THE APPARITION.
Ye seem to look on me with asking eyes!
Listen! and I will tell a fearful story!
Since I remember aught about myself,
A strange heart sickness almost like to death,
A deep remorse for some unacted crime,
For some impossible, nameless wickedness,
Was on me--in its prophecy I lived;
No wretch dragg'd on to execution
E'er felt more horrid pangs than then stirr'd up
My spirit with remorseful agony.--JOHN WILSON.
Eighteen months had passed since the murder of Oswald Waring, and yet
the murderer had not been apprehended. Though, upon the night of that
fatal catastrophe, both the regular and volunteer police had turned out
in great numbers, and scattered themselves over the neighborhood in
pursuit of the criminal; though trained sleuth-hounds had been made to
smell his clothing, and had been set upon his scent; though, thus with
men and dogs, the authorities had hunted him throughout the State, and
had offered the largest rewards for his betrayal or apprehension, this
length of time had passed, and he had not been arrested.
Mr. Waring having died intestate, his property, according to the laws of
that commonwealth, fell to the next of kin.
His childless widow inherited none of her late husband's wealth, but
returned to New Orleans, and thence retired to the country, to live upon
her own reserved patrimony.
The plantation fell into other hands, and the planter passed out of
memory.
Valentine, with his crime and his fate, overlaid by newer excitements,
was already sinking into oblivion. He was supposed to have escaped from
the State. But there were three faithful friends who knew that, in all
this time, the miserable young man had never left the neighborhood, or
wandered five miles from the blood-stained floor of his crime.
Phaedra was set free. The quadroons and mestizzas, with all their fiery
vehemence of temperament, have perhaps less of real vital stamina than
any other race. They cannot bear up under any great mental or physical
pressure. Phaedra, by the terrible blow that had fallen upon her, was
crushed into premature age and decrepitude. And, as a useless old crone,
she was suffered by her new master to retire to a lone cabin in the pine
barrens above the cypress swamp, and, without being required to work,
was supplied with rations of food and clothing upon an equal footing
with the plantation laborers.
But this poor Naomi, in her desolation, had also her Ruth.
Fannie had almost miraculously recovered from the yellow fever; and, in
the mental imbecility that had attended her convalescence, she had been
long shielded from the knowledge of the calamity that had fallen upon
them all; and at last so gradually did the facts of the catastrophe
enter her mind that she could never after say when or how she first
learned the sum of her misery; and thus she was spared the sudden shock
that must certainly have proved fatal to her.
No one could look upon that fragile form and thin face, with its fair,
transparent pallor, and large, mournful eyes, and not know her heart was
breaking.
What kept her life power going?
Something that was not the love of her child, or of her poor, old
mother! Something that occasionally varied that look of hopeless,
incurable sorrow, with a wild and startled expression of extreme terror,
suggestive of insanity. Some people thought it was insanity, but they
were mistaken; her reason was sound, though her heart was broken.
Fannie kept a little thread and needle shop; she owed the little shop to
the benevolence of Mrs. Waring; for, to the honor of that poor lady be
it spoken, even in the midst of her own awful sorrow, she had remembered
and succored her humble sister in adversity. Fannie's little shop
thrived moderately, and afforded herself and child a decent living, and
the means of alleviating some of the miseries and adding to the few
comforts of her poor mother.
Early every Saturday evening Fannie would close her little shop and take
her child and walk out to Phaedra's cabin, to remain until Monday
morning. And these seasons, spent in reading the Scriptures, in prayer,
and in mutual consolations, were the least unhappy in these poor
women's lives.
Phaedra's decrepitude confined her closely at home.
But the brothers and sisters of her church did not leave her alone in
her sorrow. They came frequently, they ministered to all her
necessities, material and spiritual, as far as she had need, and they
had power. They held a weekly prayer-meeting at her house.
And these Thursday evening meetings were sources of great comfort to the
desolate woman.
Fannie was frequently present at them. And the old negro preacher,
Elisha, was invariable in his punctual attendance. There was also
another, a constant, though an unknown and unsuspected worshipper among
them.
Valentine's name had long died off from every tongue, as his memory
seemed to have expired from every heart. Even in comforting Phaedra her
friends never designated the nature of her grief; and, in praying for
the Lord's mercy upon their "aged sister in her sore affliction," they
never named that affliction's cause. And though the unhappy man was
remembered in their petitions, it was in silence and in secrecy.
One Thursday evening, while the March winds were piping through the pine
barrens, Phaedra was holding a prayer-meeting in her cabin.
There were about twenty negroes, both men and women, present.
Among them was the old preacher, Elisha, who led the devotions.
Fannie was also present, with her child. And the look of wild anxiety
that occasionally varied the heart-broken expression of her face seemed
now fixed; her usually patient, suffering countenance was absolutely
haggard with terror, and strong shudders shook her frame.
Phaedra watched her with great uneasiness.
Meantime the meeting went on in its services, and they sang, prayed and
exhorted in turn. It was not what is technically called a "good"
meeting. Few seemed to enjoy the privilege of prayer, or to possess the
gift of exhortation. The very singing was tame and lifeless. There
seemed to be some spell of heaviness cast over all. At last, toward the
close of the evening, an aged brother arose, and began in a strain of
such wild eloquence, as deep, earnest, fervid emotions confer upon
untutored minds, to exhort his brethren and sisters of the church upon
the subject of their apathy and lukewarmness. I can do no justice to
that wild, eyrie style of oratory. It impressed, affected and strongly
excited his hearers. He concluded with _outre_ expressions and
gesticulations:
"And why, my brethren, is this freezing spell of spiritual cold cast
over us? Why can we not pray, or exhort, or sing, or take sweet counsel
together? Why can we not love, or fear, or feel? Why will not the Spirit
of God come down to us? Why will not the Lord inspire and accept our
prayers? Is it because there is 'some accursed thing hidden' among us?
Is there an Achan in our camp? I charge you, brother, sister, whoever
you be, repent! speak! cast the foul sin from your soul!"
He was interrupted by a deep, hollow voice that proceeded from an
obscure corner, where a seeming old woman sat crouching, her form
enveloped in a long cloak, her head hidden in a deep sunbonnet.
"Yes! there is 'an accursed thing hidden' in your midst! and I am the
Achan in your camp!" And the figure arose, and the cloak fell, and the
bonnet was dropped, and the stranger stood revealed.
"Valentine! Valentine!" cried Fannie, in a voice of agony.
He crossed quickly through the astonished group, to the spot where she
cowered. He stooped and spoke to her a few earnest words, and sat her
down where she could drop her poor, young head upon the lap of the
trembling, sorrow-stricken Phaedra, while he stood up and gazed upon the
crowd, who remained, stunned with consternation into silence.
Valentine was frightfully changed in the last eighteen months. His flesh
had wasted from his bones, until it left him almost a walking skeleton;
his skin had darkened, and his eyes had sunken, and concentrated their
fires until they burned like two imbedded stars; his voice was
cavernous. While the negroes present returned his gaze in silent awe, he
spoke:
"A price is on my head! the Governor, or the State, will purchase and
emancipate any man here who will deliver me up to death. It is written
that 'a murderer shall hang on a tree!' It is every man's duty to
deliver, if he can, a felon up to justice! It is every man's duty here
to procure, if he can, his own freedom! Therefore, it is doubly some
man's duty to take me into custody. I have determined to die for my
deed! Doubtless, I could go at any time, and surrender to the
authorities. But in that case I should not do the little good I am now
desirous of doing. I should not in dying procure some one of you his
freedom! Therefore, I wish that one of you take me in custody, and
attend me to M----. Come, choose! elect, or cast lots for him who is to
be the freeman. Brother Portiphar----"
Before Valentine could say another word the old preacher, Elisha, who
had been gradually getting over his astonishment, and, recovering his
self-possession climbed over stools and chairs and the crouching forms
of women and children, and made his way toward Valentine, whom he
embraced with his left arm, while he closed his lips by laying over them
his right hand.
"Hush, Brudder Walley, hush! You don't know what you'se a-sayin' of.
You'se a prophesyin' of de ole law 'stead o' de new gospel! 'Sides
which, would you temp' any brudder here to sin an' slave his 'mortal
soul, sake o' freein' of his poor, perishin' body? Hush, Brudder Walley,
an' let me prophesy. Bredren and sisters, is der a man or a woman in de
soun' o' my voice as 'ould 'cept his free papers on de terms as Brudder
Walley offers--at de price of a brudder's life an' a sister's happiness?
