E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
HIDDEN HAND
by
MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH
Author of THE CURSE OF CLIFTON
New York
Hurst & Company
Publishers
CONTENTS.
I. The Nocturnal Visit
II. The Masks
III. The Quest
IV. Capitola
V. The Discovery
VI. A Short, Sad Story
VII. Metamorphosis of the Newsboy
VIII. Herbert Greyson
IX. Marah Rocke
X. The Room of the Trap-Door
XI. A Mystery and a Storm at Hurricane Hall
XII. Marah's Dream
XIII. Marah's Memories
XIV. The Wasting Heart
XV. Cap's Country Capers
XVI. Cap's Fearful Adventure
XVII. Another Storm at Hurricane Hall
XVIII. The Doctor's Daughter
XIX. The Resigned Soul
XX. The Outlaw's Rendezvous
XXI. Gabriel LeNoir
XXII. The Smuggler and Capitola
XXIII. The Boy's Love
XXIV. Capitola's Mother
XXV. Cap's Tricks and Perils
XXVI. The Peril and the Pluck of Cap
XXVII. Seeking his Fortune
XVIII. A Panic in the Outlaw's Den
XXIX. The Victory Over Death
XXX. The Orphan
THE HIDDEN HAND.
CHAPTER I.
THE NOCTURNAL VISIT.
* * * Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me when every sound appals me?
* * * I hear a knocking
In the south entry! Hark!--More knocking!
--Shakespeare.
Hurricane Hall is a large old family mansion, built of dark-red
sandstone, in one of the loneliest and wildest of the mountain regions
of Virginia.
The estate is surrounded on three sides by a range of steep, gray rocks,
spiked with clumps of dark evergreens, and called, from its horseshoe
form, the Devil's Hoof.
On the fourth side the ground gradually descends in broken, rock and
barren soil to the edge of the wild mountain stream known as the Devil's
Run.
When storms and floods were high the loud roaring of the wind through
the wild mountain gorges and the terrific raging of the torrent over its
rocky course gave to this savage locality its ill-omened names of
Devil's Hoof, Devil's Run and Hurricane Hall.
Major Ira Warfield, the lonely proprietor of the Hall, was a veteran
officer, who, in disgust at what he supposed to be ill-requited
services, had retired from public life to spend the evening of his
vigorous age on this his patrimonial estate. Here he lived in seclusion,
with his old-fashioned housekeeper, Mrs. Condiment, and his old family
servants and his favorite dogs and horses. Here his mornings were
usually spent in the chase, in which he excelled, and his afternoons and
evenings were occupied in small convivial suppers among his few chosen
companions of the chase or the bottle.
In person Major Warfield was tall and strongly built, reminding one of
some old iron-limbed Douglas of the olden time. His features were large
and harsh; his complexion dark red, as that of one bronzed by long
exposure and flushed with strong drink. His fierce, dark gray eyes were
surmounted by thick, heavy black brows that, when gathered into a frown,
reminded one of a thunder cloud, as the flashing orbs beneath them did
of lightning. His hard, harsh face was surrounded by a thick growth of
iron-gray hair and beard that met beneath his chin. His usual habit was
a black cloth coat, crimson vest, black leather breeches, long, black
yarn stockings, fastened at the knees, and morocco slippers with silver
buttons.
In character Major Warfield was arrogant, domineering and
violent--equally loved and feared by his faithful old family servants at
home--disliked and dreaded by his neighbors and acquaintances abroad,
who, partly from his house and partly from his character, fixed upon him
the appropriate nickname of Old Hurricane.
There was, however, other ground of dislike besides that of his arrogant
mind, violent temper and domineering habits. Old Hurricane was said to
be an old bachelor, yet rumor whispered that there was in some obscure
part of the world, hidden away from human sight, a deserted wife and
child, poor, forlorn and heart-broken. It was further whispered that the
elder brother of Ira Warfield had mysteriously disappeared, and not
without some suspicion of foul play on the part of the only person in
the world who had a strong interest in his "taking off." However these
things might be, it was known for a certainty that Old Hurricane had an
only sister, widowed, sick and poor, who, with her son, dragged on a
wretched life of ill-requited toil, severe privation and painful
infirmity in a distant city, unaided, unsought and uncared for by her
cruel brother.
