THE SEARCH IN THE WOODS.
From noon until twilight Annie Dorris watched the point on the other
shore of the river, where her husband had promised to wave the signal of
his return long before nightfall, but nothing did she see save the
floating debris of the flood, which looked like tired travellers
hurrying forward to find a night's shelter.
Great trees came floating down, with their arms outstretched as if for
help, and occasionally these disappeared in the angry water, as human
floaters might disappear after giving up in despair, believing it to be
impossible to reach the shore.
Boats carrying parties of men came back, one by one, to the town, as the
afternoon wore away, and the ferry came in later in the evening, panting
like a thing of life after its hard day's work; but no boat with a
single, strong rower appeared to cheer the gaze of the faithful watcher.
Everything seemed to be hurrying away from her, and from Davy's Bend,
and from the gathering darkness under the trees, save the returning
boats, and she thought their occupants appeared to be anxious to reach
their own homes, and tell of some horror in the woods. Perhaps some of
the rowers had a message to be delivered at The Locks; and when they did
not come, the fear found its way to her throbbing heart that the news
was dreadful, and that they delayed until they could muster up more
courage.
While it was yet light on the water, an ugly night-shade collected under
the trees where her husband's boat had disappeared, reaching out with
long arms to capture those in the boats, who were hurrying away from
it,--a black monster it seemed, fat with prey, watching the town with
stealthy care until its people were sleeping after the day's work, and
unsuspicious of attack.
As Annie Dorris watched this black shadow grow larger and larger, and
become so bold as to approach still nearer to the town, it seemed to her
that no one within it could ever escape; and though an occasional boat
did come out, it hurried toward the town rapidly, as if in fright, and
this encouraged her to hope that her husband had been delayed in some
way, and would safely return with wonderful adventures to relate. So she
kept up the vigil, and saw the shadow grow blacker as the afternoon
became night.
When it was too dark to see even the river, Annie Dorris stood looking
out into the night, hoping that her husband had returned another way,
and that his footstep would soon be heard on the stair; for she could
think of no danger that could befall him, since rowing in the flood was
safe, in spite of the strong current. Once she heard a light step on the
stair, and she was sure that it was her husband coming up to surprise
her, and there was a pause of long duration on the landing; but when she
threw open the door in joyful expectation, the quiet darkness looked at
her in pity. More than once the footstep on the stair was heard by the
anxious and terrified wife, and more than once she hurried to the door
to look into the hall; but hope seemed to be leaving the house, and she
imagined she heard it in the lower hall, hurrying away.
Returning to the window, she saw such fearful phantoms in the darkness
that she ran, bareheaded, into the street, and up the hill to her
father's house.
"Annie!" Thompson Benton said, as she ran into his room with starting
eyes and dishevelled hair. "Annie, what has happened?"
"Oh, father," she replied, bursting into tears, "my husband has not
returned from the bottoms!"
Thompson Benton had been expecting a calamity to befall Allan Dorris;
for, while he had grown to honestly admire him, there was always
something in his manner which indicated that he was in danger. Perhaps
this suspicious dread grew out of the keen relish with which Allan
Dorris enjoyed his home; as if every day were to be his last. It may
have been the result of the general belief that he remained in the town
to hide away from malicious enemies, or knowledge of the pathetic
sadness which always distinguished his manner; but, whatever it was,
Thompson Benton put on his coat and boots, which he had just taken off,
precisely as a man might do who had been summoned on a long-expected
errand. He had no explanations of the absence to offer to the weeping
wife, but became grave at once, and made his preparations to go out in
nervous haste. So, without speaking an encouraging word to his daughter,
who had sunk down on her knees beside her father's chair, he left the
house and hurried down to the town.
With long strides he reached the river's brink, where a number of boats
were tied, and spoke to a few trusty men who were there, some of whom at
once put oars into two of the boats, while others hurried back into the
town after lanterns and torches.
While they were gone Thompson Benton walked up and down the bank,
pausing frequently to look toward the woods, but he said nothing, and
paid no attention to those who looked at him curiously for an
explanation; for the absence of this grim old man from his home at night
was important; it was particularly important now, since it was known
that he was only waiting for the return of the men with the torches, to
go over into the bottoms.
The news spread rapidly that something unusual was in the air, and when
the two boats, rowed by four men each, pushed out into the stream, half
of the town was left on the bank to talk of their mission in low
whispers, and hope that Allan Dorris would be found safe and well.
Among those who watched the lights in the boats as they were rowed away
and finally disappeared under the trees, was Silas Davy, who felt that
his neglect to warn Allan Dorris of the shadow which followed him so
persistently had resulted in a tragedy at last. The departure of the men
at that hour to look for him, and the preparations they had made for the
search, were dreadfully significant,--there could be no mistake of that;
and Silas wandered along the shore for an hour, hoping to see the boats
return, and hear the men talking cheerfully on the water, indicating
that his friend had been found. But the longer he watched the woods, the
darker they became, and the less prospect there seemed to be that the
lights the men had carried would ever reappear, so he resolved to walk
up to The Locks, hoping to find Dorris there, and be the first to give
the news to the town. But at the gate he met Mrs. Wedge, who anxiously
asked him for information of the missing man; there was nothing cheerful
in her pale, anxious face, nor in the stillness which hung about the
place like a pall.
