When I was a boy I lived in Belton, in this State. My mother was a
widow, for my father died the year after we came to this country
from Germany. There were two of us children, me and a girl. My
mother did washing for a living, and I worked for a man named Cook,
who was very hard to get along with, and to him I lay all my
troubles. I suppose I must forgive everybody now, as I hope to be
forgiven myself, but it's mighty hard to let up on him. Now I ain't
a-going to say that I didn't kill the men aboard the smack, and
that I am unjustly sentenced to die; but I say this, and I believe,
as I hope for mercy hereafter, that if it hadn't been for the
unjust way in which I was treated when I was a boy, by that man, I
wouldn't be here now. The way of it all was this: One day Cook sent
me with some money to pay a bill at the store. I didn't know how
much there was, but when the store-keeper counted it he said it ran
short ten dollars. When I went back to Cook and told him, he got
angry, and said he had given me the right sum, and I must have
stolen the difference. Now he had a grudge against me, and I
believe he never gave me the money, but wanted to get me into
trouble. I knew I couldn't have lost it, and the shop-keeper
counted it before my eyes, and he couldn't have taken it.
Howsomever, Cook swore I stole the money, and they locked me up.
They didn't keep me long, though, for they couldn't bring any
proof, and was obliged to let me off. But I couldn't stay in Belton
after that, for no one would employ me, and they all shunned me for
a thief. So I left the place and went to New York, but as I was a
stranger there, and didn't know any one, I couldn't find work. Then
I shipped for a three years' cruise, for I thought by that time all
would be forgot, and I could go back home. As bad luck would have
it, my shipmates found out that I had been locked up for thieving,
and when one of the crew had his chest broken open, and some things
missing, they laid it to me. I was innocent, but they wouldn't
believe it, and the character I had got went against me, and I
wasn't spared a bit. The captain abused me, the mate rope's-ended
me, and the men kicked me and called me jail-bird, until I was more
miserable than a dog. My whole feelings were changed. I got bitter
and revengeful, and if it hadn't been that I couldn't get away I
would have knived some of my shipmates. When the vessel touched at
the Sandwich Islands, I ran away and knocked about with the
beach-combers, a wicked set of outcasts, until I became bad as any
of them. I lived among the Islands several years. I shipped again,
ran down to Valparaiso, and made several voyages up and down the
coast. One day I got into a drunken row in a pulqueria, and stabbed
a Chilian. This caused me to be sent to work in the mines as a
convict. I got away from there after staying three years and
shipped in a French ship to Bordeaux, and from there I got to New
York. I hadn't been in the States for ten years, and all that time
I hadn't heard anything from my folks. I had become so reckless as
to have no wish to see any of them. When in New York I went one
night to a dance-house in Cherry Street, and there among the women
I found my sister. We didn't know each other at first, but I
discovered her by a queer scar on her neck, which she got from a
burn when a child. After questioning her, I found out that my
mother took on so about me that she left Belton soon after I did,
and went to New York. There she fell sick, and died in want, and
there was my sister a degraded creature. What little good was left
in me was turned by this sight into bad, and I swore to be even
with a world that had been so unjust to me and mine. The old
feeling of vengeance rose up in my breast--the devil got hold of
me, and I thought of Cook. That night I started off to find him,
and went to Belton. I hung around there till I found out he was
dead and gone some years. If he had been living I would have killed
him, sure. All that's wrong, I know, but I couldn't help it. Then I
felt just like waging war on all the world. I went to California,
and kept a drinking shop on what they called the Barbary coast,
where I used to rob miners. Finally I shot one that showed fight,
and the Vigilance Committee drove me off, and I came back to the
States and went to New Orleans, staid awhile, and came north. I
knocked around New York for a time, and finally shipped on the
smack, where I committed the deed that's brought me here. The world
has got the best of me at last, and it was very wrong and sinful
for me to kill the men, and it is right that I should suffer for it
and be hung; I ain't a-going to deny that; but I know this and
repeat it, that if I had been treated right when a boy, if I hadn't
been accused of stealing when I was innocent, I wouldn't be here
now, and my sister wouldn't have been ruined. We might have been as
happy and as good as any, so let Almighty God judge. Before I go I
want to say this: that in the trial I was fairly treated, and I
want to publicly thank all those people who were so kind to me. One
gentleman has been very good to me, did all he could to help me,
and I can't be too grateful to him. He happened just to have
remembered me when I was a boy and lived in Belton, and to this
kind and benevolent man, I say, may God bless him and reward him.