It was the night of the last day of October, eighteen hundred and
forty-five. The evening had closed in very dark and gloomy. About dusk
the wind arose in the northwest, driving up masses of leaden-hued
clouds, and in a few minutes the ground was covered deep with snow and
the air was filled with driving sleet.
As this was All Hallow Eve, the dreadful inclemency of the weather did
not prevent the negroes of Hurricane Hall from availing themselves of
their capricious old master's permission and going off in a body to a
banjo breakdown held in the negro quarters of their next neighbor.
Upon this evening, then, there was left at Hurricane Hall only Major
Warfield, Mrs. Condiment, his little housekeeper, and Wool, his body
servant.
Early in the evening the old hall was shut up closely to keep out as
much as possible the sound of the storm that roared through the mountain
chasms and cannonaded the walls of the house as if determined to force
an entrance. As soon as she had seen that all was safe, Mrs. Condiment
went to bed and went to sleep.
It was about ten o'clock that night that Old Hurricane, well wrapped up
in his quilted flannel dressing-gown, sat in his well-padded easy-chair
before a warm and bright fire, taking his comfort in his own most
comfortable bedroom. This was the hour of the coziest enjoyment to the
self-indulgent old Sybarite, who dearly loved his own ease. And, indeed,
every means and appliance of bodily comfort was at hand. Strong oaken
shutters and thick, heavy curtains at the windows kept out every draft
of air, and so deadened the sound of the wind that its subdued moaning
was just sufficient to remind one of the stormy weather without in
contrast to the bright warmth within. Old Hurricane, as I said, sat well
wrapped up in his wadded dressing-gown, and reclining in his padded
easy-chair, with his head thrown back and his feet upon the fire irons,
toasting his shins and sipping his punch. On his right stood a little
table with a lighted candle, a stack of clay pipes, a jug of punch,
lemons, sugar, Holland gin, etc., while on the hearth sat a kettle of
boiling water to help replenish the jug, if needful.
On his left hand stood his cozy bedstead, with its warm crimson curtains
festooned back, revealing the luxurious swell of the full feather bed
and pillows, with their snow-white linen and lamb's-wool blankets,
inviting repose. Between this bedstead and the corner of the fireplace
stood Old Hurricane's ancient body servant Wool, engaged in warming a
crimson cloth nightcap.
"Fools!" muttered Old Hurricane, over his punch--"jacks! they'll all get
the pleurisy except those that get drunk! Did they all go, Wool?"
"Ebery man, 'oman and chile, sar!--'cept 'tis me and coachman, sar!"
"More fools they! And I shouldn't wonder if you, you old scarecrow,
didn't want to go too!"
"No, Marse----"
"I know better, sir! Don't contradict me! Well, as soon as I'm in bed,
and that won't be long now, you may go--so that you get back in time to
wait on me to-morrow morning."
"Thanky, marse."
"Hold your tongue! You're as big a fool as the rest."
"I take this," said Old Hurricane, as he sipped his punch and smacked
his lips--"I take this to be the very quintessence of human
enjoyment--sitting here in my soft, warm chair before the fire, toasting
my legs, sipping my punch, listening on the one hand to the storm
without and glancing on the other hand at my comfortable bed waiting
there to receive my sleepy head. If there is anything better than this
in this world I wish somebody would let me know it."
"It's all werry comformable indeed, marse," said the obsequious Wool.
"I wonder, now, if there is anything on the face of the earth that would
tempt me to leave my cozy fireside and go abroad to-night? I wonder how
large a promise of pleasure or profit or glory it would take now?"
"Much as ebber Congress itse'f could give, if it give you a penance for
all your sarvins," suggested Wool.
"Yes, and more; for I wouldn't leave my home comforts to-night to insure
not only the pension but the thanks of Congress!" said the old man,
replenishing his glass with steaming punch and drinking it off
leisurely.
The clock struck eleven. The old man again replenished his glass, and,
while sipping its contents, said:
"You may fill the warming-pan and warm my bed, Wool. The fumes of this
fragrant punch are beginning to rise to my head and make me sleepy."
The servant filled the warming-pan with glowing embers, shut down the
lid and thrust it between the sheets to warm the couch of this luxurious
Old Hurricane. The old man continued to toast his feet, sip his punch
and smack his lips. He finished his glass, set it down, and was just in
the act of drawing on his woolen nightcap, preparatory to stepping into
his well-warmed bed when he was suddenly startled by a loud ringing of
the hall-door bell.
