Miss Carmichael Snubs and Thinks--The Constable and the
Prisoner--Matilda and the Doctor--The Children Botanize--Pressing
Specimens--Nomenclature--The Colonel Makes a Discovery--Miss
Carmichael Does Not Fancy Wilks--Mr. Newberry Takes Matilda--Mr.
Pawkins Makes Mischief and is Punished--Rounds on
Sylvanus--Preparations for Inquest
"Mr. Coristine, I never gave you permission to call me by my Christian
name, much less to think that I accepted Marjorie's foolish little
charge. I am sorry if I have led you to believe that I acted so bold, so
shameless a part."
"Oh, Miss Carmichael, forgive me. I'm stupid, as I said, but, as the
Bible has it, I'll try and keep a watch on the door of my lips in
future. And you such an angel of mercy, too! Please, Miss Carmichael,
pardon a blundering Irishman."
"Nonsense," she answered. "I have nothing to pardon; only, I did not
want you to misunderstand me." The gloves were on, and she shook hands
with him, and laughed a comical little insincere laugh in his face, and
ran away to her own room to have a foolish little cry. She heard her
friend Cecile reading poetry to the wounded Wilkinson, and, looking out
of her window, saw Mr. Perrowne helping her uncle to lift the doctor's
chair out into the garden, and her mother, freed from conversation with
the madwoman, plucking a flower for Mr. Errol's coat. There, too, was a
young man, his hands encased in black kid gloves, sitting down on a
bench with Mr. Terry, and with difficulty filling a meerschaum pipe. She
thought he had a quiet, disappointed look, like a man's whose warm,
generous impulses have been checked, and she felt guilty. It was true
they had not known one another long, but what was she, a teacher in a
common school, that was what people called them, to put on airs before
such a man as that? If it had been Mr. Wilkinson, now; but, no; she was
afraid of Mr. Wilkinson, the distant, the irreproachable, the autocratic
great Mogul. She looked down again, through the blinds of course.
Marjorie Thomas was on the lawyer's knee, and Marjorie Carruthers on the
veteran's. The Captain's daughter was combing Coristine's brown hair
with her fingers, and pointing the ends of his moustache, much to the
other Marjorie's amusement and the lawyer's evident satisfaction. Miss
Carmichael inwardly called her cousin a saucy little minx, resenting her
familiarities with a man who was, of course, nothing to her, in a way
that startled herself. Why had he not saved somebody's life and been
wounded, instead of that poetic fossil of a Wilkinson? But, no; it was
better not, for, had he saved the colonel's life, Cecile would have been
with him, and that she could not bear to think of. Then, she remembered
what Corry had told her of the advertisement to the next of kin. Perhaps
she would be wealthy yet, and more than his equal socially, and then she
could condescend, as a great lady, and put a treasure in those poor
gloved hands. Where would they all have been without these hands, all
scarred and blistered to save them from death? Everybody was very unkind
to little Marjorie's Eugene, and failed to recognize his claims upon
their gratitude. Oh, that saucy little minx, with her grand assumptions
of proprietorship, as if she owned him, forsooth!
Mr. Bangs called the justices to business. There was a prisoner to
examine, and two charred masses of humanity for the coroner to sit upon.
So a messenger was sent off to summon the long-suffering Johnson,
Newberry, and Pawkins, for the coroner's inquest, and the doctor was
carried back into the office for the examination of the prisoner, Mark
Davis. The two Squires sat in appropriate chairs behind an official
table, at one side of which Mr. Bangs took his seat as clerk. Constable
Rigby produced his prisoner, loaded with fetters. "Has this man had his
breakfast, Rigby?" asked the Squire. "Certainly not, Squire," replied
the constable. "Then take him at once to the kitchen, take off these
chains and handcuffs, and let him have all that he can eat," replied the
J.P., sternly. The corporal's sense of rectitude was offended. The idea
of feeding criminals and releasing them from irons! The next thing would
be to present them with a medal and a clasp for each new offence against
society. But, orders were orders, and, however iniquitous, had to be
obeyed; so Davis was allowed to stretch his limbs, and partake of a
bountiful, if somewhat late, morning meal. "To trespass upon your
kindness, Miss Hill, with such as this," said the apologetic constable,
pointing to his prisoner, "is no act of mine; Squire Carruthers, who, no
doubt, thinks he knows best, has given orders that it has to be, and my
duty is to carry out his orders to the letter." Breakfast seemed to
infuse courage into the dissipated farmer. When it was over, he arose,
and, without a note of warning, doubled up the stiff guardian of the
peace, and made for the door, where he fell into the arms of the
incoming Serlizer. She evidently thought that Mark Davis, smitten with
her charms, was about to salute her, for, with the words "Scuse me!" and
a double turn of her powerful wrists, she deposited the assailant upon
the floor. Sadly, but officially, the constable crawled over and sat
upon the prostrate form of the would-be fugitive from justice. The
prisoner squirmed, and even struck the doubled-up corporal, but the
entrance of Ben Toner put an end to that nonsense, so that, handcuffed
and chained once more, the desperate villain was hauled into the
presence of the magistrates. In dignified, but subordinate, language,
Mr. Rigby related the prisoner's escapade, and, by implication, more
than by actual statement, gave the J.P.s to understand that they knew
nothing about the management of offenders against the law. They were,
therefore, compelled to allow the handcuffs to remain, but summoned
sufficient courage to insist on the removal of the stable chains.
