EXPLANATIONS.
For a few moments they all were silent.
“Mr. Brown,” said Muriel, breaking the pause, “we owe you the most
cordial thanks. You have saved this man’s life.”
“I’m afeard, Miss Eastman, that his life’s not worth saving,” returned
the negro, in an exhausted voice, wiping away, with his shirt-sleeve,
as he spoke, the streaming moisture which shone on his swart visage.
“He’s in a fit, aint he, Mr. Harrington?” he added, glancing at the
slaveholder, who sat, flaccid and inanimate, between the young man and
Muriel.
“No, he has only fainted,” replied Harrington. “We must revive him.”
He removed the Southerner’s hat, took off his neckcloth, and opened his
shirt, to give him air, while Muriel busied herself with fanning him,
using his hat for that purpose. She had dropped her fan and parasol on
the steps at the time when Tugmutton had screamed to them what was going
on in Roux’s room.
“I should just like to know the rights of this matter, Mr. Harrington,”
said Brown, “for I’ve got no clar understandin’ of it, any way. The fust
thing I knew, I heerd a hollerin’ in the street, and I caught a sight
of that boy of Roux’s tearin’ like mad from house to house, bawlin’
somethin’ or other, and the folks comin’ out and runnin’ in all sorts
of ways, shoutin’, till the street filled with ’em. I stood a minute,
and then I run down to Tug. ‘Hullo, you young devil,’ says I, ‘what’s to
pay.’ ‘There’s a kidnapper luggin’ off father,’ he bawls, and off he goes
like a shot, hollerin’ that into the houses, and dodgin’ about like a
Ingy rubber ball. I sung out, ‘come on, men,’ and I put for Roux’s, knife
in hand, lickedy split. That’s all I know.”
“Well, I hardly know more myself,” replied Harrington. “Miss Eastman, and
I were going up to see Roux. We met the boy, who ran up the steps before
us, and as we were ascending, he came flying back screaming that there
was a kidnapper in there carrying off his father, and vanished past us. I
didn’t know what to make of it, but I rushed up and in, and sure enough
there was this person, whom I had seen last night at the Convention,
grasping Roux’s arm, and leading him to the door. I flew at him, and
dashed him to the wall. Then came the noise in the street, and the people
poured into the house.”
“Who is this man anyway?” said the negro.
“He is named Lafitte, and he was formerly Roux’s master,” replied
Harrington.
The negro threw back his head, and laughed, showing his splendid teeth
and pink gums.
“Well, if this don’t beat all!” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean to tell me
that he thought he could carry off Roux alone right out of the midst of
us? Why, the man’s crazy!”
“Well, it looks insane enough,” said Harrington, “and what put such a
foolhardy idea into his head, I can’t imagine. And yet, Brown, reckless
and crazy as this attempt seems, do you know that I think it would have
been successful? You should have seen Roux. The man was perfectly
helpless with fright. He looked fascinated, like a bird in the jaws of a
snake. I verily believe that he would have walked without the slightest
resistance to the carriage, and have been taken back into slavery without
our ever knowing what had become of him.”
“I swear,” cried Brown, “I didn’t think Bill Roux was such a coward.”
“Coward? I don’t think he is,” returned Harrington. “Just think of the
awful and unexpected shock it must have been to suddenly find this man in
the room with him!”
Lafitte, at this moment, showed signs of returning consciousness, and
the conversation ceased. The carriage, having arrived at Mount Vernon
street, was now going at a more moderate pace, the crowd having, in the
various turns it had made, lost the track of it. If it had been going on
a straight road, those negroes would have followed it till they dropped
down.
Shuddering, as he returned to life, the ghastly Southerner, so unlike the
smiling and sardonic gentleman of an hour before, looked around him, and
his glance falling upon Brown, he cowered.
“You are in safety, sir,” said Muriel, gently.
He smiled, or tried to smile, sicklily, and his lips moved in the
endeavor to speak, but no sound came from them.
“Where shall we take you, Mr. Lafitte?” said Harrington, after a pause.
