Dorn Hackett sat moodily upon his low bed in a little cell of Sag
Harbor jail. His elbows rested upon his knees, and his aching brow was
supported by his palms pressed against his temples. He might, had he
wished to do so, have caught a glimpse of sunshine through the narrow
window high up in the wall; might have seen the green branches of the
venerable elm that, swayed by the wind, swept its foliage from time to
time across that little space of sky; might have heard the blithe
carols of the song-birds that flitted among the old tree's boughs, and
even perched and sang upon the stone window ledge; but he had no heart
to look anywhere but on the ground; no thought for aught but his own
misery and shame. It seemed to him a terrible thing that he should be
locked in a jail. What would Mary say when she learned of it, as she
inevitably must? Ah! She would not believe that he could be guilty,
certainly not; but the shame of him would break her heart.
His life had hitherto been one singularly free from reproach, and of
the many things to which even passably good men become accustomed and
hardened, by contact with the world, he was almost as innocent as his
sweetheart herself. He had not gone off to a big city to make his
fortune and fall into evil ways, as the Easthampton storekeeper had
said. Out of the three years and some months since he quitted the
village, he had spent, altogether, but a few weeks on shore. He had
been out at sea, doing bravely and well the manly work to which he had
dedicated himself, and from even the ruder and, to some natures,
demoralizing influences by which he was there surrounded, he had been
protected by the purifying charm of his ever-faithful love. A
retrospective view of his whole life brought to his memory no thought
of regret or shame for aught that he had done, no remembrance of
anything he would have wished to hide from the knowledge of her he
loved best, and in whose regard he had most desire to stand well.
But there was one thing that, were it to do over again, he would not
have repeated. He would not have knocked down the officer who came to
arrest him, as he did in his first natural heat of indignation at
hearing himself charged with being an assassin and a thief. No, he
would not do that over again, for after he was ironed he had heard men
say that he did it in a desperate hope of escape, and that he would
not have done it if he had not been guilty. And yet it seemed to him
the most natural thing for an innocent man to do under the
circumstances. Could he have imagined that such a construction would
be put upon it? And now what had he to look forward to? He knew
nothing, absolutely, of the murder, of the inquest, or of the grounds
upon which he was suspected, save that he had a vague remembrance of
hearing it said, amid the excitement attendant upon his arrest, that
he had been in the vicinity of where Mr. Van Deust was murdered, on
the night that the old man was killed. Yes, that was probably true;
and how could he prove, or even state, the innocent purpose of his
presence there. Could he ask Mary to come into court and testify to
their love-meeting in the woods? No. Not even to save his life.
His reflections were broken by the sound of footsteps in the corridor
without, and the sound of the jailor's voice saying:
"This is his cell."
The prisoner looked up and met the frank, kindly face and outstretched
hand of Lem Pawlett.
"Well, Dorn, old fellow, I'm mightily sorry to see you here," he said
cordially, as the jailor walked away, leaving him standing in front of
the grated iron door of the cell, through which his hand was thrust to
grasp that of Mary's lover.
"Does--do they know of it?" stammered Dorn.
"Does Mary, you mean. Well, yes, I guess she does. Uncle Thatcher was
at the store last night when the mail-rider brought the news, and he
has most probably mentioned it at home. But, Lord bless you man! she
don't think anything of it. Cheer up. Don't get down in the mouth. She
won't believe a word against you, you may be sure. And it don't come
on her like a shock, as it were, because she has been expecting it."
"She expected it?"
"Yes. She has known for two or three days that they were after you,
but had no way of getting any word to you."
"But how did they come to be after me?"
"That was Aunt Thatcher's doings, I believe; but I'll tell you all
about it, as far as I know."
Thereupon the good fellow proceeded to give as full and correct an
account, as his information enabled, of the facts already better known
to the reader, beginning his narrative with the discovery of the
murder and concluding it with an expression of his determination of
the night before, to "try to straighten out the tangle."
"God bless you, old fellow," responded Dorn, with tears of gratitude
in his eyes. "I can't tell you how it warms my heart to have one
friend stand by me in a time like this. But little did I ever think,
when we were boys playing together, that you would ever have to do
such a thing for me."
"That's all right, Dorn. Don't say any more about it. I'll be glad if
I can do anything, and so will Ruth and Mary. And now, let's see what
is to be done. The first thing is for you to tell me, as clearly and
exactly as you can, every incident you can remember of where you were
and what you did that night."