"What is your name, prisoner?" asked Squire Carruthers.
"Samuel Wilson," answered the man.
"Oh! kem now," interposed Mr. Bangs, "thet's a lie, you know; yore name
is Merk Devis, end yore a brether of Metthew Devis of the Peskiwenchow
tevern, end you were Rawdon's right hend men. We know you, my led, so
down't you try any alias games on us."
"Ef you know my name so mighty well, what do you want askin' for't?"
"To see if you can speak the truth," replied Carruthers.
"What other prisoners hev you got asides me?"
"That is none of your business," said the Squire.
"If I might be ellowed to seggest, Squire," whispered the detective, "I
think I'd tell him. Whet do you sey?"
"Go on, Mr. Bangs."
"Well, my fine fellow, the Squire ellows me to sey thet the ethers are
Newcome, the stowne ketters, and the women."
The name of Newcome disconcerted Mark, but he asked, "Whar's Rawdon and
old Flower?"
"Didn't you see?" asked Mr. Bangs.
"I seen the fire all right, but they wasn't such blame fools as to stay
there when there was a way out up atop."
"The epper wey wes clowsed," said the detective.
"Was they burned alive then?"
"Yes, they were berned to eshes."
"O Lord!" ejaculated the prisoner, and then, wildly: "What do you want
along of me anyway?"
The magistrates and Mr. Bangs consulted, after which the doctor
answered: "We want information from you on three points: first, as to
the attempt of Rawdon's gang to burn this house; second, as to the
murder of Detective Nash; and, third, as to the whole secret of Rawdon's
business at the Select Encampment. You are not bound to incriminate
yourself, as every word of this preliminary examination may be used
against you, but, on the other hand, if you make a clean breast of what
you know on these questions, your confession will go a long way in your
favour with judge and jury."
"Suppose'n I don't confess not a syllabub?"
"Then, we shall commit you, all the same, to the County Gaol, to stand
your trial at the assizes."
"That's all right, I'll stand my durned trile. You don't get nawthin
out'n me, you misable, interferin', ornary, bushwhackin' jedges!"
"Don't strike him, Rigby!" commanded Carruthers; for the constable,
shocked and outraged by such indecorous language in a court of justice,
was about to club his man. Then he added: "The colonel's servant,
Maguffin, is going to town on business, and will drive you so far, and
help to guard your prisoner. You can tie him up as tight as you like,
without being cruel or doing him an injury. We shall have to do without
you at the inquest."
Accordingly, while Mr. Maguffin brought round a suitable vehicle, and
received his commissions from the colonel, the commitment papers were
made out, and Constable Rigby securely fastened the worst criminal that
had ever come into his hands. The said criminal did a little hard
swearing, which called the long unused baton into active service. Davis
was quiet and sullen when the buggy, under the pensioner's command,
wheeled away in search of connections for the County Gaol.
The two bodies were still lying in their shells, with ice about them, in
the unfinished annex of the post office. It was, therefore, decided to
hold the new inquest in the Bridesdale coach house, as also more
convenient for the doctor, whose sprain might have been aggravated by
driving. While Ben Toner was sent with a waggon to the Richards, to
bring the ghastly remains snatched from the flames out of the punt, and
to convey three members of that family to the coroner's jury, Mr. Bangs
explained to Doctor Halbert his and the lawyer's thought regarding
Matilda Nagle. The doctor consented, and the detective went to find the
patient, who was busy and cheerful in the sewing room with Mrs.
