and little Casper thinks he's the nicest man he ever saw."
"Oh, yes! If he's good to your relations you don't care how he treats
you. It's a shame, and he ought to be told so, too."
Rena tried to pacify her young friend, but the attempt was not
successful. The latter made her visit a very short one, and when she
reached home her anger and jealousy found expression in very vigorous
terms.
Her brother visited the Reinfelters a short time afterward. His interest
in the Englishman was evidently very strong, but if he shared his
sister's feelings toward him they did not prevent his treating him with
perfect courtesy.
"Helfenstein is right," thought Brent, as the young farmer rode away.
"He's as handsome a fellow as I ever saw. I wonder whether he's Sister
Rena's lover so bold."
But although Melchior Barndollar was far superior to the Reinfelters in
culture and in knowledge of the world, he did not interest Brent as much
as they did. The positiveness of their beliefs was a special source of
wonder to him. From the father, who had no doubt about the existence of
ghosts, to the little boy, who firmly believed in the reality of
_Belsnickel_,--hides, horns, and all,--they were the most frankly
credulous people he had ever known. But the superstition and
anthropomorphism mingled with their faith did not make him think it
less enviable. He would have been glad to believe anything as firmly as
they did the traditions which had come down to them from their
ancestors, unchallenged by doubt and unchanged by time.
One evening, after Rena had, as usual, sat beside her little brother's
bed until he was sound asleep, she joined her parents and Brent, who
were sitting in the garden behind the house.
The full moon was high above the mountains, and the whole landscape was
almost as distinct as it had been before the sun went down. A
whippoorwill's notes, mellowed by distance, resounded from the farthest
part of the orchard, and a tinkling chorus arose from the leaves and
blades of grass, where the myriads of nocturnal musicians were
disporting themselves after the heat and glare of the day. But the
sounds made by these performers were so regular and monotonous that they
seemed merely a part of the calm summer night.
Suddenly another sound came down from the lower part of the mountains.
It began with a deep, long-drawn, hollow cry, between a howl and a moan,
and then broke into a wild, piercing shriek.
The farmer started to his feet, and stood gazing in the direction from
which the cry had come.
"It's only a stray dog howling," said Brent.
Reinfelter turned toward his wife, and the moonlight showed that his
face was white with terror.
"_De warnoong!_" he said, in a low voice. "_D'r geishter-shray foon de
bairga!_"
The woman covered her face with her hands, and began trembling and
sobbing. Rena put her arms around her mother's neck and tried to comfort
her, as if _she_ had been the mother instead of the child.
The sound broke out again, and this time it was louder and more distinct
than before. As the melancholy echoes died away, Rena rose, and, taking
her mother's hand in hers, led her toward the house.
When they had gone, Brent said, "What do you think that sound is?"
"It's the warning still," said Reinfelter. "It's the warning of death."
"What is it made by?"
"A ghost. It goes up there in the mount'ins an' calls, an' the one it
calls is soon in the graveyard already. It's called the mother, or Rena,
or me, this night."
"Maybe I was the one it meant."
"No; it only calls the Reinfelters still. It's been so ever since the
Injun massacree, a long time ago."
"Did that happen here?"
"Yes. My great-grandfather an' his oldest son was up in the mount'ins,
and his wife was a-comin' back from there by herself once. Just as she
got where she could see her little children a-playin' in the yard, three
Injuns jumped out o' the woods that was nigh to the house then, an' run
into the yard an' killed the children right before her eyes. The men up
there heard her scream, an' they run down, an' found her a-layin' there
where she fell, an' they thought she was dead already. She come to
herself ag'in, but after that she just sort o' pined away, an' in less
than two months she died. It's her ghost that goes up there an' calls us
still."
"Did you ever hear the call before?"
"No; I never heard it myself. But the night my little girl died, nine
years ago, she rose up in bed once, an' she says, 'Who is that a-cryin'
up there in the mount'ins?' We couldn't hear nothin' still, but we knew
what _she_ had heard, an' after that we didn't have no more hope."