Silas was compelled to acknowledge that there was so little hope in the
town that he had come there for encouragement. He then told her in a
whisper of the departure of the men in the boats, and of their carrying
lanterns and torches, but Mrs. Wedge did not give him the encouragement
he expected, for she put her hands to her face, and Silas was certain
that she was crying. When she had recovered her composure, she motioned
the little man to follow her, and they walked together up the broad
walk, and up the stone steps until they entered the door. There were no
lights in the house, and the great mass of stone seemed to be a part of
the darkness from the woods. When they were on the inside, Mrs. Wedge
carefully closed the door, and said to him softly,--
"Listen!"
A timid step on the stair, going up and coming down in unceasing
monotony. Occasionally it stopped on going up, as if it were of no use
to look again; on coming down, as if fearing some corner had been
overlooked in the search, but it soon went on again, up and down the
stair, into the room which was sacred to the empty cradle, and out of it
again,--the step on the stair which always gave warning of trouble. Once
it came so near them that Silas half expected, as he stood trembling in
the darkness, that the ghost of poor Helen would lay hands on him, and
inquire in pitiful tones for the little girl who seemed to be lost in
the house. But it passed by, and wearily ascended the stairs, only to
come wearily down again after a short absence in the room where the
light and the life had gone out.
Mrs. Wedge led Silas back to the gate, and, after crying softly to
herself awhile, said to him in a voice so agitated that he could
scarcely understand her,--
"It has not been heard before since they were married. I had hoped that
poor Helen had found rest at last, but her footstep on the stair this
night means--I won't say the word! It might be carried by some evil
spirit to his wife. The poor girl is at her father's, and I am afraid to
look at her. O Annie, Annie!"
* * * * *
Meanwhile the boats pursued their journey into the woods; a man in the
bow of each with a torch to direct the rowers. The underbrush was
submerged, and they made fair progress toward the line of hills opposite
the town, though they drifted about a good deal, for sometimes they were
in doubt as to their bearings, as there was nothing to guide them.
Occasionally they stopped to listen, hoping that Dorris had disabled his
boat, and was safe in some of the trees, but, hearing nothing, they
hallooed themselves, each one taking his turn until they were all
hoarse. But the rippling water laughed with joy because their voices
sounded dead in the forest lake, and seemed afraid to venture out into
the damp, noisome darkness.
Finding a place where the current was not so strong, they pulled to a
point which they believed to be above the town, calling "Halloo!
Halloo!" at every boat's length; but the devilish gurgle in the water
continued, and their voices came back to them, like hounds ordered to
enter a dangerous lair. Occasionally a waterfowl resting for the night
was disturbed, and went crashing through the branches of the trees, but
no other sound came to them, and as the hours wore away they looked at
each other in grave apprehension.
A few times, in the middle of clearings, they came upon deserted houses,
with vagrant water pouring in at the windows, only to creep out at other
windows after making a search in the rooms for lives to destroy. But
most of the people had escaped to the hills with their farm animals,
leaving their household effects to be covered with the reptiles which
had been frightened out of the thickets and tall grass, and which clung
to whatever offered them safety. Under the trees they frequently found
drifts composed of household furniture, bridges, fences, out-houses,
logs, stumps, and what not, and the desolation which reigned supreme in
that dark, damp place was relieved but little by the glare of the
torches, which made the men look like pale-faced spirits rowing about in
an eternal effort to escape.
If the men wearied in the search, a look at the earnest, gray-haired old
man in the largest boat, who was always straining his eyes in attempting
to penetrate the darkness, revived them, and they floated on, pulling to
the right or to the left, as Thompson Benton directed, and crying,
"Halloo! Halloo!" in tones which sounded plaintive, and sad, and
hopeless. Always an earnest man, Thompson Benton had never before been
as earnest as he was this night, and he had called "Halloo! Halloo!" so
frequently that when he spoke it was either in a hoarse voice, or in a
soft whisper.
At the lower point of the bend in the hills which gave the town its
name, a sluggish lake was found, the main current striking diagonally
across the river to shorten the distance in its hurry to do mischief
below, and the boats found their way into this. While floating around
not far from the base of the hills, those who were in the smaller boat
suddenly came upon a gravestone, the top of which was only a foot out of
water.
"We are floating over Hedgepath graveyard," the man who was in front
carrying the torch said to the others. The stone which had attracted his
attention seemed to be taller than the others, for it was the only one
appearing above the surface; the water covered everything except this
rounded piece of stone, which alone remained to mark the resting-place
of the dead, providing the dead had not been seized with the universal
desire for floating off, and gone away to visit graveyards in the lower
country.
He caught hold of the stone to steady the boat, and, throwing his light
upon the other side of it, read:--
"Sacred to the memory of--"
The name in whose honor the slab had been raised was below the water,
and the man put his hand down into it to read, as a blind man reads
raised letters.