Carruthers. He told her that she was not looking well, and had better
come with him to see the doctor; but, with all the cunning of insanity,
she refused to go. He had to go after Coristine in the garden, and take
him away from Marjorie. With the lawyer she went at once, identifying
him, as she did not the detective, with her brother Stevy. Mechanically,
she sat down by the kind doctor's chair, and seemed to recognize him,
although he did not remember her. After a few enquiries as to her
health, he took one of her hands in his, and, with the other, made
passes over her face, until she fell into the mesmeric sleep. "Your
husband, Mr. Rawdon, is dead," he said; "you remember that he died by
his own hand, and left you free." The woman gave a start, and seemed to
listen more intently. "You will kill nobody, hurt nobody, not even a
fly," he continued. "Do you remember?" Another start of comprehension
was made, but nothing more; so he went on: "You will read your Bible
and go to church on Sundays, and take care of your boy, and be just the
same to everybody as you were in the old days." Then, with a few counter
passes, he released her hand, and the poor woman told him all that he
had enjoined upon her, as if they were the resolutions of her own will.
She was not sane, but she was free from the vile slavery in which her
inhuman keeper had held her. Moreover, she understood perfectly that
Rawdon was dead, yet without manifesting either joy or grief in the
knowledge. The lawyer led her back to the workroom, where she confided
her new state of mind to Mrs. Carruthers, greatly to that tender-hearted
lady's delight. The doctor did not think it necessary to practise his
art upon the lad Monty, in whom the power of Rawdon's will was already
broken, and upon whom his changed mother would, doubtless, exert a
salutary influence.
Coristine had nothing to do, and almost dreaded meeting Miss Carmichael,
which he probably would do if he remained about the house and grounds.
Therefore he got out the improvised vasculum, and invited Marjorie and
the older Carruthers children to come with him down to the brook to look
for wild flowers. This met with the full approval of the young people,
and they prepared at once for the botanizing party. The Captain saw
Marjorie putting on her broad-brimmed straw hat, and enquired where she
was going. She answered that she was going buttonizing with Eugene, and
he said that he guessed he would button too, whatever that was. A very
merry little group frisked about the steps of the two seniors, one of
whom was explaining to the older, nautical party that he was on the hunt
for wild flowers.
"Is it yarbs you're after?" asked the Captain.
"Well, not exactly, although I want to get a specimen of every kind of
plant."
"You don't want to make medicine of 'em, Mandrake, Snakeroot, Wild
Sassyperilly, Ginsing, Bearberry, Gentian, Cohosh and all that sort o'
stuff, eh?"
"No; I want to find out their names, dry and mount them, and classify
them according to their kinds."
"What good are they agoin' to do you?"
"They will help me to know Nature better and to admire God's works and
His plan."
"Keep on there, mate, fair sailin' and a good wind to you. No pay in
it, though?"
"Not a cent in money, but lots of pleasure and health."
"Like collectin' post stamps and old pennies, and butterflies, and
bugs."
"Something, but you see scenery and get healthy exercise, which you
don't in stamp and coin collecting, and you inflict no suffering, as you
do in entomologizing."
"I can tell trees when they're a growin' and timber when its cut, but I
don't know the name of one flower from another, except it's garden ones
and common at that. Hullo, little puss, what have you got there?"
Marjorie, who had run on in advance and was not by any means ignorant of
the flora of the neighbourhood, had secured three specimens, a late
Valerian, an early spotted Touch-me-not, and a little bunch of
Blue-eyed-grass. Coristine took them from her with thanks, told her
their names and stowed them away in his candle box. The zeal to discover
and add to the collection grew upon all the party, the Captain included.
Near the water, where the Valerian and the Touch-me-not grew, Marjorie
Carruthers found the Snake-head, with its large white flowers on a
spike. Another little Carruthers brought to the botanist the purple
Monkey flower, but the Captain excelled his youthful nephew by adding to
the collection the rarer and smaller yellow one. Then the lawyer himself
discovered another yellow flower, the Gratiola or Hedge Hyssop, at the
moment when Marjorie rejoiced in the modest little Speedwell. Once more,
the Captain distinguished himself by finding in the grass the yellow
Wood-Sorrel, with its Shamrock leaves, which, when Marjorie saw, she
seemed to recognize in part. Then, crossing the stepping stones of the
brook, she ran, far up the hill on the other side, to a patch of shady
bush, from which she soon returned victorious, with a bunch of the
larger Wood-Sorrel in her hand, to exhibit the identity of its leaves,
and its delicate white blossoms with their pinky-purple veins. By the
time the other juveniles brought in the blue Vervain, pink Fireweed and
tall yellow Mullein, the botanist thought it about time to go home and
press his specimens.
Miss Carmichael met the scientists at the door, looking, of course, for
the children and Uncle Thomas, who was never called by his Christian
name, Ezekiel. Learning the nature of the work in hand, she volunteered
the use of the breakfast-room table. The lawyer brought down his strap
press, and, carefully placing oiled paper between the dried specimens
and the semi-porous sheets that were to receive the new ones, proceeded
to lay them out. The new specimens had all to be examined by the
addition to the botanical party, their botanical and vulgar names to be
recited to her, and, then, the arranging began. This was too monotonous
work for the Captain, who carried the children off for a romp on the
verandah. Marjorie stayed for a minute or so after they were gone, and
then remembered that she had not given papa his morning button-hole.