Brent did not think of the banshee as a positive reality, but he would
not have denied that its existence was possible, and he felt that it
would be useless for him to try to shake the farmer's faith in the
tradition which had such a strong hold on his mind.
After a brief silence, he said he would take a short walk before going
to bed. Leaving the garden, he strolled toward the mountains, which rose
like a vast wall above the foot-hills at their base.
As he drew near the rising ground which marked the verge of the valley,
the strange sound once more fell on his ear, and he walked in the
direction from which it came. Passing through a grove of chestnut-trees,
he reached an elevated open space, where the moonlight shone on the
almost level surface of large gray rocks. Near the middle of this clear
space he saw a black, shaggy object moving slowly about, with its
lowered head turned away from him. He stepped forward to get a closer
view of this creature, and as he did so it turned its head and looked at
him. The next instant it bounded away and disappeared among the nearest
trees.
"Just as I thought," said Brent to himself. "It _was_ a dog, and a
villanous-looking cur, too. Exactly the sort of brute to howl and shriek
at the moon on a night like this."
But, as he sauntered back to the house, various doubts entered his mind.
He reflected that he had seen the animal only for an instant, by
moonlight and at some distance, and that he could not be sure it was
really a dog. Neither could he be confident it had uttered the
mysterious cry, for while it was within his sight it had made no sound
of any kind. "Perhaps it went up there for the same reason I did,--to
find out what was going on," he thought.
As usual, he ended by informing himself that he was under no
responsibility to settle the question, and that, as far as he was
concerned, it would probably remain unsettled.
The next morning he found the farmer and his wife very much depressed,
but he had no hope of being able to convince them that they had heard
nothing supernatural, and thought it best to avoid the subject. He
passed the day in calling on some of the neighbors who had asked him to
visit them, and returned to the farm-house just before nightfall.
He found Rena standing at the door, and, while talking to her, he
mentioned his moonlight walk.
"I saw what I took to be a stray dog up there," he said. "Perhaps it
made the sound we heard."
"Was it a black dog, with rough, curly hair?" asked Rena.
"I think it was; but I couldn't see it very well. Do you know whose it
is?"
"No; but this morning when I came out of the dairy a dog that looked
like that was standing in the path, a little way off, and I was thinking
it might have been the same one."
As she looked away again, Brent said, "I didn't tell your father and
mother about the dog I saw, because I thought it would be well for them
to forget the whole matter as soon as possible."
"Thank you," said Rena, turning her face and looking at him gratefully.
He had lost the desire to tease her, and treated her as he had never
done before. Thinking of this, not long afterward, he wondered whether a
presentiment of what was coming had caused the change, or whether it
merely arose from a consciousness of the gloom which had already settled
on the household.
During his call on the Barndollars that morning, he had partly overcome
Elsa's unfavorable impression of him by treating her, to some extent,
"like a grown-up woman" and showing by his manner that he was not
unconscious of the handsome young brunette's personal attractions. On
her next visit, a little more than two weeks later, she noticed that he
had entirely given up the objectionable teasings; and this removed the
last obstacle in the way of her considering him extremely "nice." She
had mentally admitted, even at the first view, that he possessed the
degree of good looks and stylishness rigorously exacted from the male
sex by the canons of boarding school taste, and she now candidly
acknowledged to herself that his being an Englishman was, strictly
speaking, not his own fault.
When she was ready to go, she made her adieux with an agreeable sense of
having been both entertaining and instructive. She forgot to take leave
of her friend the aged and decrepit mastiff, which was sitting just
inside the hall; but he called attention to his presence by three raps
of his tail on the floor. Elsa laughed, and went through the form of
shaking his huge paw,--an attention which he acknowledged by a prolonged
caudal tattoo.
"Oh, Rena!" said Elsa, stopping on the topmost step, "I forgot to tell
you what happened to our Scotch shepherd-dog, Macbeth. You know Melker
and I made friends with him the first day, but we were the only ones
he'd be intimate with. Well, about two weeks ago an ugly old black dog
came prowling around the house, and when Mac went up to it it bit him
and then ran away to the mountains. Soon after that, we heard that a
black dog with the hydrophobia had been killed up there, and Derrick and
Jake said they believed it was the same one. Melker was in Philadelphia,
and before he came home Mac went mad. Derrick shot at him out of the
barn, and scared him so much that he ran off down the road, and we
haven't heard anything about him since."