"The first letter is A," he said, rubbing the face of the stone with his
fingers, "like the alphabet; and the next is L."
The fellow continued rubbing the face of the stone with the tips of his
fingers, while his lips moved as he tried letter after letter, and gave
them up.
"Hello! Another L!" he said in surprise, at last, drawing up his hand
hurriedly on making the discovery, and shaking it violently to throw off
the water, but there remained on his wrist a sickening scum, which he
hurriedly transferred to the side of the boat.
"I'll read no further," he said, with a frightened look. "I'm afraid it
will turn out to be Allan, with a space and a big 'D' following it."
The torch-bearer still held on to the stone while the rowers rested, but
the other boat, in which Thompson Benton sat, was busy a short distance
beyond them; from one clump of debris to another, as if he only hoped
now to find the lifeless body of the one he sought.
"Strange people are buried here," the torch-bearer said, speaking softly
to his panting companions, while they rested from their hard work.
"Suicides, and those who have died violent deaths; Hedgepath is devoted
to them. I've heard it said that this is a rough neighborhood, but the
best of their dead are put away further up the hill. If the flood has
not drowned out the ghosts, we will see one to-night."
The suggestion of ghosts was not a pleasant one to the rowers,
particularly to those who were farthest from the torch, for they looked
timidly about as though they were likely to be approached from behind by
spirits riding on headstones.
"There is a road running along the edge of Hedgepath, leading from the
ferry into the hills," the torch-bearer said, who was the bravest of the
lot, because he was directly under the light, "and those who have
travelled it at night say that the inhabitants of this place sit on
stumps beside the road and want to argue with the passers-by. One fellow
who was hanged,--_he_ has a great deal to say about the perjured
witnesses; and another who was accused of poisoning himself,--he says he
found it in his coffee, though he does not tell who put it there; and so
many others have horrible stories to tell that travellers usually hurry
by this place as fast as they can."
It was not a cheerful subject, but his companions listened with close
attention, occasionally casting glances behind them.
"The unknown people who are found floating in the river; _they_ are
buried here, and those who travel the Hedgepath road at night say these
offer them letters, and ask that they be posted. I have forgotten who it
was, but somebody told me that he received one of these letters in his
own hand, and mailed it, and that soon after one of the bodies was taken
up by friends from a distance, and carried away."
The grim joker was interrupted by a hail from the other boat, and the
men dipped their oars into the water, and pulled toward it.
Thompson Benton and those who were with him were looking with eager eyes
at a boat which was floating a short distance beyond them, within the
rays of their torch, and which was rising and falling with the ripples,
with both oars hanging helplessly out in the water. The men were waiting
in fear for their companions to come up to keep them company before
approaching it, and when the two boats were side by side, they were held
together, and the outside oars of each were used to row toward the
deserted craft, as a party of men who discover a suspicious object in a
strange locality might move toward it together.
As they drew nearer, the form of a prostrate man was seen seen--
Dismiss thy husband into the shadows from whence he came, O pretty wife,
for he is murdered.
In the bottom of the boat, lying easily on his back, the rowers found
Allan Dorris, dead; his eyes closed as if in disturbed sleep, and his
face upturned to the heavens. His right hand was gripped on the side of
the boat, as if his last wish had been to pull himself into a sitting
posture, and look toward the town where his faithful wife was watching
for his return. The flash of the torches made the face look ghastly and
white, and there was a stain of blood on his lips. Those who looked upon
the face saw in it an expression of regret to die, which remained with
them as long as they lived; they spoke of it tenderly to their children,
who grew up and gave their own children descriptions of Allan Dorris's
pitiful face as he lay dead in his boat on the night when the waters of
the great flood began to recede. It is said that the face of a sorrowing
man looks peaceful in death; it may be equally true that death stamps
unmistakable regret on the face of its victim who is not ready.
O, pitiless Death, you might have spared this man, who was just
beginning, and taken one of the mourning thousands who watch for you
through the night, and are sad because of your long delay. This man
desired so much to live that his white face seems to say now: "I cannot
die; I dread it--Oh, how terrible it would be to die now!" And his eyes
are wet with tears; a touching monument of his dread of thee!
The rough men reverently uncovered their heads as Thompson Benton looked
at the dead man in stupefaction, but when he had recovered, he lifted
the body gently up, and made a hasty examination. Laying it down again,
he looked at the men, and said in a tone which indicated that he had
long expected it,--
"Shot in the back."
Lashing their boats together, the rowers gulled back to town without
speaking a word; that containing the body of Allan Dorris towing behind,
the pathetic face looking up to heaven, as if asking forgiveness. The
stars came out as the rowers pursued their journey back to the town, and
the storm was over.
Peace to the pathetic dust! In the town on the hill, where the twinkling
lights mingle with the stars, waits a weeping woman who knew Allan
Dorris well; let her opinion of the dead prevail, and not that of the
gossiping winds which have been whispering into the ears of the people.