Coristine was clumsy with the flowers, owing to the gloves he said, so
Miss Carmichael had to spread them out on the paper under his direction,
and hold them in their place, while he carefully and gradually pressed
another sheet over them. Of course his fingers could not help coming
into contact with hers. "Confound those gloves!" he thought aloud.
"Mr. Coristine, if you are going to use such language, and to speak so
ungratefully of Mr. Errol's gloves, which I put on your hands, I shall
have to leave you to put up your specimens the best way you can."
"O Miss Carmichael, now, please let me off this once, and I'll never do
it again. You know it's so hard working in gloves. Understand me as
saying that botanically, in a Pickwickian sense as it were, and not
really at all."
"You must not say that, either botanically or any other way."
"To hear the faintest whisper of your slightest command is to obey."
It was delicate work arranging these little Speedwells, and Gratiolas,
the Wood-Sorrels, and the smaller Monkey-flower. Hands had to follow
very close on one another, and heads to be bent to examine, and
sometimes there was just a little brush of brown and golden hair that,
strange to say, sent responsive tingles along the nerves, and warm
flushes to cheek and brow. What a hopeless idiot he was not to have
foreseen the possibility of this, and to have brought home twice the
number of specimens! Alas! they were all in the press. But, a happy
thought struck him: would Miss Carmichael care to look at the dried
ones, some of which had kept their colour very well? Yes, she had a few
minutes to spare. So, he brought chairs up to the table, and they sat
down, side by side, and he told her all about the flowers and how he got
them, and the poetry Wilks and he quoted over them. Then the specimens
had to be critically examined, so as to let Miss Carmichael learn the
distinctive characteristics of the various orders, and this brought the
heads close together again, when suddenly their owners were started by
the unexpected clang of the dinner gong. "Thank you so much, Mr.
Coristine," said the lady, frankly; "you have given me a very pleasant
half hour." The lawyer bowed his acknowledgment, but said, beneath his
moustache: "Half an hour is it? I thought it was a lifetime rolled up in
two minutes, no, one."
What did those deceitful men, Errol and Perrowne, mean, by saying they
had to go away to get up their Wednesday evening talk, and to visit
their parishioners? There they were, in their old places at the table,
Mr. Errol at Mrs. Carmichael's right, and apparently on the best of
terms with her, and Mr. Perrowne dancing attendance upon Miss Halbert
and her invalid father. Mrs. Du Plessis thought she would take up Mr.
Wilkinson's dinner with the colonel's help, as Cecile had been reading
to him so long. Accordingly, the Captain talked to that young lady,
while Mr. Bangs monopolized Mrs. Carruthers. There was a little
commotion, when Mr. Bigglethorpe walked in, and received the sympathetic
expressions of the company over his singed face and scorched hands. In
spite of these, the sufferer had been up early fishing, just after the
rain. Fortunately, he continued, there was no cleared land about the
lakes, hence there were very few grasshoppers washed in by the heavy
downpour. Had there been, he wouldn't have got a fish. But he had got
fish, a big string of them, in splendid condition. He had left some with
his kind entertainers, the Richards, but had plenty remaining, which he
had left in the kitchen in care of the young woman with the
unpronounceable Scripture name. "Now," said the fisherman, "a nime is a
very important thing to a man or a woman. Why do people give their
children such awful names? Bigglethorpe is Dinish, they say, but Felix
Isidore is as Latin as can be. They called me 'fib' at school."
"'Tis the hoighth av impartance to have a good name, say Oi," added Mr.
Terry. "Moy fayther, glory be to his sowl, put a shaint's name an me,
an' I put her own mother's name, the Howly Vargin rist her, on Honoria
here. 'An', savin' all yer prisinces, there's no foiner Scripcher name
than John; how's that, Squoire?"
"It suits me well enough, grandfather," replied Carruthers. The Captain
was feeling uneasy. He didn't want Ezekiel to come out, so he asked Miss
Du Plessis how her young man was. Such a question would have either
roused Miss Carmichael to indignation or have overwhelmed her with
confusion, but Miss Du Plessis, calm and unruffled, replied: "I suppose
you mean Mr. Wilkinson, Captain Thomas. He has been very much shaken by
his wound, but is doing remarkably well."
"Fwhat's Mishter Wilkison's name, Miss Ceshile, iv it's a fair quishtyon
to ax at yeez?"
