_Swinton's Story-Teller, October 31, 1883._
The early darkness of a moonless winter night had fallen, nowhere more
darkly and coldly than upon a certain small western town, whose houses
were huddled together in the valley as if for mutual protection
against the fierce winds sweeping through the trackless forests which
surrounded it. Here and there the cheerful glow of lamp or fire shone
from some uncurtained window, most brightly from the windows of the
stores and saloons that occupied the centre of the town, whence issued
also fitful sounds of talk and laughter. Otherwise the darkness was
complete.
On the outskirts of the town, just at the foot of a steep hill, stood
a cottage somewhat more pretentiously built than the others, and
surrounded by something of a lawn, laid out with flower-beds and
shrubbery, now almost buried in deep drifts of snow. From one window
of this cottage, too, a most heartsome glow streamed out over the snow
from a lamp placed, as could be seen, with loving intent upon the
window-ledge, and out of the darkness there presently emerged the
figure of a man, making his way up the foot-path toward the house, his
feet ringing sharply against the hard-trodden snow.
Along one side of the house--planted without doubt to break the force
of the northern gales--extended a grove of pines and firs, looking
now, in the darkness, like the advance guard of a mighty host with
banners slowly waving, and strange instruments giving forth weird,
unearthly harmonies. As the man passed this spot he slackened his
steps once or twice, and seemed to listen for some sound that had
caught his ear, and again, when his foot was already on the lower step
of the flight leading to the door, he stopped suddenly, his face
turned toward the sombre wall of trees.
The light of the lamp illumined their slender trunks and lower boughs,
leaving their tops wrapped in utter darkness. It also threw into
strong relief the powerful figure of the man, and projected his
shadow, huge, wavering and grotesque, across the intervening space.
For an instant another shadow seemed to start forward from the
mysterious recesses of the pines as if to meet this one, only to fall
back and be gathered into the blackness beyond.
The man shrugged his broad shoulders, and, turning, entered the
house. A fair, slender woman rose from her seat by the open fire, and
went to him.
"Oh! Jamie," she said, "here you are, at last! I'm so glad! I was so
afraid something had happened?"
The man threw off his heavy coat with a good-humored laugh.
"Were you afraid I might blow away?" he asked, straightening his large
figure. "Why are you always imagining vain things, like a foolish
little wifie? I'm big enough to take care of myself, eh, lassie?"
The little wife answered with a smile of loving admiration.
"Come," she said, "supper has been ready a long time, and Bab asleep
this half-hour."
She took the lamp from the window and set it on the table, where it
shone full on her husband's face. It was a fine, thoroughly English
face, with high forehead, brilliant blue eyes, and thick curling hair
and beard of a bright golden-brown. A handsome face, and a strong one,
but for a womanish fulness of the ruddy lips, and a slight lack of
firmness about the chin, which was concealed, however, by the
luxuriant beard. It was a face which could, and habitually did,
radiate amiability, good cheer, and intelligence, but which had a way
of settling at times into stern and melancholy lines, curiously
belying his assured carriage, and the sonorous ring of his ready
laugh.
Very good to look at was James Dixon, and, as his townsmen unanimously
admitted, in spite of his English birth, a good citizen, a shrewd
politician, a generous neighbor, and, though at times a little
reticent and abstracted, a companionable fellow altogether.
Even now, as he sat at his own table, one might have detected a kind
of alertness in his eyes, as of a man ever on his guard, and what
seemed almost a studied avoidance of his wife's soft, persistent gaze,
as she sat opposite him.
"Sh! What was that?" she suddenly exclaimed. There had been a faint
sound outside the window. It had ceased now.
"It was nothing, Bab!" said her husband. "How nervous you are!"
Even as he spoke the sound was repeated, and he himself started now.
"I'm catching your nervousness, Bab," he said, with a short laugh.
"The wind is the very deuce to-night."
At that moment a little girl in her nightgown ran out from the
adjoining room, and with a gleeful cry sprang into his arms, her long
yellow hair spreading itself over his shoulder.
"You see, dear old papa, Bab _wasn't_ asleep!" she cried, covering his
face with kisses.
"And why _isn't_ Bab asleep?" her father said, with an assumption of
sternness.
"Because she _can't_ sleep. The wind makes such a noise in the pines,
and the icicles keep falling off the eaves, and make such a pretty
tinkling on the snow. Do you hear it? Hark!"
"The wind increases fearfully," said the wife, going to the window and
drawing the shade. "It is a bitter night."
"Bad enough for anybody to be out in," said Dixon, with the
comfortable air of one safely housed. He moved his chair to the fire,
and began fondling and playing with the pretty child on his knee. Her
little face, however, had grown suddenly grave.
"What is it, pussy?" asked her father; "it looks so serious all at
once."
"I was thinking," said the child, slowly; "I was wondering where the
poor old man I saw up on the hill to-day would sleep to-night. Such a
poor, poor man, so old and sick and ragged."
"Bless the chick! What is she talking about now?"
"Some man she saw to-day when she was on the hill coasting with the
others," the mother said. "Some tramp, I suppose."