"Everything is as clear in my mind as the occurrences of yesterday.
Let me begin at the beginning. I reached New Haven in the forenoon of
that day, and, having made a much quicker voyage than was expected,
found that I would have several days at my disposal. Of course my
first thought was of going to see Mary. I left the schooner in charge
of the mate, to see to the taking out of her cargo while I was gone,
and got a man named Hollis to bring me over to Napeague in a little
fishing smack. He had to come, any way, to get a couple of pipes of
rum that had rolled off a trader's deck one night. I left him at the
beach, telling him that if I did not meet him there at half past nine
o'clock that evening he need not wait for me, as I might have to
remain over a day, or even two; for you know, as Mary would not be
expecting me, I did not know whether I should meet her at the usual
place that evening or not, and I couldn't go to her uncle's to see
her."
"No. I know all about that."
"Well, I was fortunate enough to meet her, walking with Ruth, and
naturally remained with her as long as I could. It was nine o'clock,
as near as I could judge by the rise of the moon, when we parted, and
I set out for the beach to meet Hollis. I was a little afraid of being
late, and took a short cut through the woods that I thought I knew
just as well as when we used to go huckleberrying in them when we were
boys. But there had been at least one change that I knew nothing of--a
new road."
"Ah, yes. The new one across from Amagansett."
"I suppose so. Whatever it is, I found it very suddenly. I was running
at the time, along a little path that I knew well, and all at once
went plunging down, head foremost, nine or ten feet into a cut. It's a
wonder--and, as I then thought, a mercy--that I didn't break my neck.
Lately I've had my doubts as to whether it wouldn't have been better
for me if I had."
"Stow that, and pay out your yarn."
"When I could collect my scattered senses, I found that I had cut two
ugly gashes in my head, upon sharp pointed roots or stubs of some
sort, and had sprained my left ankle so that it was exceedingly
painful for me to attempt to walk. While I sat there, thinking what I
should do, a little elderly gentleman, on horseback, came along upon
the new road into which I had fallen. I told him I was hurt, and he
very kindly assisted me, first to fix up my head--giving me his
handkerchief to use with my own for the purpose,--and then to get over
to the beach. Hollis was gone. The accident had delayed me far beyond
my time, and he, of course, supposed that I was not coming. When I got
my ankle in the cool sea-water it felt better, but still I could not
walk any distance on it. Just then a small smack came along, with an
old man and a boy in it--strangers to me--probably out on some
smuggling errand, and I offered the old man ten dollars to take me
over to New Haven, which he accepted gladly. The kind little gentleman
helped me into the boat and bade me good-night, saying that he had yet
to ride to Sag Harbor. We had very little wind, and it was daylight
when the old man landed me in New Haven. I had lost a good deal of
blood from the cuts on my head, and felt half sick and drowsy from it,
so that I slept nearly all the time I was in the boat. And that's all
I can tell you about that night."
"Well, man alive, that's enough. All we've got to do is to find the
little gentleman and the old man to prove that you left the island
before eleven o'clock, for it was after that hour that Jacob Van Deust
was murdered. That will show clearly enough that whoever did kill him,
at all events, you didn't; and that's all we care about just at
present."
"Ah! If I had the slightest idea of who they were. But I never thought
to ask their names, and indeed didn't take much notice of anything;
for, as I said, I was dizzy, and half-sick, and drowsy, with the loss
of blood; so that even if they had told me who they were, I don't know
that I should have been able to remember. If the old man was, as I
suppose, a smuggler, he would hardly be likely to willingly expose
himself to inconvenient questioning in court. Old men are cautious
about taking such chances, especially for people who are nothing to
them."
"Can you give me a description of the little gentleman on horseback?
or tell me anything about him that might lead to his identification?"
"No. Only I remember he said he was a stranger, and knew nobody in the
neighborhood except the Van Deusts. The way he came to mention that
was in talking of taking me somewhere."
"Well, as he mentioned the Van Deusts, old Peter doubtless knows who
he is. Ah! Come to think about it, he said at the inquest that his
lawyer from New York had called on him that evening. Why, it's all
plain sailing now. I'll go to the old man right away and ask him, and
he'll tell me who his lawyer is, and I'll go and see him, and we'll
have you out in a jiffy."
"Lem, I can't tell you how I appreciate your kindness and the trouble
you are taking in my behalf."
"Don't try to. It's all right, I tell you. You'd do the same for me; I
know you would. And I rather think I begin to like the job, knowing
how it will spite that old cuss, Deacon Harkins."