"It is Farquhar, is it not, Mr. Coristine?"
Mr. Coristine said it was, and that it was his mother's maiden name. She
was a Scotchwoman, he had heard, and a very lovely character. The
colonel had just returned from his ministrations. "Did I heah you
cohhectly, Mr. Cohistine, when I thought you said that ouah deah young
wounded friend's mothah's name was Fahquhah, suh?"
"You did, Colonel Morton."
"And of Scottish pahentage?"
"Yes."
"Do you know if any of her relatives were engaged in the Civil Wahah,
our civil wahah?"
"I believe her brother Roderic ran the blockade, and fought for the
South, where he fell, in a cavalry regiment."
"Be pleased, suh, to say that again. Rodehic Fahquhah, do you say?"
"His full name, I have seen it among Wilkinson's papers, was Roderic
Macdonald Farquhar."
"Tehesa, my deah," said the colonel, his voice and manner full of
emotion, as he turned towards his sister-in-law, "you have heard me
mention my bosom friend, Captain Fahquhah?"
"Yes, indeed, many times," replied the lady addressed.
"And ouah deah boy upstairs, the pehsehveh of my pooah life, is his
nephew, his sistah's son. I was suah there was something drawing me to
him. I shall make that brave boy my heih, my pooah deah comhade
Fahquhah's nephew. What a fohtunate discovehy. Kindly excuse me, madam,
and you my deah ladies, and you Squiah; I must go and tell my deah boy."
So the colonel bowed to Mrs. Carruthers, and went out, with his
handkerchief up to his face.
After the colonel left the table, the Captain looked over at his niece,
saying: "Too late, Marjorie, my lass, too late! Didn't play your cards
right, so you're cut out. Shifted his sheet anchor to the t'other bow,
Marjorie."
Miss Carmichael was annoyed with good reason, and, in order to put a
stop to such uncalled for and vulgar remarks, said, playfully, but with
a spice of malice: "Take care, Uncle Thomas, or, as that funny
theological student said to the people who were talking in church, 'I'll
call out your name before the haill congregation.'" This terrible threat
caused Ezekiel to subside, and carry on a less personal conversation
with Miss Du Plessis. Then Mr. Terry came to the fore again.
"My little grandchilders' coushin, Mishter Coristine, do be sayin' yer
name is Eujane, an' that's Frinch, isn't it?"
"Yes," replied the lawyer; "my mother was of Huguenot descent, and her
name was Du Moulin. Some say that the Irish Mullens were once Du
Moulins. That I don't know, but I'm not like the man-servant who applied
for a situation, saying: 'Me name is Murphy, sorr, but me family came
from France.' Coristine, I think, is good Irish."
The name craze spread over the whole table. Miss Halbert thought Basil a
lovely name. It was Greek, wasn't it, and meant a king? Mr. Perrowne
thought that the sweetest name in the world was Frances or Fanny. Mr.
Errol affected Marjorie, and Mrs. Carmichael knew nothing superior to
Hugh.
"What made you so savage with the Captain for coupling your name with
Wilks?" asked the lawyer in an undertone.
"Because he is the last man in the world I should want my name to be
coupled with."
"Oh, but that's hard on Wilks; he's a glorious fellow when you get to
know his little ways."
"I don't want to know Mr. Wilkinson's little ways. I am sorry for his
wound, but otherwise I have not the remotest sympathy with him. He
strikes me as a selfish, conceited man."
"Not a kinder soul breathing, Miss Carmichael."
"Yes, there is."
"Who, then?"
"Yourself."
"Miss Carmichael, you make me the proudest man in the world, but I'm not
fit to black Wilks' boots."
"Well, I will not be so rude as to say I think you are. But, never talk
that way to me again, if you want me to like you. I will not have you
demeaning yourself, even in speech, before Cecile's friend. Now,
remember, not a word!"
The test was a severe one between loyalty to his old friend and devoted
obedience to the girl he loved. As all the memories of past friendship
came before him, he was inclined to be obdurate. Then, he looked at the
golden hair which had brushed his awhile ago, and, as the head
straightened up, at the pretty petulant lips and the blue eyes, lustrous
with just a moist suspicion of vexation and feeling, and he wavered. He
was lost, and was glad to be lost, as he whispered: "May I say it?"
"Yes; speak out, like a man, what you have to say."
"It's a bargain, Marjorie; never again!"
Somehow his right hand met her left, and she did not snatch it away too
quickly. Then he said: "You won't hate poor Wilks, my old friend,
Marjorie?"
She answered "No," and turned her face away to ask some trivial question
of the Squire, who knew a good deal more than he saw any necessity for
telling.