Rufus Heath read those lines with dilated eyes and shortened breath,
like one undergoing the rack. When he had finished, he let the paper
drop and uttered a deep groan. His head sank back on his chair, and he
pressed his hands over his temples and brow as if to smother distracting
thoughts. He remained thus for some time, until a light hand was placed
on his shoulder, when he started as if it had been a blow.
The intruder was Edna, who, having knocked at the door and receiving no
reply, had entered the room with some anxiety. "Father, dear father, how
you frighten me! What ails you? Are you in pain?" exclaimed she, alarmed
at his wild aspect. "Do tell me, please tell me, what is the matter?"
"Matter--matter," repeated Mr. Heath abstractedly, as he rose and walked
towards the window. "No--no--nothing, child, nothing. Why do you--Ring
the bell for James and leave me--leave me, I tell you. I have business
to occupy me." He was rattling his fingers nervously on the window-panes
as he spoke, and looking vacantly out. His daughter strove to draw him
aside, and looking in his face asked anxiously if she might be
permitted to send for a physician. "I'm sure there's something the
matter with you--you look so very, very strange. Do please, father, may
I?"
"No, no, no! Leave me, Edna, and do as I bid you." She obeyed, and Mr.
Heath made a struggle to regain his self-possession. When the servant
came, he directed him to bring a decanter of brandy. As soon as it was
brought, with a trembling hand he poured out a tumblerful and gulped it
down. It seemed to affect him no more than so much water, and pacing the
room, he forced a laugh as he soliloquized: "Idiot, idiot, and threefold
fool! What is it to me that this vagabond and ruffian has met his
deserts? Nothing, surely nothing. Then why should I worry about it? Why
should I be tormented and maddened by it? Those who murder must expect
to be hung. A man is responsible only for his own crimes--the crimes he
himself commits, and surely none other, none other. What a monstrous,
cruel, wicked doctrine it would be that would hold men to account for
the remote and indirect consequences of trivial and commonplace acts.
Skilful lawyers cheat justice every day; thousands and thousands of
villains have been rescued from the clutches of the law by their paid
advocates, and set loose on society, to again plunder and kill. As well
hold these advocates responsible for the crimes subsequently committed
by their clients, as to tax me with--pshaw! it's too absurd to
deserve a moment's thought. What a simpleton I am to quake like a
puny child because a low ruffian meets his merited fate! How
ridiculous--absurd--preposterous! No, no; I am getting old and
childish--old and childish," he continued to croon, until interrupted by
the entrance of a servant with luncheon, who was quickly bidden to
withdraw.
The luncheon remained untouched.
Again in the arm-chair, and staring with a look of despair at the fire;
again torturing thoughts seethe in his brain. The pirate Klove was hung
yesterday for murder. What a blood-stained desperado he was, and what a
life he had led! Where was his soul now? Who would exchange places with
him to gain the whole world? And all this had arisen, he said, from the
dishonesty of some one who had caused him to be unjustly accused of
stealing a small sum of money. What a flimsy and shameless apology!
What an atrocious attempt to shift the responsibility of hellish deeds
to other shoulders; to drag some innocent person to everlasting
perdition with him! Suppose Cook, his employer, had really given him the
money, and had no intention of wrongfully accusing him--what then?
