The Widow Brown, in consequence of the disclosure made by the dying Ned
Saunders, was placed in no very agreeable situation. She thought that
the unhappy man had his reason, but she could not be so very sure as to
be willing to publish what might not after all be true, to the certain
injury not only of Mr. Cross, who had ever been kind to her, but of her
son also, who had wound himself around her heart, and for whom she had
been so earnestly entreated by that miserable woman who declared herself
his mother.
She comprehended but a very little of the nature of papers of any kind,
beyond those solemn legacies from God to man, which daily she perused
with love and gratitude. And what Ned Saunders meant by papers which Mr.
Cross was anxious to get hold of, she could not conceive.
'The poor, deluded soul,' said she one day, while walking alone, her
thoughts too burdensome to be kept in; 'I am very doubtful that he knew
what he said when he talked about those papers; and now that the
dreadful deed is done, what good end can be answered by publishing it
abroad? It will not build the house again, and God will avenge it in his
own time and way.'
She wished much, however, for the time when William should be able to
make some disclosures as to his share in the terrible transaction. That
he was a participator in the crime she could not believe; but that he
had attacked Ned Saunders, and that the consequences had proved fatal to
one of them, she had too strong evidence to doubt. The whole was
altogether beyond the comprehension of the poor widow, and all she
could do, at present, was to wait for time to make plain the path of
duty.
William, however, could no longer bear the struggle which agitated his
mind, and he determined to unburden it. As there were reasons why he
preferred to communicate with his sister, he took an opportunity, when
alone, to reveal all he knew, and let her into the secret of his own
present condition, and the villany of Cross. Hettie's first impulse was
to fly at once to Mr. Rutherford.
'He ought to be made acquainted with these facts without a moment's
delay.'
'But David, sister; think of him.'
Hettie was silent; she gazed a moment at her brother, then leaned back
in her chair, and resting her head upon her hand, was lost for awhile in
busy thought.
'David must be told, William; he must know it before any one else; he
has had no hand in it, and all his kindness to us demands this
confidence in him.'
William made no reply; he was much exhausted, and even the effort of
thinking was painful. The mother also now came in, and, wishing a little
relaxation, Hettie left the room and sought a favourite spot to which
she was in the habit of retiring, sheltered alike from the rays of the
sun and common observation--a tumult of distracting thoughts rioted
within; again and again she resolved the doubtful question as to her
present duty, and the difficulties attending any course which presented
itself to her were so great, that she most heartily longed for some
experienced counsel to guide her steps.
In the midst of her perplexities, she was startled at the sound of
approaching footsteps.
'I thought I should never find you. Your mother said she guessed you was
here; but that thick clump of bushes hid you so, that I had almost given
it up.'
'I come here occasionally; it is so retired.'
'I should think it was retired enough; but I don't see what you want to
get off so alone for; it is lonely enough, I should think, all over
these old barrens. But ain't you glad Bill is so much better?'
'He is better certainly, David; more like himself than he has been
yet--don't you think so?'
'That he is--but you look sick; you sit by that bed too much, Hettie.
You want a ride--come--Bony's at the cottage--go along with me: we will
soon bring your color back.'
'Not to-day, David; indeed I have no desire to ride to-day; and besides,
since you are here, I want to have some conversation with you upon a
matter in which you are deeply concerned.'
'Well, come on--I'm ready for anything--out with it. I'm so glad Bill is
better, I don't care what comes now; but look cheerful a little; do, I
beg of you; I have dark looks enough at home. The old man is so cross
about something or other lately, that he can't give me a civil word. I
thought when I came along, what I would give just to live among you
here. I tell you what, Hettie, I had rather live with you and your
mother, and have nothing but bread and water, only to hear kind
words;--well, you are queer--just now you was so pale, and now your face
is red as a rose.'
Hettie felt the flush which David had noticed; he had never spoken quite
so plainly to her before, and she began to fear what next might come; so
she commenced the unpleasant task of making him acquainted with his
father's conduct; but she did not give the account in the order that she
received it, for she began at the catastrophe, and told the story as
well as she could, without alluding to the main instigator of the plot.
'But what could have induced those men to commit such a deed? and what
could they have wanted with the trunk without there was money in it?'
'There was no money in it, but there were papers of great consequence.'
'Papers? what could they know about papers? they can't read, not one of
them; what good would papers do them?' said David; his countenance pale,
and his lips trembling with emotion.
'There is something more in all this that you have not yet told me,
Hettie; some one is at the bottom of it. Who is it?'
Hettie covered her face with her hands.
'Don't be afraid, Hettie; out with it--is it my father?'
Hettie burst into tears, and David sank to the earth, helpless as an
infant. Seeing that he was greatly agitated, and that he seemed in need
of help, she was about to go for her mother.
'Don't leave me, Hettie. Do you think that this is truth, and that
William has his reason?'
'He seems to have it, perfectly; he has given a clear account of things
from the first--I fear it is true.'
'Does any one know of this besides you and your brother?'
'No human being as yet.'
'Depend upon it, Hettie, if my father has instigated this act, he has
been in some way thwarted in his design; for his temper, never very
good, has been outrageous for some time past; so much so, that I have
made up my mind to leave him and this region for ever. There is but one
thing which keeps me; you and your mother are the only persons in the
world that I care much about--and you I love as I do my life. If you
will marry me, Hettie, I will get together all I have got; it will be
enough to purchase us a place far away from here, and we will take your
mother, and Bill, too, if he gets well; and how happy we shall be.'
Hettie was deeply affected, but she felt that she must deal plainly with
him.
'You must not talk so, David; you and I can never be married.'
'You are ashamed of me already, Hettie. My father's disgrace, I see, is
to be mine.'
'I shall never attach to you, David, any wrong your father has done--but
let us say no more about this. You have ever been kind to me and my
family; all that a sister can do for you, I will; beyond this, I hope
you will not urge me. But there are some things to be thought of that
must be done soon. Mr. Rutherford ought not to be kept ignorant of this
matter. I have, out of kindness to you, told you what I have heard, and
with a hope that you will make an effort to recover these papers, and
thus in part frustrate an evil design, and perhaps save your father from
a great calamity. William has told me that he has some faint
recollection of feeling the trunk taken from his grasp, while he lay in
that helpless condition. You think your father has not got it; probably
then, it is in the hands of some person who does not realize the value
of it, and may easily be induced to relinquish it.'
'I will do what I can, Hettie, to find out; but I caution you to let no
person know a word of all this, at least not until I have failed in
finding out some clue to it. Should Rutherford know what you do, and
make attempts to search, or to expose matters, it would be the very way,
as things are here, to have it put where no one can ever be the wiser
for it. If my father has not got the trunk or the papers--and I don't
believe he has, for the reason I have told you--it is probably in the
hands of some one who has taken it from Bill, and is afraid to say any
thing, for fear he would be charged with an attempt to murder.'
David's reasoning appeared so plausible, that Hettie coincided with him
as to the propriety, at present, of saying nothing further on the
subject to any one.