The kitchen party still kept up its numbers. True, the absence of the
constable and Maguffin left two serious blanks in the diversified talk
of the table, but the place of these gentlemen was taken by no fewer
than six persons, the three Richards and the three jurors, so that the
dinner party numbered fifteen, of whom four were women. Old whitehaired
Mr. Newberry, with the large rosy face, smooth, save for two little
white patches of side-whiskers, took possession of Matilda Nagle, and
rejoiced in her kindly ways and simple talk. He was a Methodist, and a
class-leader and local preacher, but a man against whom no tongue of
scandal wagged, and whose genuine piety and kindness of heart were so
manifest that nobody dreamt of holding up to ridicule his oft homely
utterances in the pulpit. If he could do good to the poor demented woman
and her afflicted boy, he would, and he knew that his little
quaker-bonneted wife would second him in such an effort. So he tried to
gain her confidence and the boy's, and, after a while, found that
Matilda would like to help Mrs. Newberry in her household duties, and
have Monty learn useful work on the farm. When informed by the fatherly
juror, in answer to her own questions, that she would not be expected to
hurt a fly, and would be allowed to go to church, read her Bible and
take care of her boy, she expressed her readiness to go away with him at
once. Mr. Newberry felt a few qualms of conscience in connection with
fly killing, but, having made an express stipulation that mosquitos and
black flies should not be included in the bond, he became easier in
mind, and said that, with Mrs. Carruthers and the Squire's permission,
he would drive her home in the afternoon. Mr. Johnson and the elder
Richards discussed local politics, and the tragedy calling for the
inquest; but Mr. Pawkins attached himself to the boys, and consequently
to the girls. This gentleman had brought his six feet of bone and
muscle, topped with a humorous face, from which depended a Lincoln
beard, from the States, and was now, for many years, as he said, "a
nettrelized citizen of Kennidy." This disappointment at the absence of
the constable was something pitiful, he did so want "to yank and rile
the old Britisher." Still, that was not going to deprive him of his
innocent amusement. He looked around the company and sized it up,
deciding that he would leave the old folks alone, and mercifully add to
them the crazy people; this still left him a constituency of nine, with
large possibilities for fun.
"Rufus," remarked Mr. Pawkins, "I seen your gal, Christy Hislop, along
o' that spry sot up coon, Barney Sullivan, daown at the mill. He's a
cuttin' you aout for sutten, yes sirree, you see if he ain't."
"What's the use of your nonsense, Mr Pawkins? Barney went home along o'
fayther and old man Hislop, and I guess he turned in to say we was all
right."
"If Andrew knowed you'd called him old man Hislop, he'd fire you aout o'
the back door mighty suddent. When I see a spry, set up, young feller
and a likely heifer of a gal a saunterin' through the bush, sort o'
poetical like, daown to the mill, it don't take me two shakes to know
that suthin's up. You're a poor, rejected, cast off, cut aout strip o'
factory cotton."
"What do you mean, Mr. Pawkins?"
"I mean overalls, and it's all over with you, Rufus." Having planted
this well-meant thorn in the breast of the younger Hill, and excited the
commiseration of his sisters, the lover of innocent amusement turned to
Ben, and asked that gentleman, whose attentions to Serlizer were most
open and above board, "sence when he got another gal?"
Mr. Toner turned angrily, and asked what Mr. Pawkins was "a givin' him."
"I never see Bridget naow but she's a cryin' and rubbin' her eyes most
aout with her cuffs," said the cheerful Pawkins; "she allaowed to me
you'd the nighest thing to said the priest was ony waitin' for the word
to splice; and here you air, you biggermus delooder, settin' along o'
Newcome's gal as if you'd got a mortgage on her. Arter that, the sight
ain't to be sawed that'll make me ashamed o' my feller-creeters, no
sirree, boss, hull team to boot, and a big dog under the waggin!" Mr.
Pawkins sniffed vehemently, and Ben and his affianced bride blushed and
drew apart.
"Is that so, Ben?" asked Sarah Eliza in a half whisper.
"S'haylp me, Serlizer," replied the injured Toner in a similar voice,
"that there Pawkins is the cussidest, lyinest old puke of a
trouble-makin' Yankee as aiver come to Cannidy."
"Are you engaged to Biddy Sullivan, Ben?"
"No, I tell you, naiver said a word to Barney's sister I wouldn't say to
any gal."
"Then, what did Barney come here lookin' for you for?"
"So did the tavern keeper and the store keeper, 'cause mother axed 'em,
I suppose; you don't think they want me to marry their wives, do you?"
"Wives an' darters is different things, Ben. Ef I'd thought you had been
havin' goins on with Biddy, I'd flog the pair of you."