"What the foul fiend can that mean at this time of night?" exclaimed
Old Hurricane, dropping his nightcap and turning sharply around toward
Wool, who, warming-pan in hand, stood staring with astonishment. "What
does that mean, I ask you?"
"'Deed, I dunno, sar, less it's some benighted traveler in search o'
shelter outen de storm!"
"Humph! and in search of supper, too, of course, and everybody gone away
or gone to bed but you and me!"
At this moment the ringing was followed by a loud knocking.
"Marse, don't less you and me listen to it, and then we ain't 'bliged to
'sturb ourselves with answering of it!" suggested Wool.
"'Sdeath, sir! Do you think that I am going to turn a deaf ear to a
stranger that comes to my house for shelter on such a night as this? Go
and answer the bell directly."
"Yes, sar."
"But stop--look here, sirrah--mind I am not to be disturbed. If it is a
traveler, ask him in, set refreshments before him and show him to bed.
I'm not going to leave my warm room to welcome anybody to-night, please
the Lord. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sar," said the darkey, retreating.
As Wool took a shaded taper and opened the door leading from his
master's chamber, the wind was heard howling through the long passages,
ready to burst into the cozy bedroom.
"Shut that door, you scoundrel!" roared the old man, folding the skirt
of his warm dressing-gown across his knees, and hovering closer to the
fire.
Wool quickly obeyed, and was heard retreating down the steps.
"Whew!" said the old man, spreading his hands over the blaze with a look
of comfortable appreciation. "What would induce me to go abroad on such
a night as this? Wind blowing great guns from the northwest--snow
falling fast from the heavens and rising just as fast before the wind
from the ground--cold as Lapland, dark as Erebus! No telling the earth
from the sky. Whew!" and to comfort the cold thought, Old Hurricane
poured out another glass of smoking punch and began to sip it.
"How I thank the Lord that I am not a doctor! If I were a doctor, now,
the sound of that bell at this hour of night would frighten me; I should
think some old woman had been taken with the pleurisy, and wanted me to
get up and go out in the storm; to turn out of my warm bed to ride ten
miles through the snow to prescribe for her. A doctor never can feel
sure, even in the worst of weathers, of a good night's rest. But, thank
Heaven, I am free from all such annoyances, and if I am sure of anything
in this world it is of my comfortable night's sleep," said Old
Hurricane, as he sipped his punch, smacked his lips and toasted his
feet.
At this moment Wool reappeared.
"Shut the door, you villain! Do you intend to stand there holding it
open on me all night?" vociferated the old man.
Wool hastily closed the offending portals and hurried to his master's
side.
"Well, sir, who was it rung the bell?"
"Please, marster, sir, it wer' de Reverend Mr. Parson Goodwin."
"Goodwin? Been to make a sick-call, I suppose, and got caught in the
snow-storm. I declare it is as bad to be a parson as it is to be a
doctor. Thank the Lord I am not a parson, either; if I were, now, I
might be called away from my cozy armchair and fireside to ride twelve
miles to comfort some old man dying of quinsy. Well, here--help me into
bed, pile on more comforters, tuck me up warm, put a bottle of hot water
at my feet, and then go and attend to the parson," said the old man,
getting up and moving toward his inviting couch.
"Sar! sar! stop, sar, if you please!" cried Wool, going after him.
"Why, what does the old fool mean?" exclaimed Old Hurricane, angrily.
"Sar, de Reverend Mr. Parson Goodwin say how he must see you yourself,
personable, alone!"
"See me, you villain! Didn't you tell him that I had retired?"
"Yes, marse; I tell him how you wer' gone to bed and asleep more'n an
hour ago, and he ordered me to come wake you up, and say how it were a
matter o' life and death!"
"Life and death? What have I to do with life and death? I won't stir! If
the parson wants to see me he will have to come up here and see me in
bed," exclaimed Old Hurricane, suiting the action to the word by jumping
into bed and drawing all the comforters and blankets up around his head
and shoulders.
"Mus' I fetch him reverence up, sar?"
"Yes; I wouldn't get up and go down to see--Washington. Shut the door,
you rascal, or I'll throw the bootjack at your wooden head."