Rena was bending over one of the jessamine-bushes, and seemed to be
absorbed in removing some dead leaves.
"Did your dog come this way, Elsa?" asked Mrs. Reinfelter nervously.
"No, indeed," replied Elsa. "He ran up the road to the village. Good-by,
Kuno. I won't forget you again."
Brent followed her down the steps to assist her in mounting, but she
sprang into the saddle without waiting for his help, and rode away at a
brisk canter.
The farmer and his wife conferred together anxiously about the two mad
dogs, while their little son stood near them, listening intently to all
they said. Unnoticed by them, Rena walked across the yard and passed
around the corner of the house in the direction of the garden.
Something in her manner caught Brent's attention, and in a little while
he followed her. He found her sitting in the garden; and, though she
tried to keep her face turned away from him, its death like pallor did
not escape his sight. He sat down at her side and asked her to tell him
what had happened. The sympathy in his voice went straight to her heart
and won her whole confidence.
"The warning was for me," she answered, "I'm not afraid to die; but
father and mother and my little brother--"
She did not sob or make any sound, but great tears welled from her eyes,
and she was unable to go on.
When she could speak again, she told him that on the day after the
warning, when she found a black, shaggy-haired dog standing near the
dairy door, she put out her hand, intending to stroke its head, but it
caught her hand with its teeth, and left a wound from which the blood
fell in large drops. The dog ran away in the direction of the Barndollar
farm, and she bound up her hand and managed to keep the wound from being
noticed while it was healing, for she was anxious to avoid increasing
the anxiety her parents already felt. Only a slight scar now remained;
but Elsa's account of the mad dogs left no doubt in her mind that she
was in imminent danger of a frightful death.
Brent had once witnessed a sight which rose before his eyes many times
afterward and would not be blotted from his memory. It all came back to
him now once more,--the agonized, horribly glaring eyes, the clinched
hands and quivering throat, and the convulsive sobbing and gasping which
would not cease tearing the wasted frame until death should bring the
only possible help. It made him sick at heart to think that the gentle
unselfish girl who was even then forgetting herself in her care for
others would be seized by those paroxysms of frightful madness.
He knew that many people who are bitten by mad dogs escape hydrophobia
entirely, but he could not doubt that when the teeth have entered the
bare flesh, and strong remedies are not instantly applied, there is very
little ground for hope.
"Was your hand entirely uncovered?" he asked.
"Yes; I never wear gloves."
With a desperate impulse to do something, he said, "I'll go to
Philadelphia and bring a physician. We can be here to-morrow."
"I'm afraid it's too late for that now," said Rena. "It would only
frighten father and mother. I want to keep them from knowing it as long
as I can."
"I won't bring anybody back with me if you are unwilling; but I must go
and find out what I can do to help you."
"Do you think anything can be done to keep me from hurting anybody
else?"
"I'm sure of that. I'll find out the best way to do it."
"Oh, thank you. You're so good to me!"
The earnestness of her gratitude made him think with sorrow and shame of
the time when his chief pleasure had been to make her unhappy. He could
hardly believe he had really been as selfish and heartless as he
appeared in the picture rising before him now out of the unchangeable
past. His dormant human interest was awakening, and his soul was
beginning to resist the tyranny of his mind.
He was so impatient to begin his journey that he proposed setting off
immediately and riding to the nearest railroad-station. But Rena was
afraid this would alarm her parents: so he agreed to wait until the next
morning and take the stage in the village.
That night Rena stayed longer than usual in the room with her little
brother after he had sunk into peaceful slumber in the midst of his
small confidences and grave interrogations.
Soon after she came down, her mother said, "Rena, sing us one of the
nice German songs Mr. Brent learned you once. Sing the one about the
lady that set up on the high rock an' combed her hair with a golden
comb. What did they call her still? 'De Lower Liar'?"