"S'haylp me, Serlizer, it ain't so. Ef it was, you could whayull me till
I was stripy as a chipmunk."
"Talkin' abaout whalins," remarked the mischief-maker, who kept one ear
open, "Miss Newcome's paa is jest a waitin' to git up and git araound,
to give somebody, as ain't fer off'n this table, the blamedest,
kerfoundedest lammin' as ever he knowed. He wants his gal home right
straight for to nuss him, so's he kin git araound smart with that
rawhide that's singein' its ends off in the oven."
"What's dad got agin you, Ben?" enquired Miss Newcome.
"Oh nawthin'; it's only that Pawkins' double-treed, snaffle-bitted,
collar-bladed jaw." Mr. Pawkins smiled, but Ben and Serlizer were more
uncomfortable than Rufus and his sisters.
The naturalized Canadian turned his attention else where. "I'm kinder
amazed," he remarked, eyeing first Sylvanus and then Timotheus, "to see
you two a settin' here, as cam as if you never done nothin' to be sorry
for. I s'pose you know, if you don't you had orter, that there's a
war'nt aout agin the two Pilgrims for stealin' aout o' the Peskiwanchow
tavern, or ho-tel, as Davis calls his haouse. I calclate the constable
'll be back with that war'nt afore night. I'd make myself skeerce if I
was in your shoes."
"O Sylvanus!" ejaculated Tryphosa.
"O Timotheus!" added Tryphosa.
"It's a lie!" cried Rufus; "it's a mill dam, boom jam, coffer-dam lie,
and I won't believe a word of it."
"Fact all the same," said Mr. Pawkins, calmly, "they air guilty, the two
on 'em, of stealin' aout o' the Peskiwanchow ho-tel."
"What did they steal out?" asked the Richards boys.
"Clothes, I guess, boots, some money, books, I don't know all what, and
it don't consarn me any; but them boys had best look spry and git aout
o' this." With these words, the gentleman of American extraction
finished his last piece of pie.
Sylvanus rose cheerfully. He was so radiant over it that Tryphena
thought him really handsome. He whispered to Rufus and to Ben; then
remarked to Timotheus that he had perhaps better remain, in case the
Squire should send for him. Next, he turned to Mr. Pawkins, and said: "A
man mought as well be hung fer a sheep as fer a lamb, Mr. Pawkins, and
sence they's a warn't out to 'raist me and Timotheus, we ain't a goin'
to put the law to no more trouble 'bout a new one. Ef you'll come
outside, I'll show you some o' them things we stoled out'n the
Peskiwanchow tav." So Sylvanus took the accuser of the brethren by one
arm, and Rufus linked his lovingly in the other, while Ben, with a
glance of intelligence at Serlizer, and another at his top boots,
followed. Mr. Pawkins, confident in his smartness and in the ignorance
of the simple-minded Canucks, went quietly with the courteous criminal
and his cut-out friend, till, passing the stables, they led him through
a broad gate into the meadow. Then he hesitated.
"The stoled things, leastways some on 'em, 'll be at the foot o' this
yere slope soon's we will; so hurry, old man!" said Sylvanus. Mr.
Pawkins demurred. "Look here, boys," he said, "a joke's a joke, ain't
it? D'ye see, you did, the pair on you, steal aout of the hotel. I
didn't go to say you took anythin' as didn't belong to you. I reckon
your brother had clothes, and money, and books thar, and so, you and him
took 'em aout. Lem me go, boys!"
Sylvanus and Rufus were obdurate. "Boost him, Ben," cried the former:
"we ain't no time ter spend foolin' with the likes o' him."
Mr. Toner raised his boot and said, "One fer Serlizer!" which made the
joker proceed. He had several other ones, before he was run down to the
creek--for Timotheus and Tryphena, and Tryphosa, and Christie Hislop,
and Barney and Biddy Sullivan, and old man Newcome. Ben's boot did
capital service. With difficulty the executioners found a hole in the
creek about two and a-half feet deep, in which, at full length and with
great gravity, they deposited the exile from the States. Then, they
guessed the Squire, or the Captain, or somebody, would be wanting them,
and skipped lightly back to the house. They knew Mr. Pawkins would
follow, since he was the last man in the settlement to miss his juror's
fee of one dollar. After their return, there was a good deal of
merriment in the kitchen, and the two Richards boys roundly upbraided
the elder Pilgrim for depriving them of a share in the fun. "He baygged
an' prayed for massy," said Mr. Toner, with a grim smile, "but we was
the most onmassifullest craowd you ever see."