Perhaps the money was lost, and if so, if any one had found it they
would naturally have kept it. Of course, anybody would do that. It's a
very common thing for persons to do. It is an everyday occurrence. No
one but a fool would act otherwise. Ten dollars is but a trifle, and to
attribute to the loss of a sum so paltry such terrible, awful
consequences, is simply ridiculous. But the boy should not have been
allowed to rest under the imputation of having stolen it. He should have
been saved from arrest. They discharged him--yes, they discharged him.
He was not long imprisoned. True, but he should have been cleared from
suspicion at any cost--any cost! His innocence proclaimed in thunder
tones far and wide! To omit that was wrong, fearfully, bitterly wrong!
Not doing so, forced him to leave home in disgrace; made him an
outcast, killed his mother, drove his sister to shame. Horror!... And he
thanked the kind gentleman who had been so good to him, and with his
dying breath, bade God bless and reward him! "O Christ, help--help me!"
These last words escaped from Mr. Heath in a lacerating cry. He pressed
his hands to his face as if to shut out some horrifying sight, and
remained so until he gradually fell into a dreamy stupor. The excited
mind ceased to work, and became numb. Luminous images floated before his
mental vision, and kaleidoscopic interminglings of uncouth objects and
faces.
Then the wearied and distracted brain lapsed into a feverish slumber--a
slumber alive with fearful visions. He dreamt he was in a prison-cell.
It was night, and the grated door swung open to admit the jailer and
hangman. They pinioned him, and led him out to the scaffold. At the foot
of the gallows lay a coffin, containing the corpse of Klove, with
horribly distorted features. The hangman was about pulling a cap over
his face, when Mr. Heath awoke with trembling limbs, and a cold sweat
starting from every pore.
It was evening, for he had lain in that stupor and sleep for hours.
Again he resorted to the brandy to dissipate the lingering impressions
of the frightful nightmare, and then rang the bell. The servant
appeared, and desired to know what his master wanted. Nothing--nothing.
Yes, to have light in the library--he would read. Did Mr. Heath wish to
have dinner brought up to him? No, no; leave me--leave me. The man lit
the gas in the library, replenished the grate, and left.
The library was the room adjoining Mr. Heath's, and thither he went. He
took a volume from a shelf, and returned to his apartment; then resumed
his seat and lethargic stare at the fire. The book fell unheeded from
his grasp.
Hours passed, and again the coarse, distorted, purple features of Klove
appeared--once the countenance of a timid boy, who stood falsely accused
and cowering before a stern magistrate; thence driven by a storm of
hisses, and flying from home, followed by a widowed mother and
child-sister. And the brand THIEF clings to the hapless lad, and
enmeshes him in a web of misfortune; now reckless with despair, he
plunges into vice and crime, until the law forces him to yield up his
spotted soul on the gallows!
_And how fared the real thief?_
He, sly and sharp, in sudden glee at his trover, bought with it a
lottery ticket that drew a prize. This windfall, shrewdly invested,
brought him a fortune, then an heiress; and thus he waxed in wealth and
station, until he became one whose possessions bred envy, and whose
position commanded respect; while the innocent and wrongly accused boy
became an outcast, a criminal--an assassin! Driven to perdition by the
wealthy and respectable citizen!
* * * * *
"It's a dream--a dream. The foolish dream of an enfeebled man, whose
reason and judgment are failing and wandering; who is frightened at
shadows conjured by his imagination. My mind wanders. Why will those
dreadful thoughts return? That sinking terror!"
* * * * *
"I must leave this room--this place--for the air is full of jibing
imps!... I must go, for all this luxury mocks me. Away from this
roof--from these ponderous walls, that are loaded with iniquity, or
they will fall and crush me.... In some quiet, retired spot I may live
in happiness and peace...."
* * * * *
Mr. Heath left his room, and with stealthy steps descended the stairs.
It was late; the house was silent; all had retired for the night save
he. With nimble fingers he opened the hall-door noiselessly, and went
out on the lawn. He was bareheaded, and in his dressing-gown and
slippers. The night was dark, gloomy, and rainy. The cold drops falling
on his unprotected head seemed to soothe and refresh him.