Which ob yer here 'ould buy his freedom wid the price ob Walley's blood,
and Phaedra's and Fannie's tears? Would you, Brudder Portiphar? or you,
Sister Deely? or you? or you? No, not one ob you. Now, brudders an'
sisters, I'se got a proposition to make. Fust, bolt dat door, Brudder
Isaac, an' see to de fastenin' o' dat winder, Sister Hera; no knowin'
who'se 'bout. Now, let's speak low. An' what I want to propose is dis
yer: dat ebery brudder makes a pledge afore he leabes dis room to be
silent as to which has happen here dis night. Let Brudder Walley no more
be lef in de power an' temptations ob de enemy; let him feel hissef free
to 'tend our prayer-meetin's here in peace an' safety, for all as is
happened of to-night. Let us pray wid him, an' try to 'lieve his poor
soul ob its load o' sin an' sorrow!"
Elisha would have spoken longer, but here Portiphar arose, and said, in
effect, that he did not fully agree with Brother Elisha; that he doubted
whether they should be doing right to conceal Valentine, especially when
the conscience of the latter urged him to the expiation of his crime.
Elisha could scarcely wait for the other to finish his remarks before he
arose in a hurry, and said, in effect, if not in these words, and with
some vehemence also, that he was the last to make light of the guilt
that Valentine had brought upon his own soul, but that he also knew,
and no one else knew so well, the maddening provocation that had driven
him to his crime. That he prayed the sin might be washed away by
repentance and faith in the Redeemer; that, for this reason, he wished
Valentine to feel safe in coming among them, to share their prayers, and
hymns, and exhortations, and all their other means of grace; that,
undismayed and undistracted by the worldly sorrows of imprisonment,
trial and impending execution, he might have time to work out his
salvation! That therefore he should shield his sinful brother until they
could prove to him that the gallows was a means of grace, "which I don't
believe it is," concluded old Elisha, as he sat down in quiet triumph,
for he saw that every man and woman among the warm-hearted creatures
present coincided in sentiment with himself, and that Portiphar was put
down and silenced, if not convinced.
And Phaedra and Fannie ventured once more to raise their drooping heads
and look about them. Alas, for their feeble hopes! Valentine, still
standing, and still agonized, waved his hand for silence and attention,
and then spoke.
He told them he had already repented, if that were the word to express
the horrible remorse of blood-guiltiness that had long preyed upon his
heart, and consumed his flesh and blood, and left him what they saw him.
But did they, he asked them, suppose that he had repented only since the
fatal deed? No, no! but for years and years before that catastrophe he
had suffered with that uncommitted crime. Did they think that the act
was premeditated, then? Yes, in one sense it was premeditated, although
entirely unintentional, and so abhorrent that he would have gladly died
to escape committing it. The deed was premeditated, inasmuch as it had
long loomed up before him, a black mountain[2] in his forward path of
life, from which it was impossible to turn aside; to which every breath
and every step drew him nearer and nearer. That the first time he caught
a glimpse of this awful phantom of his future was while he and Oswald
were still boys. He had been provoked and exasperated to frenzy by his
playmate, and, in his utter madness, had struck and tried to kill him.
The reaction from that fit of passion had been terrible. The next
occasion upon which arose darkly before him this inevitable doom was
when his master and himself were youths. One night he was driving Oswald
home. Both were intoxicated; they quarreled; his master threatened him
with the lash; he lost his reason and his very eyesight, and all his
senses, in a dark tempest and whirlwind of mad and blind fury, and
struck with all his strength to destroy. By Heaven's mercy, that blow
was not fatal. But the recovery of his own senses from that frenzy of
anger was more horrible than anything he had ever before experienced.
From that time he had never been able to exorcise the haunting presence
of that black phantom, standing waiting for him at the terminus of his
earthly path, from which he could not escape; to which every breath and
every step drew him nearer and nearer! From that time he had felt in
some baleful moment of extreme exasperation, some irresponsible moment
of mad and blind passion, he should strike a fatal blow. Yet he said he
agonized in soul to escape that black crime; he struggled to conquer his
angry passions; he sought the grace of God, and hoped that he had
possessed it; he swore off from alcohol, that stimulus might not be
added to his other excitements to anger--to the inevitable provocations
arising from his temperament, position and circumstances--provocations
that were constantly exasperating his soul to madness. For years, he
said, no eye but the Lord's had seen the desperate war his spirit had
waged with the powers of evil within and around him, and waged
successfully, until one trying season, when, in the utter prostration of
sorrow and despondency, he had been tempted to place again the maddening
glass to his lips--tempted by the sophistry that prescribed the moral
poison as a medicine; then he lost the habit, and at last the power of
self-control, and one fatal day, when amazed and bewildered with
exceeding sorrow, and stung to frenzy with the sense of wrong-suffering
and cruelty, he had struck the blow that laid his master dead before
him.
[Footnote 2: I use here the precise words of the unhappy man, as they
were repeated to me.]
"Heaven knows I was not thinking of doing it; in my deep sorrow of the
preceding days the phantom of my predestined crime was exorcised. I had
not even that to warn me; the hour was entirely unguarded. I struck in
self-defense. He had intercepted and knocked me down, to prevent me from
going to see my sick wife. Blind and giddy, and furious, I struggled to
my feet, and seized the first weapon that offered, a three-legged stool,
and struck with all my strength; but when I saw the leg crush through
his eye and brain, one lightning thought told me that he was killed, and
thenceforth all the world was against me, and I against the world; and
then waves of blood and clouds of fire seemed to roll up around me, and
rage in a horrible tempest; reason fled utterly, and I knew nothing more
until near midnight, when I came to myself upon the floor of Fannie's
room; and even then, in my vague remorse and horror of half-conscious
blood-guiltiness, I seemed to be some other thing than myself--perhaps
some lost soul in perdition! Brother Elisha, Heaven bless him, was
bending over me. It was to him I owed the preservation of my life. It
was by his counsel and assistance that I disguised myself in poor
Fannie's clothing, which fitted me well enough for the purpose. He even
crimped my hair and tied up my head in a woman's turban. And he found
and thrust Fannie's free papers in my bosom, and then led me off to his
own home. Well, in this disguise, and by keeping very close, I contrived
to elude the vigilance of the police, until a surer place of safety was
provided for me near this cabin. For eighteen months I have eluded the
police; but think you, my brothers and sisters, that, for one moment, I
have escaped the avenger of blood? No! no! After the crime he found me
even in the first moments of my waking consciousness; his clutch has
never been relaxed from my heart; it compresses now, even to
suffocation; the death that you would save me from I die every hour of
my life; I can bear it no longer; I must die once for all, and have done
with it; I should have resigned myself into the hands of the law, and,
in the final expiation, long since found rest, but for Fannie's grief
and terror. But now, even her tears and prayers must not hinder me; even
for her peace it is better I should give myself up to die, and have it
over, for now she lives in the midst of alarms; hereafter, when all is
over, she will at least have quiet."
"Quiet! yes, the quiet of death, for I never can outlive you, Valley!"
said Fannie, in a low tone of despair.
He laid his hand fondly on her bowed head, but without comment resumed
his discourse.
"I was about to surrender myself to the public authorities, when I
reflected that, by giving myself up to my brothers in the church, I
might confer the blessing of freedom upon some one among you, since that
was one of the rewards offered for my arrest. Here I am! Which of you
will make himself a free man to-night?"
He paused a moment, looking around upon the little assembly; and then
fixing his eyes upon a handsome, intelligent-looking, young man, to whom
the gift of freedom might well seem the most desirable of goods, he
said:
"Brother Joseph, will you take me into custody?"
"May the enemy of souls take me in custody, and never let me go, when I
do!" promptly replied young Joe.
"That's you, my boy! And may the same fate befall any one else who would
do the like!" exclaimed old Elisha, emphatically.
A murmur of approbation ran around the little assembly and revealed the
fact that the feelings of the majority were with the speakers.
"Brother Walley! you think yourself a very guilty man. But no one ever
craved freedom more than you did, and yet you know you would never o'
bought your freedom at the price o' any man's life, no matter how fur
forfeit his life might be! An' now, Brudder Walley, please don't think
us so much wus than yourself."