"I have not heard of any in town," said Dixon, with sudden
thoughtfulness. "It isn't the season for tramps. Oh!" he added,
carelessly, as the child continued to look in his face, "some
worthless old vagabond, I suppose, dearie. Don't fret your little
heart about him. He'll find a warm nest in somebody's hay-mow, no
doubt." But little Bab shook her head.
"I don't think he was bad," she said, softly, "only very sick and
sorry. He asked me my name, and when I told him he laughed out so
queer! And then I showed him our house, and told him maybe you'd give
him some money, and then he laughed again, and then I--I got scared
because the other girls had all run away, and I ran away, too."
Her father had listened with strange intentness. His playfulness was
extinguished, and his face looked all at once careworn and troubled.
"You're a silly little lass," he said, after a moment's silence, "and
you must not talk to strange men who ask questions. They might carry
you off, you know."
He held the child silently a little while longer, and then carried her
back to her bed; after which he returned to his seat near the fire.
His wife had already seated herself in her low chair, her face bent
above the knitting in her hands. Outside the wind howled and roared,
but in the room where these two sat all was, to the eye, calm, and
sweet, and cosey. The fire glowed, and emitted cheerful little snaps
and sparks, the clock ticked, and the knitting-needles clicked, and
through the open door the child's soft, regular breathing was
distinctly audible. Suddenly the woman stirred and looked up, to find
her husband's eyes fixed upon her. Strangely enough they faltered, and
turned away, but presently came back to hers again.
"You are very silent to-night, lassie," he said, putting out his hand
to stroke her fair girlish head. "Are you ill, or over-tired?"
She shook her head, and dropping the knitting from her hands, clasped
them over her husband's knee, and laid her cheek upon them.
"No," she said, softly, "not ill, nor tired. Only somehow I have been
thinking all day of old times and--_of him!_"
She dropped her voice to a whisper as she spoke the last words, and
her husband felt the hands on his knee tremble. He said nothing,
though his face grew dark, and his teeth shut over his lip tightly. "I
have been wondering," she went on, "what became of him, Jamie!--if he
is still alive, and--" with a break in the soft voice--"if he has
forgiven me _my_ part in his suffering. Oh, Jamie!" she broke out
passionately, throwing her arms about her husband, and raising her
lovely, tearful face to his, "Oh, Jamie! I was so young and foolish
when I promised to be his wife, and I had not even seen you then! Tell
me, Jamie, was I so very, very wicked that I loved you best? Could I
help it, Jamie?" She rose and threw herself upon his breast, sobbing
like a child. She could not, through her tears, see the working of his
face, nor the effort it caused him to speak. He tried to quiet her
with caresses and all manner of fond epithets, and at last she lay
still, with closed eyes, upon his shoulder.
A tremendous blast swept through the valley, shaking the cottage to
its foundation, and shrieking down the chimney like a cry of despair.
"Great heavens!" Dixon muttered; "what a night!" Then, rousing
himself, he added, "Come, lassie. Come rest, and promise me not to
give way to such excitement again. You are not strong, and such moods
are dangerous for you."
They rose, and stood facing each other before the dying fire.
"One thing," he said, seizing her hands, with a swift change of
manner--"one thing, Barbara. Have you ever been sorry that you came
with me--that you trusted me?"
She looked at him wonderingly, but with perfect love and trustfulness.
"Never, Jamie!" she said. "Never for one moment."
"And whatever happens," he went on, drawing her closer, "whatever
happens, you are sure you never _will_ be sorry?"
"Quite sure, Jamie!"
He kissed her again and again, until she laughed at his lover-like
vehemence.
"Any one would suppose we were about to be separated for years," she
said, playfully.
He laughed, too, but his face and voice were serious, as he said,
firmly:
"Nothing shall separate us but death, lassie!"
* * * * *
... When Dixon left his house the next morning it was still intensely
cold, but the wind had gone down, and the clumps of evergreens and
shrubbery on the lawn were motionless as if painted there.
He stood a moment on the lower step drawing on his fur mittens, and,
nodding at the child-face smiling at him from the window, then started
to go. But at the first step his foot struck against some object which
gave out a metallic sound, and stooping quickly, he raised from the
snow a small pistol. One glance showed him that it was in perfect
order, and every barrel loaded.
He remained for some time turning this object over and over in his
hand, his nether lip drawn between his teeth. At last he glanced
toward the window. The child was no longer there, but he saw now, what
had before escaped his notice, that the snow beneath the window was
broken and trodden by a man's footprints. With a smothered exclamation
Dixon bent an instant above these tracks, and then began tracing them
carefully. He found where they led from the group of pines to the
window; he found where they had first approached the house across the
open fields from the hill beyond, direct and even, as of one with a
fixed purpose; he found also where they had turned from the window in
long, regular strides as of one in flight. These he followed to the
foot of the hill, and across to the other side, where they seemed to
lose themselves in the trackless forest. He stood here again for some
moments, an ashy ring forming itself about his lips. Then, with a deep
breath, he set his teeth together, thrust the pistol into his pocket,
and turned toward the town. It was scarcely awake as yet. Smoke curled
lazily upward from the chimneys, but hardly any one was stirring. Even
about the door of that great commercial emporium known far and near as
"Buckey's," the regular loafers had as yet no representative; and
here, as elsewhere, the snow, which had drifted across the steps, was
undisturbed.