After two or three ineffectual efforts, Lafitte contrived to whisper
that he was stopping at the Tremont House. Harrington gave the order
to the driver, and in a few minutes they arrived at the hotel. By that
time Lafitte had recovered, and Harrington assisted him to button up his
shirt and vest, resume his neckcloth, and get himself into something like
decent trim.
Leaning on Harrington’s arm, he got from the carriage, and stood, weak
and ghastly, on the sidewalk. The flurried driver, pointing to his
horses, which stood reeking, and covered with froth and pasty foam,
remarked that “if them animals ain’t blown, it’s nobody’s fault—that’s
all.” Mr. Lafitte gave him a handful of gold and silver, and appeased,
he retired with profuse thanks.
“And now, look here,” said Brown, fronting the slaveholder. “I don’t want
to say nothin’ ugly to a man in your state, but I’ll give you my advice.
You’ve had a taste of Southac street to-day, and if you ain’t dead, it’s
just because this gentleman begged your life of me. You just leave this
city now as quick as convenient, for if any of our folks fall afoul of
you, you’ll get knifed as sure as you’re born. That’s my advice to you.
Just you follow it, and bear in mind that you can’t carry on here as you
do way down in Louzeana.”
“That is good advice, Mr. Lafitte,” said Harrington, “and Mr. Brown here
means well by you in giving it. After what has passed, you must not
remain in Boston.”
Harrington spoke with ominous earnestness, and Mr. Lafitte was evidently
impressed by him. He stood, looking weak and sick, while these remarks
were made to him, with his eyes cast down.
“I’ll go,” he faltered, “I certainly will. I am indebted to you, Mr.
Harrington, for your protection—much indebted, sir. And to this lady
also.”
“You are far more indebted to Mr. Brown,” said Muriel. “Without his
friendly aid, we could have done nothing for you.”
Mr. Lafitte was silent. Even in his humiliation, his rank and insolent
Southern arrogance would not suffer him to make any acknowledgments to a
negro, though it was a negro who had preserved him.
“Mr. Harrington,” he said after a pause, “I drew my knife on you to-day,
and you made a generous return for the injury I tried to do you. Indeed,
sir, I am aware that you saved my life.”
Harrington’s blue eyes flashed fire, and his nostrils lifted.
“Listen to me, sir,” he said, with stern solemnity. “The life you live is
not human. Nothing is human that forgets the kindness man owes to man.
To-day I have helped to save you, for I do not hate you, and I wish you
no harm; but understand that a life like yours has small claims on my
heart, and I call it love and mercy to kill you when you attack the weak
and poor. Go now from this city, and never come here again to lay your
hand on one man in it. I do not seek your life; I would guard it if I
could; but while I am tender of you personally, I bid you remember that
the issues between tyrants and freemen are the broad issues of life and
death. Once I have saved you—twice I will not. Go in peace—but come here
again on such an errand, and I will slay you with my own hand, for, by
the Eternal God, never while I live, shall you nor any one make Boston a
hunting-ground for men!”
Lafitte, with his ghastly visage bowed, shook like a leaf while
Harrington, with a white face and flaming eyes, and with stem
determination in every tone, uttered an admonition which rose to the
dignity of the great issue between Liberty and Slavery.
“I regret to say this to you in your present condition,” said the young
man, after a pause, “but it is necessary that you should hear it, and
understand it well. Now I will help you in.”
Leaving Muriel on the sidewalk for a minute, he gravely assisted Lafitte
up the steps of the hotel, and left him.
“Now, dear fellow-soldier,” he said, returning, “we must go back and
carry off Roux.”
“Decidedly, yes,” replied Muriel, taking his arm, “for when the wolf gets
well, he may have a hankering for the lamb. Come with us, Mr. Brown.”
They took another carriage which was standing there, and drove back to
Southac street.
It may be said here, that Harrington had left Antony, soundly sleeping,
in the care of Captain Fisher, who sat with the door bolted, and the
pistol by him, keeping watch and ward, while the young man fulfilled his
appointment with Muriel. Arriving an hour earlier than that assigned,
Harrington had astonished her and her mother with the wild tale of his
nocturnal adventure. That the brother of Roux should have arrived in
Boston at this juncture, and that the young man, of all persons on earth,
should have come upon him, were coincidences almost too marvellous for
conception, and the two ladies dwelt upon them with speechless wonder.
Not less marvellous to Harrington and Muriel, was their fortunate arrival
at Roux’s house in the critical moment of his dreadful peril. Three
minutes later, and the negro would have been a lost man.
Reaching Southac street again, they found Roux weak and haggard with the
terrible shock he had received. He was sitting in a chair near the stove
as they entered. Tugmutton was frying potatoes in a spider, accompanying
his operations with sage reflections on the recent incident, mingled with
lofty reproofs to Roux for not having “squashed in,” as he phrased it,
the head of the slaveholder, together with pompous comments on his own
promptness and courage in having first roused the neighborhood, and then
assaulted the kidnapper. On this last feat, the fat squab dwelt proudly,
as the crown of the whole transaction, and Roux meekly listening, with
great admiration, looked upon Tugmutton as more than ever a superior
being.
Tugmutton, a little apprehensive lest Harrington should not take the
same view of the crowning feat, fried the potatoes in discreet silence,
while he and Muriel questioned Roux. It appeared that Roux’s wife and the
children had been invited to remain a week in Cambridge, at the house of
the brother-in-law, who was a well-to-do colored man, Roux himself having
come into town, with Tugmutton, to attend to his business. It was at once
decided that Roux should take up his abode for the present at Temple
street, and that Harrington should write to his family, stating where he
was, and the reason for this step. Tugmutton, who was to keep his father
company, was to be dispatched with the letter.
This settled, the fire was slaked, and locking the door behind them,
they all descended to the carriage. Tugmutton, having objected to so
speedy a departure, on the ground that the fried potatoes would be
sacrificed, which he regarded as a serious breach of the domestic economy
of the establishment, had been prevailed upon to compromise the matter
by bestowing those edibles, together with the remnant of the meat and
whatever bread there was in the house, on big Ophelia and her elvish
husband in the room opposite. “You know, Charles,” Muriel had gaily
observed to him, “that these are the days of the Compromise Measures, and
you must be in fashion.” Touched by this appeal to his statesmanship, the
fat Puck had made the donation with the air of one giving away a million
of money, and the donation having been graciously received, he had, by
way of prudence, loftily added a bouncing fib, to the effect that he and
Roux were going out to stay some time at his uncle’s country-seat in
Cambridge.
Two or three policemen had arrived in Southac street, just after the exit
of the Southerner. They had prudently abstained from interfering with
the excited crowd; but the crowd had dispersed, and few of their number
remained in the street as the carriage came for Roux and drove away again.
Arrived at Temple street, Roux was installed in an upper chamber; books
and pictures were left him to while away his days of imprisonment, and
Harrington and Muriel withdrew to the library, to consult with Mrs.
Eastman as to what was to be done with Antony.
It was finally decided that the news of his brother’s arrival should be
broken to Roux the next morning, and then, that Antony, too, should be
conveyed to the house and shut up with Roux. It was also resolved that
all of them should take up their future abiding place in Worcester, as
soon as it should be judged safe to remove them; for, with such a man as
Lafitte alive, they could no more go at large in safety in Boston, at
that period, than Italian patriots could in Naples, among the sbirri of
Bomba.
The council over, Mrs. Eastman retired to send up some dinner to Roux,
and Harrington, meanwhile, dashed off the letter for Tugmutton to carry
to Cambridge.
“Good!” said Muriel, reading what he had written. Harrington rose.
“I must leave you,” said he, taking up his hat.
“Oh, but stay and dine with us,” she pleaded.
“Indeed, I can’t,” he replied. “I must go and relieve the Captain, who is
watching over Antony, and wondering what has become of me.”
“True,” she answered. “And I must go make my toilette, for I am in a
state. But, John, when shall I see you again? You know we have this
matter of Emily and Wentworth to look into.”
“I declare I forgot it. This business quite drove it from my mind,”
exclaimed Harrington, quickly. “What have you heard?”
“Not a word,” she answered. “Emily appeared at breakfast with the story
of a sleepless night in her poor lack-lustre eyes. I said nothing, for
I had no chance, and since then she has kept herself locked up in her
chamber. There is something passing strange in this. Have you seen
Wentworth?”
“No, Muriel. It is the first day I have not seen him for I know not how
long. I should have gone in search of him to get at the bottom of this
matter, but for my strange adventure last night. And Emily—I declare I
must see Emily, for I have something to say to her.”
“About this, John?”
“No.” Harrington colored. “About something else.”
Muriel smiled faintly, thinking this the desire of a lover’s heart.
“Well, John,” she said, “let me tell her you are here.”
Harrington hesitated, thinking whether he ought to keep the Captain
on duty longer. On the other hand, he felt the need of an immediate
understanding with Emily. With this mingled a sense of how painful and
embarrassing an interview it would be. Would this time be well chosen for
it, when Emily was already in sorrow? No. He concluded that he must wait.
Muriel, while he deliberated, had moved slowly to the door, awaiting his
decision, and seeing that he seemed unable to make up his mind, resolved
to decide for him.
“I’ll call her,” she said, vanishing from the room, just as Harrington
had made his conclusion.
Harrington sprang forward to stop her, stumbled over a stool, and nearly
fell, and when he reached the entry Muriel was not to be seen.
“Good!” he muttered, with some chagrin. “It seems the Fates have decided
that the explanation is to ensue now.”
He threw down his hat, and tried to think what he should say. As usual in
such cases he could think of nothing.
“A pretty plight I’m in to see anybody,” he muttered, glancing at his
dust-covered garments, and conscious that a bath would improve him.
Suddenly, long before he had expected her, the door opened, and Emily,
pale as marble, with her eyes swollen with weeping, came into the library
with a movement so unlike in its rapidity, her usual sumptuous and slow
stateliness, that Harrington was startled. She came straight up to him
with outstretched hands, her lips parted, the tears flowing from her
eyes, and so agonized and desperate a look on her face, that it shocked
him.
“John,” she gasped, seizing his hands convulsively, “hear me! Muriel told
me you wanted to see me, but it is I that want to see you—to talk with
you—to ask your compassion and forgiveness.”
“Emily!—what!—forgiveness!—my forgiveness!”—
She broke in upon his stammered words, wildly, almost fiercely.
“Hush? do not speak! Let me speak,” she cried. “Let me atone for my
baseness to you by my self-degradation—my confession—my repentance”—
“Emily—Emily—silence!” cried Harrington, shocked beyond expression! “I
cannot hear you speak of yourself so. Baseness? In you? Never! All the
world would not make me believe it—you yourself”—
“John! hear me! hear me!” she wailed, her face agonized, and the wild
tears streaming—“hear me, I implore you! I have deceived you. I have
beguiled you. I have misled you—I have made you think I love you”—
“No, Emily, you have not. You have won my affection, but it is the
affection of a brother who will be a brother to you forever. You have
made me think you love me, but with the love of a friend and sister. No
more.”
She dropped his hands, and receding a pace, looked at him with a hushed
face, on which the tears lay wet, but ceased to flow. The solemn and fond
avowal sank like dew on the burning passion of her brain. For a full
minute she looked at him.
“Harrington!” she said slowly, in a deep still voice from which the
tremor had gone. “Is it possible! Can this be so! My whole attitude
to you—my court to you—my words, my looks, my actions—all that misled
others—that made them think I loved you—that deceived them utterly.”
“They never deceived me, Emily. I looked upon them only as the tokens of
your friendship, of your sisterly regard. No more.”
She gazed at him in wondering awe. Suddenly a wild light broke upon her
face, and she clasped her hands.
“Oh, man without vanity!” she passionately cried, “simple, honorable
heart—nature unspotted by the world, and knowing nothing base—how am I
worthy to live in your presence! The arts that would have flattered the
self-love of the moths that flutter round me, were powerless on you, and
untempted, unelated, unsuspecting, you took my treacherous homage as only
the token of the love of a sister and a friend!”
The words trembled away in a rapture of fervor. Ceasing, her head sank
upon her bosom, and her face was wet with a solemn rain of tears. Moved
beyond speech, and sadly understanding all, Harrington stood with his
flushed face mute, a sweet thrill melting through his frame, and his eyes
were dim.