Timotheus, still in Sunday garb, took his work-a-day suit, now quite
dry, and went to meet Mr. Pawkins. Introducing him to the stable, he
soon had that gentleman relieved of his wet toggery, when voices were
heard without. It was the colonel, bringing his sister-in-law to see his
horse, as a sort of relief to the strain on his feelings, consequent
upon his interview with Wilkinson. Mr. Pawkins had only got Timotheus'
flannel shirt on, when the stable door opened. "Shin up that ladder into
the loft, Mr. Pawkins," cried the benevolent Pilgrim, and the spectacle
of a pair of disappearing shanks greeted the visitors on their entrance.
Timotheus had escaped into the coach-house, but all the clothes, wet and
dry, save the shirt, lay over the sides of an empty stall. Immediately
the colonel perceived the vanishing heels of the Yankee, he interposed
his person between them and Mrs. Du Plessis. "My deah Tehesa," he said,
hastily, "I think we had bettah retiah foh the pehsent, and visit the
stables lateh in the day." Mrs. Du Plessis, however, once no mean judge
of horseflesh, was scanning the good points of her brother-in-law's
purchase, and seemed indisposed to withdraw. Soon a head and a pair of
flannel shirted arms appeared, hanging over the loft trap, and a voice
hailed the colonel.
"Say, mister, you ain't a goin' to bring no wimmen folks up this here
ladder, be you?"
"Cehtainly not, suh!" answered the colonel, with emphasis.
"If it won't hurt you, I wisht you'd sling up them dry paants and things
daown there."
The colonel looked at the man, and then at the articles, with
impatience. Then he got a pitchfork, on the prongs of which he
collected the garments, one by one, and so handed them up to Mr.
Pawkins, who was still minus necktie, socks and boots. Before, however,
he was ready for these, the visitors had retired, leaving him to
complete his toilet in private. Hearing steps again, he hurriedly picked
up his wet clothes and re-ascended the ladder. The colonel had evidently
asked Sylvanus to take the place of Maguffin about the two horses, for
he was the newcomer. Now, Mr. Pawkins bore no malice, but, when jokes
were going, he did not like to be left the chief victim. He had had some
fun out of the boys; now he would have some more. The Yankee could mew
to perfection. He began, and Sylvanus called the strange cat. It would
not come, so he climbed the ladder after it, and had almost reached the
top, when, with vicious cries, the animal flew at him, seized him by the
back of the neck, and drew blood that he could feel trickling down his
back. Tugging ineffectually at the beast, he ran out to the kitchen,
calling upon everybody to take off that mad cat that was killing him.
The cat was taken off, amid shrieks of laughter, and proved to be Mr.
Pawkins' rolled up wet trousers and vest, the water from which was the
blood imagined by Sylvanus. The owner of the garments entered
immediately behind his victim, and from his banter the elder Pilgrim
gladly escaped to resume his stable duties, feeling that he had been
demeaned in the eyes of the laughing Tryphena.
Timotheus and Ben were busy cleaning out the coach house, putting tables
and seats into it, and generally preparing for the inquest. Mr. Bangs,
at the coroner's request, empanelled the jury, consisting of the Squire,
the captain, and the two clergymen, the three Richards, the three cited
jurors, with old Styles from the post office, and Ben Toner. The charred
masses of humanity, pervaded by a sickening smell of spirits, were taken
from the waggon, and placed in rough board shells, decently covered over
with white cloths. The woman called Flower was brought from the post
office, and kept in custody, till she gave her evidence; and Bangs
himself, with Messrs. Terry, Coristine, and Bigglethorpe, Sylvanus,
Rufus, and Timotheus were cited as witnesses. Some evidence was also
expected from Matilda and her son. When the coach house doors were
thrown open, all hilarity ceased--even the children seemed to realize
that something very solemn was going on. A weight of trouble and danger
was lifted off many hearts by the terrible tragedy, yet in no soul was
there the least feeling of exultation. The fate of the victims was too
awful, too sudden for anyone to feel aught but horror at the thought of
it, and deep sorrow for one at least who had perished in his sins. The
light-hearted lawyer took one look at the remains of him, whom, within
the past few days, he had seen so often in the full enjoyment of life
and health, and resolved that never again, in prose or verse, would he
speak of the person, whose crimes and cunning had returned so avengingly
upon his own head, as the Grinstun man. Mr. Pawkins joked no more, for,
with all his playful untruthfulness, he had a feeling heart. The most
unconcerned man outwardly was Mr. Bangs, and even he said that he would
willingly have given a hundred dollars to see his prisoner safely in
gaol with the chaplain, and afterwards decently hanged. The doctor was
carefully carried out, and set in the presiding chair as coroner over
the third inquest within two days.