The remainder of the young men's chat at the cell door had no especial
significance or bearing upon the progress of the events of our story,
and may as well, therefore, be omitted. Suffice it to say, that when
they separated, Dorn felt infinitely more hopeful and cheerful than
he had before since his arrest, and Lem had far greater confidence in
the result of his novel undertaking of detective work. Of course Lem
carried away with him many loving messages to Mary, which were, in due
time, faithfully delivered through Ruth.
It was too late that evening when the young man reached his home for
him to call upon Peter Van Deust, but he went up to the homestead
under the elms the next morning, at as early an hour as he dared hoped
to find anybody astir. He found the lonely old man, already seated
upon the long bench on the porch, in his accustomed place, with his
pipe in his mouth, and his gaze turned toward the sea; but the pipe
had gone out unnoticed, and the eyes saw nothing of the glory of the
dawn upon the ocean, for they were blinded by tears that unconsciously
filled them. Lem stood silently looking at him for some moments,
hesitating to speak, and hoping to be noticed; but the old man did not
seem to know that he was not alone, until Lem's voice, bidding him
"Good-morning," awoke him with a start from his reverie. Then the
start, with which he had been recalled, extended itself in a long fit
of nervous trembling, and it was with a weak and quavering voice that
he responded to his visitor's salutation. It was painful to see how
the unhappy man had broken down in the little time that had passed
since the death of his brother. It seemed to have added at least ten
years to his age.
"I suppose, Mr. Van Deust, that you have heard of Dorn Hackett's
arrest," began the young man, after a failure to find any other way
than a direct plunge to arrive at his subject.
"Yes, yes, I was told of it yesterday. Dorn Hackett? Dorn Hackett?
They say he used to live around here, but I don't remember him. I
suppose I used to know him, though. And he was raised in the
neighborhood? It seems strange that any one who was raised near him,
and knew him, could ever have had the heart to kill Jacob, don't it?"
"But, Mr. Van Deust, maybe he didn't do it at all."
"Somebody did it; somebody climbed into his window and murdered him
for the sake of a little money. Beat in his skull and cut short his
little remnant of life, just to get a few dollars. Oh! it was a cruel
thing to do, to kill that poor, harmless, gentle, good old man. I wish
we had never heard of that cursed fortune. Jacob would be alive
to-day, if we hadn't."
His agitation while he spoke was extreme. He trembled like a leaf in
the wind; tears ran down his withered cheeks; his voice was broken by
sobs, and at length his emotion so obstructed his utterance that Lem
could not understand him as he went rambling on about his brother's
untimely end. After a little time, during which Lem silently waited
for him to regain a little calm, his mood seemed to change to one of
suspicion and fear for himself.
"I suppose they'll come to kill me next," he exclaimed. "They'll think
there's more money; but there isn't--there isn't a dollar in the
house. I'll never have a dollar in the house again; and I'll get a
dog, a savage big dog, and I'll load the gun. Oh, I've got a gun,
though it hasn't been loaded in forty years."
"Mr. Van Deust, a little elderly gentleman on horseback was in this
neighborhood the night your brother was murdered, and he said he knew
you. Who was he?"
"Why, he's my lawyer, the man who brought us the intelligence of--But
what do you want to know for? What right have you to come here asking
me questions about my private affairs--about my lawyer? Do you think
he brings money here? No, he don't! he don't! there isn't a dollar in
the house. It's none of your business! Go away from here. I won't
answer any more of your questions. I was a fool to tell you so much!
Begone! begone! Betsy! Betsy! Help! help!"
The old man's excitement seemed to have crazed him, temporarily, at
least. He continued raving, and Lem, finding it impossible to get in a
word of explanation, went away, no little disgusted with the rebuff he
had encountered at the very commencement of his task of hunting up an
_alibi_ for Dorn. Returning to Sag Harbor, he succeeded in finding the
man who had hired a horse to the little elderly gentleman on several
occasions, but could learn nothing from him beyond that fact. The
gentleman, according to the man's statement, always arrived by boat
from New York, got the horse, rode away, came back, paid, and
disappeared, probably by boat again. And that was all that the owner
of the horse knew about him.
Then Lem went to New York, saying to himself that he "would ask every
little elderly lawyer in New York if he was the man," before he would
give up the pursuit. Little did the unsophisticated young fellow, who
had never before been away from home, imagine the magnitude of the job
he had cut out for himself.