As Rena turned toward Brent and the lamplight fell on her face, he was
sure that if she tried to sing her voice would tell what she was trying
to keep unknown.
"I don't think 'Die Lorelei' is a very lively song, Mrs. Reinfelter,"
said he. "Maybe I can find some prettier ones in Philadelphia to-morrow,
if I have time. I must be sure to bring Casper something. What do you
think he would like best?"
This question introduced a topic which banished all others; and when
Brent looked at Rena again he saw he had come to the rescue in good
time. He was glad to think he could at least do this, and he determined
to be on the watch for such opportunities.
The result of his consultations the next day gave him very little ground
for hope. All he could depend on doing was to save Rena from suffering
and prevent what she feared most by making her insensible as soon as the
madness showed signs of taking an active form.
When he had gotten what was needed for this purpose and had been fully
advised as to his course of action, he went back with a heavy heart to
the farm among the mountains.
At the first opportunity he repeated to Rena all he had learned in the
city, and told her what he proposed doing. The prospect that was so
dispiriting to him removed her greatest care; but her eager thanks
humiliated him as he felt his utter helplessness in the hands of fate. A
sudden fear that she might hurt him before he could make her unconscious
brought back her anxiety; but he reassured her by promising to be
constantly on his guard and take every possible means to insure his own
safety.
Watching her closely as the days went by, he saw the full extent of her
calm and steadfast courage. She made no effort to hide from him her
grief at the prospect of separation from those she loved so dearly; but
of anguish or terror on her own account there was never any sign. He did
not doubt that this came from her perfect faith and trust in a higher
power, and, though he could not share her feeling, it comforted him to
know that she had such a strong support as she drew near to death.
Near the close of the fifth day after his return he and Rena were
standing together at the gate in front of the house. Deep shadows were
advancing up the sides of the mountains, but their summits were still
bright with the evening glow. Both of them watched the narrowing line
of light without speaking. Their minds were full of the same thoughts,
and there was a sympathetic communion between them which did not need to
be expressed in words.
Hearing footsteps on the road, they looked around, and saw Melchior
Barndollar coming toward them. A large and very handsome dog of the
Scotch shepherd breed was running along before him, and when he stopped
at the gate it came back and stood near him, with its intelligent brown
eyes fixed on his face.
"You have got another collie, I see," said Brent.
"No; this is the only one I've ever owned," replied Barndollar.
He had been surprised at the Englishman's remark, and he was entirely
unable to account for the effect of his answer on both the others. They
turned quickly toward each other with a look of eager interest, mingled
with something else which he could not understand.
"I thought your collie went mad," said Brent.
"Oh, you heard that report, then?"
"Yes. The last time your sister was here she mentioned it. Was there
nothing in it?"
"It wasn't even founded on an apparent fact," said the young farmer,
smiling and looking down at the dog, which immediately began wagging its
tail so forcibly that at least one-third of its body partook of the
motion. "The men on my mother's farm have regaled themselves so often
with stories about mad dogs that they have become their pet horror. When
I came home I found that their fire from behind intrenchments had driven
poor Mac off the place; though if he had been better acquainted with
their marksmanship he would probably have gone to sleep while they were
shooting at him. I went out to hunt for him, and found him at a house
near the village, as free from hydrophobia as I am. To make sure, I
traced the dog that bit him back to its owner's hut in the mountains,
and found it there, sneaking around the lot and looking as vicious and
mean-spirited as ever. Its master said the dog that was shot came from
the other side of the mountains, and was worth a dozen such curs as
his."
Rena stepped into the road and began stroking the dog's head and neck.
As she did so, her father came out of the house, and, seeing Barndollar
at the gate, he came down to speak to him.
While the two farmers were talking, Brent walked away to a grove of oaks
near the road and a short distance below the gate. Standing among the
trees as the twilight came on, he thought over the episode which had
just come to a close, and wondered at its effect on him. Instead of
pondering over the uncertainties of the case until it lost all reality
to him, he had been too much concerned to think of probabilities at all.