When the little assembly heard this, with one voice (and one exception)
they declared that they would die before they would betray Valentine.
And Elisha, to confirm their faith, went around with the Bible in his
hand, and administered to each an oath of fidelity and silence upon the
subject of Valentine and the transactions of that night.
But when he came to old Portiphar, the latter declared that he had a
scruple against taking an oath on the Evangelists, but readily gave his
promise to be secret.
Valentine, with grateful but troubled looks, regarded these proceedings,
until Phaedra and Fannie, taking advantage of the popular sentiment, came
to him, and, one on each side, seized his hands, besought him, for their
sakes, not to cast away his slender chance of safety.
What was to be done? Love was almost irresistible, and life, perhaps,
even at the worst was sweet; he had come to the resolution to deliver
himself up to justice; but that could be done at any time; and for the
present it could be deferred. He embraced his mother and his wife, and
bade them rest quietly, as he would proceed no farther in the matter
now.
The meeting soon after broke up.
One by one the members of the little community took leave of Valentine,
promising to guard his secret, and remember him in their prayers.
After all the others had departed old Portiphar still lingered. And when
the room was quite clear, he called Valentine to the door and said:
"Brudder Valley, I'se a poor man, wid a fam'ly o' chillun, an' ef so be
you'se 'termin' on gibbin' o' yourself up I wouldn' min' walkin' far as
the squire's office wid you myself."
"Thank you, Portiphar; I will inform you when I need your services.
Good-night," replied the young man, shutting the door upon him.
Portiphar had not proceeded half a dozen steps on his way before he felt
himself seized by the shoulder, and he recognized as his assailant the
strapping negro, young Joe, who, holding him tightly, said:
"See here, Daddy Fox! I thought what you was up to, so I stopped to give
this 'vice! Ef Valley's took up, we shall all know who slipped the
bloodhounds on him, an' then some dark night somethin' will happen to
you so sudden you won't never know what hurt you! Tain't only me, but a
great many more is a-watchin' of you!"
And with this brief and pithy exordium Joe released Portiphar, or rather
spurned him forward, and went his own way. This threat put the old man
in a cold sweat of terror. He knew the strong fellow-feeling among his
own class; that, even in the dangerous number of twenty persons, it
would keep Valentine's secret; that he himself was suspected as a
traitor; that, if Valentine should now be arrested, his own life might
not be safe with those of the meeting who were not professing
Christians; and he resolved to guide himself accordingly.
Several weeks passed in safety to the wretched young man.
But, released from the awful solitude and silence of his own
heavily-burdened soul, free to come among a few of his fellow-creatures,
free to speak of the deep sorrow and remorse that consumed his heart,
among those who pitied and shrank not from him, who prayed for and with
him, Valentine's mind began to recover its healthy tone; he did not
cease to mourn his crime, but he mourned no longer as one without hope;
he was again received into the little brotherhood of the church, the
simple ceremony being performed in the lone cabin; again he became the
man of fervent prayer and eloquent exhortation; and powerful, far more
powerful, was he now, through his terrible experiences and profound
repentance, than ever he had been.
To his confidant brother, Elisha, he was accustomed to say:
"I know I shall not finally escape the earthly punishment of my crime. I
know that sooner or later it must come; nor do I wish to avoid it; yet
will I do nothing to hasten its arrival; but when it shall come, I will
accept it."
To which Elisha would reply: "Our lives are in the hands of the Lord,"
or words to that purpose.
Weeks grew into months, spring ripened into summer, and summer waned
into autumn, and still Valentine lived unmolested.
At length, however, near the last of September, a rumor got afloat that
Valentine, the murderer of Mr. Waring, was concealed somewhere in the
neighborhood of his late master's residence. How this report first got
in circulation no one seemed to be able to tell; though how the secret,
known to twenty people, had been guarded so long may be more of a
subject for conjecture to many minds. Be that as it may, the peace of
the unhappy little family was gone forever. Phaedra's lonely cabin in the
pine barrens and Fannie's humble home in the city were subject to sudden
invasions and searchings by day and by night. Their weekly
prayer-meetings were surprised and broken up. But no trace of Valentine
could be discovered; as unexpectedly as he had appeared, so suddenly had
he again disappeared. The earth seemed to have swallowed him.
But this could not last forever; and upon the third of October Valentine
was arrested under the following suspicious circumstances:
A police officer, stationed in concealment behind a hedge of Spanish
daggers that bordered a lane crossing the highway at right angles, and
running midway between the pine ridge and cypress swamp, saw what seemed
a young negro woman coming down the lane. She was poorly and plainly
clothed, and wore a long sunbonnet. There was nothing whatever in her
manner or appearance to attract attention. Yet this police officer
watched her closely. Presently, coming up the lane from an opposite
direction, appeared the figure of an old negro. The policeman favored
him also with a share of notice. Meeting the seeming woman, the old man
laughed, held out his hand, and exclaimed, in a clear voice:
"Ha! Brudder Walley! Good-morning! Walking out to take a little air,
eh?"
"Hush! for Heaven's sake, don't speak so loud or call me by name. Yes,
I have stolen forth for a breath of fresh air."
"Glad to hear it. Which way is you walking, Brudder Walley?" inquired
the other, raising his voice.
"For the Lord's sake, I beg you will not call me by my name, or speak so
loud!"
"No danger at all, Brudder Walley; no one in sight!" exclaimed the old
man, louder than ever. "Which way did you say you wer' goin', Brudder
Walley?"
"I am going home."
"Well, Brudder Walley, let me go long wid you dis time. I'd like to see
Sister Phaedra," pleaded the old negro.
"Come along, then; but be careful."
They walked up the lane together, and then struck into the pines. The
policeman followed them, and, himself unseen, keeping them in sight,
traced them into the cabin of Phaedra.
Then having, as it were, pointed his game, he ran back as fast as
possible, sprang over the hedge, ran down the lane, crossed the highway,
sprang over a second hedge dividing the road from Major Hewitt's
plantation, hastened up to that gentleman's house, gave the alarm,
procured the assistance of the overseer and the gardener, both Irishmen,
and with this reinforcement hastened back to the scene of action.
They found Phaedra's cabin quiet enough. To the knock of the policeman
the old woman's voice responded, "Come in."
They entered, and found no one within except Phaedra and the old negro
preacher, Portiphar--no sign of Valentine. As the cabin contained but
one room, with but one door and window, and no loft or outbuildings, the
premises were easily searched. The little room was also very scantily
furnished; a rag carpet concealed the rough floor, a rude bed stood in
one corner, a cupboard in another, an oak chest in a third, a pine table
in the fourth; a couple of chairs, a few stools, etc., completed the
appointments. The cupboard was opened, the big chest ransacked, the bed
and bedstead pulled to pieces, the chimney inspected, but no trace of
the fugitive could be found.
Phaedra was questioned; but she sadly shook her head and remained dumb.
The old negro preacher was examined, but he replied evasively, that he
had just come, and knew nothing about it, while at the same time he kept
his eyes strangely fixed upon the corner of the room occupied by
Phaedra's bed.
Yet, the policeman had pulled that bed to pieces and found nothing, and
now did not know what to make of Portiphar's pertinacious gaze. At last
a bright idea struck him. He took the poker and began sounding the
floor. He went on sounding foot by foot until he approached the bed.
Turning then, he saw Phaedra's face haggard with the most frightful
expression of terror and anxiety. Dragging the bedstead away by main
force he began to sound the corner. The floor returned a hollow echo; he
was satisfied.
It was but the work of a moment to turn up the carpet, to lift up a
loose plank and to discover the mouth of the excavation below.
He knelt upon his knees and peered down into the cavern; the mouth only
opened in the corner of Phaedra's cabin; the cavern itself extended under
and beneath the house. He peered down into the darkness for a few
moments, and then called, in a not unkindly voice:
"Valentine, my poor fellow, you may as well come out; the game is up
with you!"
A moment passed, and then Valentine, indeed, appeared above the opening.
"Give me time to change my dress, Mr. Pomfret," he said, for he was
still in his woman's gown.
This was granted. The change was soon effected, and he came forth and
gave himself up, only saying, as they took him away:
"Mother, tell my friends that the traitor at your side betrayed me to
death!" And he regretted these words as soon as they were spoken.
Phaedra had not heard them; she seemed praying--she had really fainted.