by let me thank you again for all your great kindness to me,”
he said.
“I wish you would not make so much of a simple matter of duty, done with
much satisfaction. But come in and sit down, and tell me all about it,
if you have time,” she answered.
“Thank you. I have not much time, but I would like to come in,” he
answered.
He followed her, and took the chair she offered.
It was a large, clean room, barely furnished with a table and four
chairs, a corner cupboard, a cooking stove, a sewing machine, a chest of
drawers, and a little white bed; but the neatness and cleanliness of the
place could not have been surpassed.
“There is not much to tell,” he said. “My mother is old—quite old, for I
was her youngest born, the child of her age. I am all that she has left.
I fear that my long silence in the illness has made her painfully
anxious, and I think the best and soonest way to alleviate that anxiety
will be to go to her at once, instead of writing.”
“I think you are quite right. Indeed, you should never have left her.”
“I did not willingly, but ‘necessity knows no law.’”
“Ah! true, now long will you be gone?”
“Not over ten days.”
“And your room?”
“Please use it yourself, whenever you like to change the scene, and look
out on the bay instead of the street,” said Harcourt with a smile.
“Thank you; I will.”
“And now I must say good-by. I hear Adler’s step on the stairs, and he
has promised to see me off,” said Harcourt, rising.
“Good-by,” she said, giving him her hand.
And so they parted.
Adler was waiting for him in the passage, and greeted him with a hearty
“Good-evening.”
Harcourt put on his ulster, his seal hat and his gloves.
Adler took up his carpetbag, and insisted on carrying it.
They walked to the Cortlandt Street ferry, which was not far off, took
the boat, and in due time reached Jersey City and the depot.
“Take my advice,” said Adler, as they went toward the ticket office,
“‘cuss the cost,’ and take a sleeping car. You are not yet strong enough
to sit up all night.”
“But must do so, nevertheless,” replied Harcourt, true to his resolution
of stern self-denial.
He took his ticket, bade his friend a hasty good-night, and hurried to
the train, and just boarded it as it began to move slowly out of the
station.
To some constitutions the motion of the cars is a sedative, particularly
at night, when darkness and drowsiness help the effect. This was the
case with Harcourt in his weakened condition.
As the hours of the night passed on he dozed, dreamed, woke up, and
dozed again, until at length his slumber grew deeper, and he slept until
the train reached Washington, at six o’clock on that dark March morning.
He had intended to take the train immediately for West Virginia and go
directly to Logwood and Lone Lodge cabin to see his mother, but on
finding himself in Washington an irresistible longing seized him to go
down to Snowden and get news of Roma.
Without stopping to get breakfast he hastened to change cars, and was
soon en route for Southern Maryland.
The close of the day brought him to the little seaside town.
He was known there only as the late hotel clerk, and not at all as the
sometime suitor for the hand of the heiress of the Isle of Storms.
He walked from the depot to the village hotel, and entered the barroom.
The landlord, who was on duty there, instantly recognized him, and rose
to greet him.
“Ah! How do you do, sir? How do you do? You are a great stranger here.
And yet I have been looking for you a long time, too,” he said, offering
his hand, and heartily shaking that of the young man.
“Looking for me?” inquired Harcourt.
“Yes, for weeks past, I may say.”
“But why?”
“Well, you know, if you remember, I am postmaster.”
“I know that.”
“Well, then, piles and piles of letters have come here for you, and here
they are. I advertised them, all to no purpose, and on the first of next
month I meant to send them to the dead-letter office.”
“Where are they? Give them to me,” eagerly demanded Harcourt.
The landlord took them from a pigeonhole marked H and handed them over.
“Are these all?” inquired the young man.
“Them’s all,” replied the landlord.
The “piles and piles” had resolved themselves into five letters.
Harcourt sat down on the first seat that offered, glanced at the dates
on the postmarks, and selected the latest, as having the last news, and
that was three weeks old. It had been written, at the instance of old
Martha, by the hand of May Wynthrop, imploring Mr. Harcourt to come and
see his mother, who was in good bodily health, but who was pining to see
him.
“She was in good health three weeks ago, thank heaven! And yet she must
have suffered several weeks of suspense and anxiety previous to that. I
must lose no more time, but take this night’s train for Logwood,”
Harcourt thought to himself.
He opened and read the other letters, but they were all to the same
purport.
When he had finished them all he put a strong constraint upon himself,
and inquired:
“Can you tell me anything about the young married couple who came down
here last November to spend their honeymoon on the Isle of Storms?”
For all answer, “mine host” lifted up his head, pursed up his lips, and
gave a long whistle.
“What does that mean?” inquired Harcourt.
The landlord grew very grave.
“See here, young gentleman,” he said solemnly, “I don’t know the rights
of it, but this is certain—bride and groom quarreled and parted before
they became husband and wife.”
“What!” demanded Harcourt, starting to his feet.
“It is a positive fact, I do assure you. The marriage never went any
further than the ceremony. The contract never went into effect. The
bride swore that she was married to the man without her own knowledge or
consent, and that she would never acknowledge him as her husband.
Passing strange, but true as truth.”
Harcourt dropped into his chair again, overwhelmed with emotion.
“Well?” he exclaimed. “Well, what next? What became of her?”
“She managed to communicate with her friends, and they came—a
middle-aged gentleman and lady—and they took her off the island. The
party stopped here, though I didn’t know the least in the world who they
were, or that the beautiful young woman was the bride, or that there was
any trouble. It was long after they left here that I found out all about
it.”
“How did you find out at last?” inquired Harcourt.
“Through things that happened. On the very afternoon the bride left the
island with her friends one of the most terrible storms that ever
visited these parts came up. That was why the party stopped here instead
of going right on, as they meant to have done. Well, among other damage
that the storm did, it carried away the boats and boathouses from the
island, and left the people cut off from communication with the mainland
and the rest of the world. But in a week or ten days after there comes a
fine, fast-sailing yacht to the isle, and stays a few hours, and then
sails away again. And we all here, knowing nothing about the real facts,
thought the bride and groom had gone off on a cruise, probably to
southern waters—coast of Florida, Gulf of Mexico, or the West Indies.”
“Go on,” said Harcourt eagerly.
“Well, after a while, I thought of those two poor negroes left there
alone, without any means of communicating with the mainland and the rest
of the world. So, on one mild day in Indian summer, I jest got Len Poole
to take me in his big boat over to the island, to see after them poor
niggers, who might be starving for aught I knew. People may think it was
curiosity that took me, if they like, but it was not, sir, it was not.
It was humanity, sir, humanity.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Harcourt, who was anxious for the
remainder of the story.
“Well, sir, I went, and it was from them two honest niggers that I heard
the facts about that quarrel and parting. Why, they told me from the
time she entered the house, a newly married bride, in her wedding dress,
to the time her aunt came and took her away, she never permitted him to
cross the threshold of her door. No, sir! There was a vixen for you!”
“Did the man make any opposition to her departure?” Harcourt inquired.
“No; he was not in a state so to do. Her cruelty had driven him to
drink. He was dead drunk when she left with her aunt and uncle, and he
didn’t come to himself until the next morning, when he woke up to find
that the old folks had carried off his bride and the storm had carried
off his boats so that he couldn’t go after her. Then there was the
loveliest little circus you ever heard of in your life. He was
harlequin, clown, pantaloon, and a whole menagerie of wild beasts, all
in one, and them niggers was the only audience. But the lady was gone,
and the lady was safe!”
“Oh, glorious Roma! Queen! goddess! I might have known that you would
deliver yourself from the power of the beast!” muttered Harcourt to
himself, and he felt as if the last few months had been only a dark
nightmare, from which he was now awakening. Not that even now he hoped
ever to possess Roma, but—she had escaped the deep dishonor of a union
with Hanson; and now such a load was lifted off Harcourt’s breast, he
breathed so freely; he was almost happy. Yes, though he might never see
Roma again, though she could never be able to forgive him for the
foulest wrong ever done to any human being; though he must remain in her
memory as one guilty, degraded, accursed, still he was now almost happy,
for she was free and safe. She, his queen—ah! no, not his queen! But
she, the queen, the goddess, the glorious woman, who had liberated
herself, was free! “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” he breathed from the
depths of his heart.
“Seems like you take a great interest into this, sir. Now, if you’d like
to get the facts at first hand, you can just hire a boat and go over to
the island, and them niggers will tell you all about it, and take
pleasure in so doing,” said the landlord.
Harcourt reflected—as well as a man might reflect who was in a tumult of
emotions—and then inquired:
“What time does the train pass here which connects with the Western
Virginia line?”
“At eleven-fifty-five sharp.”
“That will give me time to go to the isle. I will walk down to the beach
and see if I can get a boat; and I should like some supper at about
eleven o’clock, before I leave for West Virginia,” said Harcourt.
“Oh, you go by that train, do you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. You shall have supper before you go.”
“Thank you,” said Harcourt, with a short bow, as he left the office.
He walked down the village street until it merged into the country road
that led to the water’s edge.
There, after some little inquiry, he found a boatman and then a boat.
The sun had set, but the sky was very clear, and brilliant with
starlight. The wind was low, and the waters were still, and all
circumstances favored a safe and pleasant row to the isle, that lay, as
usual, like a preadamite sea serpent, coiled on the dark, glimmering
surface of the sea, some miles distant from the shore.
Harcourt took one oar and the boatman took the other. A rapid row of
half an hour brought them to the isle.
“It will be cold for you to remain here. Will you come up to the house?”
inquired Harcourt as he stepped ashore.
“Oh, Lord, no! I’ll just fasten the boat, and walk up and down here to
keep myself warm until you come back, if you won’t be long,” replied the
boatman.
“I shall be an hour, at least. But if you feel cold, come up to the
house at any time.”
“All right; I will.”
Harcourt stepped rapidly up the rugged face of the crest and toward the
dark mass of buildings on the top. The house seemed all shut up and
dark.
He walked around to the rear of the mansion, and saw one dim light
shining through a low window—kitchen window, probably; but before he
could approach nearer a chorus of barks from three dogs defied him, and
these were instantly followed by the appearance of an old negro man at
the door beside the window, and a startled voice inquiring:
“Who dar? Name o’ de Lord, who is yer, an’ wot do yo’ want?”
