THE BLACKSMITH’S SHOP.
When Daniel Hart recovered from the stupor which had fallen upon him,
with a conviction that his innocence could no longer be doubted, he was
sitting in the midst of the court-room perfectly alone. A noise—a
strange, murmuring noise—came surging in through the windows. He arose
and staggered a few paces forward, wondering what had become of his
children. A crowd of human beings blocked up the street, dark as death,
close to him, but lighted up, on the opposite side, by a fierce ruddy
glare. It fell on a platform of stern faces, uplifted, with a sort of
savage awe, toward a human form swinging from a post directly before the
huge opening cut through the blacksmith-shop instead of a window. Hart
cast one look toward the form, framed as it was in the rude opening on a
back-ground of fire. He recognized his enemy, shrunk back with a groan,
and, covering his face with both hands, shuddered from head to foot.
As Daniel Hart lifted his face again, the stupor that had chained down
his faculties gave way, and, for the first time, he comprehended, in its
entire force, his deliverance from danger, and the fearful retribution
that had overtaken his adversary.
“Stop, neighbors! in the name of God, do not murder him!” he shouted,
weaving his great hands convulsively together, and casting another wild
look through the window.
There was a hush in the crowd—the terrible reaction of fiercely excited
passions. The powerful voice of Daniel Hart, as it shouted the word
_murder_, fell like a bolt of cold iron on many a living heart.
Murderers! were they murderers?—those stout men, whose lives had
hitherto been spent in honest toil! They looked in each other’s faces,
and each saw the fearful pallor that had fallen on the features of his
companion.
Murderers they were—murderers! A moment of passion had made them such. A
single act, a single half-hour, and the black blood-stain had fallen
upon many a heart which had never known the thought of violence before.
Alas! how short a time it takes to fling the one gall-drop of crime into
a human soul!
While this appalling silence reigned over the throng, Daniel Hart rushed
down the veranda and through the crowd, dashing those who opposed his
progress to the right and the left, like a lion in his wrath. He caught
hold of an iron in the post where the wretched victim was suspended,
sprang up with almost superhuman force, and made a grasp at the
handkerchief, in a wild attempt to wrest it from its fastening. He
failed, and fell back gasping for breath. He took a knife from his
pocket, opened it with his teeth, and, while the glittering blade was
still clenched in their fierce hold, sprang into the blacksmith’s shop.
In an instant he stood in the red light of the window, flung one arm
around the body, and cut the handkerchief. The body fell heavily across
his shoulder; he dropped the knife, and, springing back, laid it upon
the ground.
“Bring brandy—bring brandy!” he exclaimed, tearing the wisp of red silk
from the purple and swollen throat.
“If you raly have an idea of bringing the scoundrel to,” said the
blacksmith, quite coolly, rolling up his sleeve, as he spoke, “a good
ducking will do him more good than all the brandy on arth; but the
fellow has got over the worst of it, and, to my notion, is about as well
off as he ever will be!”
While making this philosophical observation, the smith took a sooty pail
from one corner of the shop, and dipping it full of water from a great
wooden trough in which he cooled his iron, dashed it over the body.
There was no effect; not a quivering muscle, not a single motion, gave
the slightest hope of life.
“You may as well give up; he’s dead as a door-nail,” said the smith,
coolly setting down his pail. “You’d better not waste good coneac on the
critter, but hand it round to the chaps outside; they look as if they
needed it bad enough, gracious knows.”
But all unmindful of his friend’s advice, Hart took the measure of
brandy which some one had brought from the tavern, placed it by his side
on the ground, and laving both hands in it, bathed the livid face, the
throat and chest of the wretched being, who had so lately been his
bitter enemy. When he saw that it was of no avail, he laid the corpse
reverently back on the cinders scattered deep over the earth which
formed a floor to the blacksmith’s shop, and, covering his face with
both hands, groaned aloud.
“Come, there is no use in staying here,” said the smith, shaking his
friend by the shoulder. “Them poor gals will be rather anxious to see
you by this time, I calculate; then there is your brother-in-law a-lying
in my spare-room, as weak as a baby. Come along now, do!”
Hart arose, drew a deep breath, and went forth with his friend. The
street was yet filled with scattering groups, but they stood away from
the sight, and conversed together in low, hoarse whispers. Two by two,
and in larger groups, many of them had left the town, while those who
had no companions went over to the tavern, and, when the beds were full,
stretched themselves on the floor, for no man of all that multitude had
courage to pass through the woods alone, after the fearful scene which
he had witnessed.
There was that evening a faint star-like glimmer, breaking through the
creepers that covered a gable-window of four panes in the blacksmith’s
dwelling. As Daniel Hart drew near the house, his eyes fell on the
light; a glow came stealing to his heart—thoughts of his daughter, her
devotion, and the returning happiness ensured to her, were breaking up
the horrid sensations that had almost suffocated him. He ascended the
rude stairs which led to a chamber in the house, and passing his head up
through a trap cut in the floor, stood, with tearful eyes and trembling
limbs, gazing on the scene which presented itself in that humble
garret-room. Directly opposite lay the languid form of Mr. Bentley; his
head was supported by pillows, and the blacksmith’s wife was standing
over him, with her navarino thrust clear to the back of her head, and
armed with a huge camphor-bottle, with which she deluged the moist hair
of the invalid, now and then pausing to press her wet hand on the
temples of Gillian, who half knelt, half lay upon the bed, with her eyes
fixed on those of the wounded man, trembling and crying all the time.
Her fingers were twined in the hand of the invalid, and every other
moment she lifted her head and closed the fond eyes which gazed so
tenderly upon her with kisses, that wandered thence over cheek,
forehead, and back to the eyes again, breaking each caress with words of
passionate thanksgiving.
When she saw her father, Martha shook the tears from her eyes, and,
reaching forth her hand, drew him close up to the bed, pressed his broad
palm down on the hand of the invalid, and kissed them both together,
murmuring—
“Oh, father! oh, uncle! did you think we should ever be so happy again?”
“Thank God!—oh, thank God, my brother, it was not you that struck me!”
said Bentley, feebly grasping the hand which lay against his; “but where
is he? what will they do with him?”
“Oh, he is settled for, I reckon,” said the smith. “They hung him up,
like a dog, before my shop.”
“What—what”—the invalid could say no more; his eyes closed, and a
shudder ran through his frame.
“Let me—let me!” said Gillian, taking the camphor bottle from the
smith’s wife, and pressing her cool damp hand tremulously down on the
pale forehead of the invalid.
“Well, take it; he seems to like the feel of your hand best, so I may as
well go down and take my old man with me—he don’t know how to tend on
sick folks no more than a wild Injun; yet he’s a good-hearted cretur as
ever lived, though I do say it that ought not to say it.”
The next moment nothing was seen of the blacksmith’s wife except her
navarino, as it sunk slowly through the trap door, while she cautiously
followed her husband down-stairs.
And now they were alone—that united family. Bentley was no longer
insensible, for even in his fainting fit there was a happy thrill
warming his heart to life again. Notwithstanding all the horrors of the
night, that was a blissful meeting; but there was little talking done.
What of that? love may be expressed by silence.