Wool obeyed with alacrity and in time to escape the threatened missile.
After an absence of a few minutes he was heard returning, attending upon
the footsteps of another. And the next minute he entered, ushering in
the Rev. Mr. Goodwin, the parish minister of Bethlehem, St. Mary's.
"How do you do? How do you do? Glad to see you, sir; glad to see you,
though obliged to receive you in bed. Fact is, I caught a cold with this
severe change of weather, and took a warm negus and went to bed to sweat
it off. You'll excuse me. Wool, draw that easy-chair up to my bedside
for worthy Mr. Goodwin, and bring him a glass of warm negus. It will do
him good after his cold ride."
"I thank you, Major Warfield. I will take the seat but not the negus, if
you please, to-night."
"Not the negus? Oh, come now, you are joking. Why, it will keep you from
catching cold and be a most comfortable nightcap, disposing you to sleep
and sweat like a baby. Of course, you spend the night with us?"
"I thank you, no. I must take the road again in a few minutes."
"Take the road again to-night! Why, man alive! it is midnight, and the
snow driving like all Lapland!"
"Sir, I am sorry to refuse your proffered hospitality and leave your
comfortable roof to-night, and sorrier still to have to take you with
me," said the pastor, gravely.
"Take me with you! No, no, my good sir!--no, no, that is too good a
joke--ha! ha!"
"Sir, I fear that you will find it a very serious one. Your servant told
you that my errand was one of imminent urgency?"
"Yes; something like life and death----"
"Exactly; down in the cabin near the Punch Bowl there is an old woman
dying----"
"There! I knew it! I was just saying there might be an old woman dying!
But, my dear sir, what's that to me? What can I do?"
"Humanity, sir, would prompt you."
"But, my dear sir, how can I help her? I am not a physician to
prescribe----"
"She is far past a physician's help."
"Nor am I a priest to hear her confession----"
"Her confession God has already received."
"Well, and I'm not a lawyer to draw up her will."
"No, sir; but you are recently appointed one of the justices of the
peace for Alleghany."
"Yes. Well, what of that? That does not comprise the duty of getting up
out of my warm bed and going through a snow-storm to see an old woman
expire."
"I regret to inconvenience you, sir; but in this instance your duty
demands your attendance at the bedside of this dying woman----"
"I tell you I can't go, and I won't! Anything in reason I'll do.
Anything I can send she shall have. Here, Wool, look in my breeches
pocket and take out my purse and hand it. And then go and wake up Mrs.
Condiment, and ask her to fill a large basket full of everything a poor
old dying woman might want, and you shall carry it."
"Spare your pains, sir. The poor woman is already past all earthly,
selfish wants. She only asks your presence at her dying bed."
"But I can't go! I! The idea of turning out of my warm bed and exposing
myself to a snow-storm this time of night!"
"Excuse me for insisting, sir; but this is an official duty," said the
parson mildly but firmly.
"I'll--I'll throw up my commission to-morrow," growled the old man.
"To-morrow you may do that; but meanwhile, to-night, being still in the
commission of the peace, you are bound to get up and go with me to this
woman's bedside."
"And what the demon is wanted of me there?"
"To receive her dying deposition."
"To receive a dying deposition! Good Heaven! was she murdered, then?"
exclaimed the old man in alarm, as he started out of bed and began to
draw on his nether garments.
"Be composed; she was not murdered," said the pastor.
"Well, then, what is it? Dying deposition! It must concern a crime,"
exclaimed the old man, hastily drawing on his coat.
"It does concern a crime."
"What crime, for the love of Heaven?"
"I am not at liberty to tell you. She will do that."
"Wool, go down and rouse up Jehu, and tell him to put Parson Goodwin's
mule in the stable for the night. And tell him to put the black draught
horses to the close carriage, and light both of the front lanterns--for
we shall have a dark, stormy road----Shut the door, you infernal----I
beg your pardon, parson, but that villain always leaves the door ajar
after him."
The good pastor bowed gravely, and the major completed his toilet by the
time the servant returned and reported the carriage ready.
It was dark as pitch when they emerged from the hall door out into the
front portico, before which nothing could be seen but two red
bull's-eyes of the carriage lanterns, and nothing heard but the
dissatisfied whinnying and pawing of the horses.