"So, so--this is better," he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. "How
dreadful was all that pomp and glitter! How fortunate I am to have
escaped from those torturing, horrible riches! That wealth was consuming
me like licking flames--that load of ill-gotten money crushing my poor
brain--my poor brain. Now I am free, free! and will seek a home where
poverty, and peace, and happiness abide."
With almost preternatural adroitness he picked his way, in spite of the
obscurity, over his grounds and out at a postern gate to the open road.
He walked along rapidly, and seemed intent on reaching the town. He
changed his apparent intention, however, for he retraced his steps and
turned abruptly into a by-path that led along the river-side. On he went
towards the cliff, proceeding as unerringly as if in broad daylight, and
without the slightest hesitation, guided, perhaps, by some instinct
similar to the marvellous second-sight of the somnambulist. The least
deviation might have brought him to the edge of the precipice. At length
he reached the foot-bridge. It was a frail structure of wood spanning
the chasm, with its ends resting on the lofty basaltic walls. Mr. Heath
was about to cross this bridge, but stopped midway and gazed in the
direction of the town only to be distinguished by the faint glimmer of a
few lights. He seemed absorbed in reflection, and stood there in that
wild, rainy night, unmindful of the cold and wet, and motionless amid
the continual thunder of the falling waters, visible through the
blackness in swiftly agitated scrolls of snowy foam. But his thoughts
were elsewhere; back to the time when he was a young man beginning life,
and had seen the boy Klove standing on that bridge with his little
sister by him! The two children were staring in open-eyed awe at the
appalling depth below them, and the boy held the girl tightly by the
hand in precaution. It seemed but yesterday. He, Heath, then a clerk,
was taking some papers to Mr. Obershaw, when he passed those two
innocent children on the bridge. Better for them--far better, had he
flung them both into the raging torrent below! Again he met the boy at
old Van Slyke's store. There was a dispute about a missing bank-note,
and the lad was in dismay at the loss. He, Heath, had seen the note fall
on the floor, and put his foot on it. He could distinctly recall the
feeling of gratification with which he slyly secured it, and the
singular superstitious prompting that induced him to buy a lottery
ticket with it. That bank-note had borne him luck, and proved the
corner-stone of his opulence and grandeur; and its loss had entailed the
destruction of two souls! What fearful, fatal results from so light a
theft! How deeply had the boy fallen--a malefactor, a deeply-dyed
murderer, and his sister--that helpless child! O Christ! that awful
conscience-throe! Why had he not sent them both to eternity then?
Better for them and for him. Mercy, mercy! that terrible lead-like load
is coming again, and pressing--pressing so fearfully on the throbbing
brain. Help--O God!... Easier now--and hark! A voice seems calling to
him. No, it's but the sighing wind. Oh for rest, and forgetfulness, and
peace! Rest and oblivion. Take all--all! and give me that. Cannot wealth
buy it? It is there, though--down there! How quietly those black
boulders sleep amid that boiling foam. One leap and I am free!
With a frantic toss of his arms Rufus Heath flung himself off the
bridge. A form vanished into the dark abyss, and all was over. Sullenly
and persistently, as before, the Passaic plunged over the steep, bearing
in its rapid tide the magnifico of Belton, like a drifting log.
* * * * *
Early the next morning, as some artisans were going to their work and
walking along the riversde, their attention was attracted by a partly
submerged object near the bank. It was the body of Rufus Heath, kept to
the surface by the swirl of an eddy. With the assistance of a boat, the
corpse was drawn ashore, and kept there until the coroner could be
summoned. Like wild-fire the news spread through Belton, and crowds
hurried to see the drowned body of its chief citizen.
And then through the circle of gaping, curious spectators came a cry of
anguish that separated them like the thrust of a sword; and they hustled
aside as the daughter hastened with faltering steps to her dead father.
With clasped hands, knit brows, and brimming eyes the poor child knelt
to embrace the wet and bruised head. Her low quivering sobs awed them
all, until George Gildersleeve, tenderly unclasping her clinging arms,
raised her fainting form, and bore her away.