Sensibility had overcome his agnosticism, and he had forgotten that it
was possible to doubt. He knew he had not acted philosophically; but he
felt that philosophy, compared with sympathy and self-forgetfulness, is
of very slight account.
* * * * *
Professor Helfenstein returned to the little Pennsylvania village at the
time he had indicated, which was about the middle of October. The
innkeeper told him his friend had not yet left the farm-house, and the
next morning he set out on foot to visit him there.
The mountain-woods, all arrayed in their autumn foliage, were glowing
with rich, warm color. Silvery cloud-banks heightened the deep blue of
the sky, and their slowly-floating shadows intensified the brightness of
the sunlight. "_Ueberall Sonnenschein!_" said the nature-loving German.
"_Ach, 's ist ein wunderschönes Land!_"
Brent saw him enter the yard, and came to the door to meet him. The
family had dispersed soon after breakfast, and, as there was no one in
the house for him to see, Helfenstein declined going in, but stood on
the door-step, describing his journeyings in the West.
"Well," said he at last, "are you ready to start with me for New York
to-morrow morning, and for Liverpool next Monday?"
"My starting for any place out of sight of these mountains," answered
Brent, "depends chiefly on the views of a certain young woman. At
present the indications are that no such pilgrimage will ever begin."
"_Alle Wetter!_ Are you married?"
"No; but I expect to be in two weeks."
"Is it the maiden who dwells in this house?"
"The very same."
For a few moments the professor gazed in silence at the prospective
bride-groom. Besides feeling a personal interest in the case, he
considered it a good subject for psychic investigation.
"My good friend," he said, with judicial calmness, "why do you wish to
espouse Miss Reinfelter?"
Brent knew this question was not meant to be offensive, but was
propounded in a spirit of critical analysis. He was about to answer it
with a pretence of deep gravity, when Casper came around the corner of
the house and asked him where "Sister Rena" was.
"She has gone to the village," replied Brent.
As the boy turned away, his disappointment was so evident that Brent
said, "Do you want her to do anything for you, Casper?"
"No, sir," said Casper dejectedly. "I just _want_ her."
Brent smiled, and turned to the professor again.
"I couldn't find a better answer to your question if I thought for a
week," he said. "I just _want_ her."
W. W. CRANE.
MUSTER-DAY IN NEW ENGLAND.
Arms and the men we sing,--not those panoplied and helmeted according to
Virgil, nor those of our own day, armed with repeating rifles and
drum-majored into popular favor, but rather the heroes of the flint-lock
and the priming-wire in the New England of two or three generations ago,
the sturdy train-bands that have left scarce one John Gilpin to tell the
tale of their valor.
"Train-bands are the trustiest and most proper strength of a free
people," wrote Milton, and the colonists of Massachusetts Bay were of a
like opinion, from Miles Standish down to the humbler men of prowess. By
the law of 1666, all males in the colony were required to attend
"military exercises and service." Companies were exercised six days
yearly, prayer being offered by the captain at the beginning and at the
end of every "training." A regimental training was ordered once in three
years. Every company of foot was composed two-thirds of "musketeers" and
one-third of "pikemen," the pike of Connecticut being two feet shorter
than the rod-pike of England. Some of the lighter muskets were fired
with a simple match, but the greater number were supported by "rests,"
forked at the top and stuck into the ground. They were fired by
"match-locks," the "cock" being that part which held the burning match
aloft before it was applied to the powder in the pan. Hence "to go off
half cocked" originally meant that the burning fuse dropped into the
powder pan before it was wanted. Single charges of powder were carried
by the musketeers in wooden, tin, or copper boxes, and twelve of these
boxes, fitted to a belt and slung over the left shoulder, made the
"bandolier," which jingled like a band of sleigh-bells if the boxes were
metallic. The belt also secured the "primer with priming-powder," the
"bullet-bag," the "priming-wire," and the "match-cord." The soldier
being thus a slave to his weapon, we are not surprised to note that his
manual of arms was the following, from Elton's "Postures of the Musket:"