“It is over,” she sorrowfully faltered. “The worst is over. There is more
to be said—much more, but I cannot say it now. Not now—not now.”
She stood in deep dejection, her head bowed, her hands clasped and
drooping, and her eyelids almost closed.
“I am very humble,” she slowly murmured, in a voice like the dropping
of tears. “I stand in the Valley of Humiliation, and the Valley of the
Shadow, lies before me. Alone, I enter it—forsaken—alone.”
He heard the words, mournful as the sound of a funeral bell, and he
strove to speak, but could not shape his lips to language that did not
seem to profane the sanctity of her sorrow. Silently he held out his arms
to her.
“O my brother!” She glided near, and laid her head upon his breast, and
her voice was weak and low. “Let me rest here a little. Do not speak to
me. I am very weary. Let me rest here a little while—let me dream of my
childhood—of the old sweet days that are gone—a little while before I go.”
He had put his arms silently and tenderly around her, and she leaned upon
his breast with closed eyes, pale and still. No sound broke the hush. A
sad peace filled the air, and the slow minutes ebbed away.
“Where am I?” she raised her head slightly, then let it sink again upon
his bosom. “I am here—still here. I was gliding away—away. It was very
comforting and sweet. I am better now. I think I must have slept a
little. I feel so refreshed and light. Thank you, my brother, for this
rest and strength. Now I must go. Kiss me, Harrington.”
She turned her pale mouth up to his as she whispered the words. Vaguely
surprised at the strangeness of her request, and deeply touched by its
dreamful and childlike innocence, he bent his head and kissed her. Her
lips were not fevered, but cool and dewy, like the lips of a child.
Wondering at this, he was about to unclasp his arms to release her, when
her eyes closed and her head sank again upon his breast. Holding her so,
with his gaze turned far away to the blue sky beyond the windows of the
room, he heard her breathe gently, and looking at her face, he saw that
a light dew had started out upon it, and that she was asleep. He knew
at once that this strange sleep was magnetic, and that its blessed rain
of healing would fall deep and long on the arid trouble of her brain.
Grateful that so sweet an influence had been shed upon her through him,
he held her for a few moments, and then gently lifting her in his arms,
he laid her on a couch. The sumptuous pride and passion of her womanhood
seemed to have fallen from her, and pale, with her long dark eyelash
sleeping on her cheek, she lay in thrilling and exquisite marble beauty,
slumbering with the restful innocence of childhood.
He was about to ring and ask for Mrs. Eastman; then reflecting that she
might be in the parlor, he chose rather to go down to her on his way out
from the house, but stepping on tiptoe to the door for this purpose,
he saw Muriel clad in a white wrapper, just ascending to her chamber,
and beckoned to her. She came instantly, all lily-fair from her bath,
with her bright hair rippling back from a face serious with inquiry,
and gazed with some astonishment on the reposing form of Emily. Briefly
explaining to her in a whisper the nature of the sleep in which Emily
lay, and advising that she should be covered, and left there to slumber
undisturbed, Harrington softly quitted the room, promising to return as
soon as he could, and tell Muriel more.
“But John,” murmured Muriel, in the corridor, “do give me a little
information about this before you go. You say she fell asleep leaning on
your breast, and that nature was overcome with suffering. What was her
trouble? Surely what Wentworth said to her could not have affected her so
terribly.”
“Muriel,” said Harrington, gently, after a pause, “this is a secret, but
it is one, I think, you ought to know. Briefly, then—Emily imagined that
she had won my heart from me, and was stricken with generous grief to
think that she had no love but a sister’s to give me in return. It was
easy to rectify her painful error, and I have done so.”
Muriel stood gazing at him, as if she had turned to stone.
“Good-bye,” said Harrington, after an awkward pause.
She slowly bent her head in reply, and stood motionless, with her lips
parted in wonder, as he went down-stairs and out at the front door.
“Yes,” he murmured, as he strode off down the street, “and she loves
Wentworth. That is her heartbreak—that is why she paid her desperate and
reckless court to me. Oh, Muriel, I would not have you know it for the
world!”