“’Rusalem, is that you?” inquired Harcourt, by way of opening
conversation, though he was sure of the old man’s identity.
“Cose it’s me! But who de name o’ de Lord is yo’? Shet up, dogs! Hol’
yo’ jaws dar, I tell yo’! A body can’t hear deirselves speak fo’ yo’!
Who is yo’, an’ wot do yo’ want yere?”
“Don’t you remember Will Harcourt, who was clerk here last summer?”
“W’y, sho! ’Tain’t yo’! W’y, Lor’s! ’Member yo’? Well, I reckon I doane
’member nobody else! Down, dogs! Stop it, can’t yo’? Come in, sah. Well,
Lor’s! Who’d a think to see yo’ here? Come on. My ole ’oman’ll be
moughty proud to see yo’. ’Deed will Wilet!”
Harcourt followed the old negro into the spacious kitchen, where a huge
fire was burning in the open fireplace, at the lefthand corner of which
sat Wilet, smoking her pipe.
“Yere, ole ’oman! Yere’s a stranger come to see us! Young Marse William
Harkurt, wot used to be clerkin’ yere long o’ dat po’ w’ite trash, Tom
Todd—Tom Todd! He were a proper fellah fo’ a young g’eman to be clerkin’
long o’, or fo’ ’spectable colored people to be sarvin’, he were! But,
Lor’s! de worl’s turn upside down, it is!”
Meanwhile, Wilet had risen from her seat, put down her pipe, and was
courtesying to the visitor.
“Now, yo’ take dis cha’, yite ’fo’ de fire, young ge’man. Sorry we ain’t
got no fire in de pa’lor fo’ yo’,” she said, drawing up the one
comfortable seat of the room, a flag-bottomed rocker with a patchwork
cushion.
“Thank you. This will do very well,” said Harcourt, taking his seat, and
then adding: “Now, sit down, both of you, for I wish to have a talk with
you; and take your pipes. I don’t object to smoke.”
“Wouldn’t yo’ condorcent to take a pipe yo’se’f, sah? Ise got a new clay
one, an’ some prime bakker,” said ’Rusalem politely.
“Thank you, no. I never smoke, though I do not dislike it.”
“Well, den, young marse, it’s a cole night, an’ so I’ll jes’ hang my
kettle ober de fire, and pit some apples down to yoast on de haff, an’
’Rusalem will get out his jug o’ w’isky—it’s prime, an’ none o’ p’ison,
like Tom Todd used to sarve out to his cursemores—Tom Todd! We knows dis
is prime, caze we gits it yight f’om de ’stillery, an’ it ’quainted wid
de ’stillerers. An’ I’ll make yo’ de lubblies’ bowl o’ apple toddy, wid
sugar an’ spices, an’ ebberyfin’ ’cordin’, like I use’ to brew fo’ ole
Marse Henry Guyon an’ de gemmen, o’ winter nights; an’ ebbery single
gemman drink my apple toddy, an’ praise it to de skies. Yes, sah. An’
now I gwine to make some fo’ yo’.”
“No! no! I thank you very much, but I never drink anything of the sort.
I wish to speak to you about the young couple who came here to spend
their honeymoon,” said Harcourt.
“Honeymoon!” echoed Wilet. “Honeymoon! Whew! Whip yo’
hosses!—pepper-winegarmoon! witriolmoon!—fire-an’-brimstonemoon!”
exclaimed Wilet.
“I heard in Snowden that they had parted,” said Harcourt.
“Look here, young ge’man,” said Wilet, “I ’members yo’ come down in de
boat ’long ob dem, but didn’t come in, nor likewise eben speak to
nobody. Yo’ went yight back to de boat. But ef yo’ had come in an’
stayed yere—oh! I tells yo’ yo’d ’a’ seem a circus!”
“Tell me all about it.”
“Well, seein’ as yo’ seems to be an intermit frien’ ob de parties, I
doane care ef I do,” said Wilet, and she began, and told Harcourt the
whole story of Roma’s two days’ ordeal while a captive on the Isle of
Storms. She told him more than she had told the landlord of the Snowden
Hotel, whom she did not recognize as a friend of the family. She told
him how it was that Roma, captive, guarded, had yet managed to
communicate with her friends. For Wilet, either by accident or
eavesdropping, had overheard the story of the carrier pigeon, as
discussed by Roma and Mr. and Mrs. Gray on the morning of her departure
from the island.
“Oh, Roma! your own glorious deliverer!” said Harcourt to himself, when
the story was finished. “Now I can brave and bear the very worst that
fate may have in store for me. Now you are free, queen!”
He arose, and thanked Wilet for her information, gave each negro a
dollar to buy “bakker,” and declining their urgent offers of supper and
bed, he bade them good-night, and returned to the boat, near which the
boatman was walking up and down, beating his breast and sides to keep
warm.
Half an hour’s rapid rowing took them to the mainland.
Harcourt found his supper waiting at the hotel. He had just time to eat
it, pay his bill, and catch the night train for West Virginia.