A little beyond "Buckey's" stood a neat frame structure, across whose
entrance stretched a sign bearing the inscription:
"James Dixon, Justice of the Peace."
This building Dixon entered. A boy who was steaming himself at the
great stove in the centre of the room looked up with a duck of the
head as the proprietor of the office entered, paying no further
attention as he proceeded to divest himself of his outer garments and
seat himself at his desk.
Apparently business at this time of the year was not pressing, for,
beyond arranging some papers with legal headings, and glancing over a
newspaper or two, Dixon did no work. The most of the time he sat
industriously smoking, his eyes set upon the uncheerful winter
landscape without. Once, when the boy was absent he took from his
breast-pocket the pistol, and examined it again with a knitted brow;
after which he locked it in a drawer of the desk, and resumed his
pipe.
At noon he sent the boy away, and, locking the office-door, turned his
face homeward. The town was awake now, or as much so as it was likely
to be. A few sleighs and sleds were standing before the doors of the
saloons, and it appeared to Dixon that an unwonted excitement
prevailed in and about "Buckey's," all the men visible being gathered
before the familiar red door, and all talking at once in even louder
tones than usual.
As Dixon came nearer, two of the men started forward and approached
him.
"We was jest a-comin' fur ye, Square," said the foremost. "Thar's a
stranger in thar as won't give no account of himself, an' we was
thinkin'----"
"Oh, quit foolin'," said the other, roughly. "It's nothing but a dead
tramp. That's all, Square," and he shifted his quid to the other side
of his mouth, composedly.
Dixon changed countenance. A little tremor ran through his frame.
"A tramp?" he repeated. "Dead?"
"Dead as a door-nail!" the man answered. "Froze brittle. Small an' his
boy found him this mornin' in Crosse's timber."
They started on, giving Dixon precedence. It appeared to the men that
he showed very small interest, and unaccountable deliberation. Even
when they had reached Buckey's, he mounted the steps slowly, standing
an instant with his hands on the latch, as if indifferent, or
reluctant. At last, with another impatient movement of the shoulders,
he opened the door and went in. The crowd of rough, bearded men who
filled the space between the counters and the stove, nodded
respectfully and fell back.
That which they had surrounded lay stretched stark and stiff upon the
bare floor. It was the body of a man which had been at some time
sturdy and strong. Now it was pinched and wasted, and clad in thin,
worn garments, and shoes that seemed ready to drop from the naked,
frost-bitten feet. The unkempt iron-gray hair and beard gave the face,
at first glance, a look of wildness, but, observing more closely, one
saw that the features, though heavy, were not uncomely, and wore a
look of extreme suffering, which even death had not been able to
efface.
"Looks like a Inglishman, eh, Square?" said one of the men present.
Dixon did not seem to have heard him. He stood looking down upon the
dead man without moving or speaking. The ashy ring had again shown
itself about his lips, and was creeping slowly over his face.
"It's the first as I've seen in these parts for many a year," said
another. "Our county ain't pop'lar with that kind," he added, grimly.
"He took a mighty oncomfortable time o' year fur trampin'," said a
blear-eyed vagabond near the stove. "I've ben meditatin' somethin' o'
the kind myself, but reckon I'll wait fur warm weather. My
constitution is delikit."
"_Don't_ wait for warm weather, Shanks," said Buckey himself, leaning
comfortably across the counter. "They'll make it warm enough for
_you_, whenever ye go!"
At the laugh which followed this sally, Dixon started and looked
around him, in a dazed sort of way. The laugh died out suddenly, and
the men sank into a shame-faced silence, but even now he did not
speak.
"They's somethin' in his breast pocket, Square," said one of them,
bending over the body. "Somethin' like a book, or a----"
"Take it out, Slater," said Dixon, in a voice at which all present
started, and looked at him curiously.
The man did as ordered, producing from the tattered pocket a small,
soiled blank-book, whose pages appeared to be closely written. He
handed it to Dixon, who took it mechanically, and, opening it,
appeared to glance at the contents at random.
Those nearest him saw his fingers close suddenly upon the book, and
heard the sharp indrawn breath which he shut back between his teeth.
He put his hand to his head again, and held it there while his eyes
swept over the group of respectful but inquisitive faces.
"There is something here," he said, holding the book before him, and
speaking in the voice which had once before made them start--"there is
something here I would like to look into. Let the--the body lie here
until I come back."
There was a murmur of assent, and he turned and left the store. They
saw him stand a moment on the step outside, his face toward home. Then
he turned in the opposite direction and disappeared.
Dixon entered his office, locked the door, and flung himself into his
chair, the little book open before him. The ashen ring had widened
until his whole face was like that of the dead. Not a muscle of his
rigid face stirred as with desperate eyes he read on and on. Only the
faint rustle of the leaves as he turned the pages, and his heavy
breathing broke the silence. And this is what he read: