Up to this time Dick Venner had not decided on the particular mode
and the precise period of relieving himself from the unwarrantable
interference which threatened to defeat his plans. The luxury of feeling
that he had his man in his power was its own reward. One who watches
in the dark, outside, while his enemy, in utter unconsciousness, is
illuminating his apartment and himself so that every movement of his
head and every button on his coat can be seen and counted, experiences a
peculiar kind of pleasure, if he holds a loaded rifle in his hand, which
he naturally hates to bring to its climax by testing his skill as a
marksman upon the object of his attention.
Besides, Dick had two sides in his nature, almost as distinct as we
sometimes observe in those persons who are the subjects of the condition
known as double consciousness. On his New England side he was cunning
and calculating, always cautious, measuring his distance before he
risked his stroke, as nicely as if he were throwing his lasso. But
he was liable to intercurrent fits of jealousy and rage, such as the
light-hued races are hardly capable of conceiving, blinding paroxysms of
passion, which for the time overmastered him, and which, if they found
no ready outlet, transformed themselves into the more dangerous forces
that worked through the instrumentality of his cool craftiness.
He had failed as yet in getting any positive evidence that there was
any relation between Elsie and the schoolmaster other than such as might
exist unsuspected and unblamed between a teacher and his pupil. A book,
or a note, even, did not prove the existence of any sentiment. At one
time he would be devoured by suspicions, at another he would try to
laugh himself out of them. And in the mean while he followed Elsie's
tastes as closely as he could, determined to make some impression upon
her,--to become a habit, a convenience, a necessity,--whatever might aid
him in the attainment of the one end which was now the aim of his life.
It was to humor one of her tastes already known to the reader, that he
said to her one morning,--“Come, Elsie, take your castanets, and let us
have a dance.”
He had struck the right vein in the girl's fancy, for she was in the
mood for this exercise, and very willingly led the way into one of the
more empty apartments. What there was in this particular kind of dance
which excited her it might not be easy to guess; but those who looked
in with the old Doctor, on a former occasion, and saw her, will remember
that she was strangely carried away by it, and became almost fearful in
the vehemence of her passion. The sound of the castanets seemed to make
her alive all over. Dick knew well enough what the exhibition would
be, and was almost afraid of her at these moments; for it was like
the dancing mania of Eastern devotees, more than the ordinary light
amusement of joyous youth,--a convulsion of the body and the mind,
rather than a series of voluntary modulated motions.
Elsie rattled out the triple measure of a saraband. Her eyes began to
glitter more brilliantly, and her shape to undulate in freer curves.
Presently she noticed that Dick's look was fixed upon her necklace. His
face betrayed his curiosity; he was intent on solving the question, why
she always wore something about her neck. The chain of mosaics she had
on at that moment displaced itself at every step, and he was peering
with malignant, searching eagerness to see if an unsunned ring of
fairer hue than the rest of the surface, or any less easily explained
peculiarity, were hidden by her ornaments.
She stopped suddenly, caught the chain of mosaics and settled it hastily
in its place, flung down her castanets, drew herself back, and stood
looking at him, with her head a little on one side, and her eyes
narrowing in the way he had known so long and well.
“What is the matter, Cousin Elsie? What do you stop for?” he said.
Elsie did not answer, but kept her eyes on him, full of malicious light.
The jealousy which lay covered up under his surface-thoughts took this
opportunity to break out.
“You would n't act so, if you were dancing with Mr. Langdon,--would you,
Elsie?” he asked.
It was with some effort that he looked steadily at her to see the effect
of his question.
Elsie colored,--not much, but still perceptibly. Dick could not remember
that he had ever seen her show this mark of emotion before, in all his
experience of her fitful changes of mood. It had a singular depth of
significance, therefore, for him; he knew how hardly her color came.
Blushing means nothing, in some persons; in others, it betrays a
profound inward agitation,--a perturbation of the feelings far more
trying than the passions which with many easily moved persons break
forth in tears. All who have observed much are aware that some men,
who have seen a good deal of life in its less chastened aspects and
are anything but modest, will blush often and easily, while there
are delicate and sensitive women who can faint, or go into fits, if
necessary, but are very rarely seen to betray their feelings in their
cheeks, even when their expression shows that their inmost soul is
blushing scarlet. Presently she answered, abruptly and scornfully, “Mr.
Langdon is a gentleman, and would not vex me as you do.”
“A gentleman!” Dick answered, with the most insulting accent,--“a
gentleman! Come, Elsie, you 've got the Dudley blood in your veins,
and it does n't do for you to call this poor, sneaking schoolmaster a
gentleman!”
He stopped short. Elsie's bosom was heaving, the faint flush on her
cheek was becoming a vivid glow. Whether it were shame or wrath, he
saw that he had reached some deep-lying centre of emotion. There was no
longer any doubt in his mind. With another girl these signs of confusion
might mean little or nothing; with her they were decisive and final.
Elsie Venner loved Bernard Langdon.
The sudden conviction, absolute, overwhelming, which rushed upon him,
had well-nigh led to an explosion of wrath, and perhaps some terrible
scene which might have fulfilled some of old Sophy's predictions. This,
however, would never do. Dick's face whitened with his thoughts, but he
kept still until he could speak calmly.
“I've nothing against the young fellow,” he said; “only I don't think
there's anything quite good enough to keep the company of people that
have the Dudley blood in them. You a'n't as proud as I am. I can't quite
make up my mind to call a schoolmaster a gentleman, though this one may
be well enough. I 've nothing against him, at any rate.”
Elsie made no answer, but glided out of the room and slid away to her
own apartment. She bolted the door and drew her curtains close. Then she
threw herself on the floor, and fell into a dull, slow ache of passion,
without tears, without words, almost without thoughts. So she remained,
perhaps, for a half-hour, at the end of which time it seemed that her
passion had become a sullen purpose. She arose, and, looking cautiously
round, went to the hearth, which was ornamented with curious old Dutch
tiles, with pictures of Scripture subjects. One of these represented
the lifting of the brazen serpent. She took a hair-pin from one of her
braids, and, insinuating its points under the edge of the tile, raised
it from its place. A small leaden box lay under the tile, which she
opened, and, taking from it a little white powder, which she folded in a
scrap of paper, replaced the box and the tile over it.
Whether Dick had by any means got a knowledge of this proceeding, or
whether he only suspected some unmentionable design on her part, there
is no sufficient means of determining. At any rate, when they met, an
hour or two after these occurrences, he could not help noticing how
easily she seemed to have got over her excitement. She was very pleasant
with him,--too pleasant, Dick thought. It was not Elsie's way to come
out of a fit of anger so easily as that. She had contrived some way of
letting off her spite; that was certain. Dick was pretty cunning, as old
Sophy had said, and, whether or not he had any means of knowing Elsie's
private intentions, watched her closely, and was on his guard against
accidents.
For the first time, he took certain precautions with reference to his
diet, such as were quite alien to his common habits. On coming to the
dinner-table, that day, he complained of headache, took but little food,
and refused the cup of coffee which Elsie offered him, saying that it
did not agree with him when he had these attacks.
Here was a new complication. Obviously enough, he could not live in this
way, suspecting everything but plain bread and water, and hardly feeling
safe in meddling with them. Not only had this school-keeping wretch come
between him and the scheme by which he was to secure his future fortune,
but his image had so infected his cousin's mind that she was ready to
try on him some of those tricks which, as he had heard hinted in the
village, she had once before put in practice upon a person who had
become odious to her.
Something must be done, and at once, to meet the double necessities of
this case. Every day, while the young girl was in these relations with
the young man, was only making matters worse. They could exchange words
and looks, they could arrange private interviews, they would be stooping
together over the same book, her hair touching his cheek, her breath
mingling with his, all the magnetic attractions drawing them together
with strange, invisible effluences. As her passion for the schoolmaster
increased, her dislike to him, her cousin, would grow with it, and all
his dangers would be multiplied. It was a fearful point he had, reached.
He was tempted at one moment to give up all his plans and to disappear
suddenly from the place, leaving with the schoolmaster, who had
come between him and his object, an anonymous token of his personal
sentiments which would be remembered a good while in the history of the
town of Rockland. This was but a momentary thought; the great Dudley
property could not be given up in that way.
Something must happen at once to break up all this order of things. He
could think of but one Providential event adequate to the emergency,--an
event foreshadowed by various recent circumstances, but hitherto
floating in his mind only as a possibility. Its occurrence would at once
change the course of Elsie's feelings, providing her with something to
think of besides mischief, and remove the accursed obstacle which
was thwarting all his own projects. Every possible motive, then,--his
interest, his jealousy, his longing for revenge, and now his fears for
his own safety,--urged him to regard the happening of a certain casualty
as a matter of simple necessity. This was the self-destruction of Mr.
Bernard Langdon.
Such an event, though it might be surprising to many people, would not
be incredible, nor without many parallel cases. He was poor, a miserable
fag, under the control of that mean wretch up there at the school, who
looked as if he had sour buttermilk in his veins instead of blood. He
was in love with a girl above his station, rich, and of old family, but
strange in all her ways, and it was conceivable that he should become
suddenly jealous of her. Or she might have frightened him with some
display of her peculiarities which had filled him with a sudden
repugnance in the place of love. Any of these things were credible, and
would make a probable story enough,--so thought Dick over to himself
with the New-England half of his mind.
Unfortunately, men will not always take themselves out of the way when,
so far as their neighbors are concerned, it would be altogether the most
appropriate and graceful and acceptable service they could render. There
was at this particular moment no special reason for believing that the
schoolmaster meditated any violence to his own person. On the contrary,
there was good evidence that he was taking some care of himself. He was
looking well and in good spirits, and in the habit of amusing himself
and exercising, as if to keep up his standard of health, especially of
taking certain evening-walks, before referred to, at an hour when most
of the Rockland people had “retired,” or, in vulgar language, “gone to
bed.”
Dick Veneer settled it, however, in his own mind, that Mr. Bernard
Langdon must lay violent hands upon himself. He even went so far as to
determine the precise hour, and the method in which the “rash act,” as
it would undoubtedly be called in the next issue of “The Rockland Weekly
Universe,” should be committed. Time,--this evening. Method, asphyxia,
by suspension. It was, unquestionably, taking a great liberty with a
man to decide that he should become felo de se without his own consent.
Such, however, was the decision of Mr. Richard Veneer with regard to Mr.
Bernard Langdon.
If everything went right, then, there would be a coroner's inquest
to-morrow upon what remained of that gentleman, found suspended to the
branch of a tree somewhere within a mile of the Apollinean Institute.
The “Weekly Universe” would have a startling paragraph announcing a
“SAD EVENT!!!” which had “thrown the town into an intense state of
excitement. Mr. Barnard Langden, a well-known teacher at the Appolinian
Institute, was found, etc., etc. The vital spark was extinct. The
motive to the rash act can only be conjectured, but is supposed to be
disappointed affection. The name of an accomplished young lady of the
highest respectability and great beauty is mentioned in connection with
this melancholy occurrence.”
Dick Venner was at the tea-table that evening, as usual.--No, he would
take green tea, if she pleased,--the same that her father drank. It
would suit his headache better.--Nothing,--he was much obliged to her.
He would help himself,--which he did in a little different way from
common, naturally enough, on account of his headache. He noticed that
Elsie seemed a little nervous while she was rinsing some of the teacups
before their removal.
“There's something going on in that witch's head,” he said to himself.
“I know her,--she 'd be savage now, if she had n't got some trick in
hand. Let 's see how she looks to-morrow!”
Dick announced that he should go to bed early that evening, on account
of this confounded headache which had been troubling him so much. In
fact, he went up early, and locked his door after him, with as much
noise as he could make. He then changed some part of his dress, so that
it should be dark throughout, slipped off his boots, drew the lasso out
from the bottom of the contents of his trunk, and, carrying that and
his boots in his hand, opened his door softly, locked it after him, and
stole down the back-stairs, so as to get out of the house unnoticed. He
went straight to the stable and saddled the mustang. He took a rope from
the stable with him, mounted his horse, and set forth in the direction
of the Institute.
Mr. Bernard, as we have seen, had not been very profoundly impressed by
the old Doctor's cautions,--enough, however, to follow out some of his
hints which were not troublesome to attend to. He laughed at the idea of
carrying a loaded pistol about with him; but still it seemed only fair,
as the old Doctor thought so much of the matter, to humor him about it.
As for not going about when and where he liked, for fear he might have
some lurking enemy, that was a thing not to be listened to nor thought
of. There was nothing to be ashamed of or troubled about in any of
his relations with the school-girls. Elsie, no doubt, showed a kind
of attraction towards him, as did perhaps some others; but he had been
perfectly discreet, and no father or brother or lover had any just
cause of quarrel with him. To be sure, that dark young man at the Dudley
mansion-house looked as if he were his enemy, when he had met him; but
certainly there was nothing in their relations to each other, or in
his own to Elsie, that would be like to stir such malice in his mind
as would lead him to play any of his wild Southern tricks at his, Mr.
Bernard's, expense. Yet he had a vague feeling that this young man was
dangerous, and he had been given to understand that one of the risks he
ran was from that quarter.
On this particular evening, he had a strange, unusual sense of some
impending peril. His recent interview with the Doctor, certain remarks
which had been dropped in his hearing, but above all an unaccountable
impression upon his spirits, all combined to fill his mind with a
foreboding conviction that he was very near some overshadowing danger.
It was as the chill of the ice-mountain toward which the ship is
steering under full sail. He felt a strong impulse to see Helen Darley
and talk with her. She was in the common parlor, and, fortunately,
alone.
“Helen,” he said,--for they were almost like brother and sister now,--“I
have been thinking what you would do, if I should have to leave the
school at short notice, or be taken away suddenly by any accident.”
“Do?” she said, her cheek growing paler than its natural delicate
hue,--“why, I do not know how I could possibly consent to live here, if
you left us. Since you came, my life has been almost easy; before, it
was getting intolerable. You must not talk about going, my dear friend;
you have spoiled me for my place. Who is there here that I can have any
true society with, but you? You would not leave us for another school,
would you?”
“No, no, my dear Helen,” Mr. Bernard said, “if it depends on myself, I
shall stay out my full time, and enjoy your company and friendship. But
everything is uncertain in this world. I have been thinking that I might
be wanted elsewhere, and called when I did not think of it;--it was a
fancy, perhaps,--but I can't keep it out of my mind this evening. If any
of my fancies should come true, Helen, there are two or three messages
I want to leave with you. I have marked a book or two with a cross in
pencil on the fly-leaf;--these are for you. There is a little hymn-book
I should like to have you give to Elsie from me;--it may be a kind of
comfort to the poor girl.”
Helen's eyes glistened as she interrupted him,--
“What do you mean? You must not talk so, Mr. Langdon. Why, you never
looked better in your life. Tell me now, you are not in earnest, are
you, but only trying a little sentiment on me?”
Mr. Bernard smiled, but rather sadly.
“About half in earnest,” he said. “I have had some fancies in my
head,--superstitions, I suppose,--at any rate, it does no harm to tell
you what I should like to have done, if anything should happen,--very
likely nothing ever will. Send the rest of the books home, if you
please, and write a letter to my mother. And, Helen, you will find
one small volume in my desk enveloped and directed, you will see to
whom;--give this with your own hands; it is a keepsake.”
The tears gathered in her eyes; she could not speak at first. Presently,
“Why, Bernard, my dear friend, my brother, it cannot be that you are in
danger? Tell me what it is, and, if I can share it with you, or counsel
you in any way, it will only be paying back the great debt I owe you.
No, no,--it can't be true,--you are tired and worried, and your spirits
have got depressed. I know what that is;--I was sure, one winter, that
I should die before spring; but I lived to see the dandelions
and buttercups go to seed. Come, tell me it was nothing but your
imagination.”
She felt a tear upon her cheek, but would not turn her face away from
him; it was the tear of a sister.
“I am really in earnest, Helen,” he said. “I don't know that there is
the least reason in the world for these fancies. If they all go off and
nothing comes of them, you may laugh at me, if you like. But if there
should be any occasion, remember my requests. You don't believe in
presentiments, do you?”
“Oh, don't ask-me, I beg you,” Helen answered. “I have had a good many
frights for every one real misfortune I have suffered. Sometimes I have
thought I was warned beforehand of coming trouble, just as many people
are of changes in the weather, by some unaccountable feeling,--but not
often, and I don't like to talk about such things. I wouldn't think
about these fancies of yours. I don't believe you have exercised
enough;--don't you think it's confinement in the school has made you
nervous?”
“Perhaps it has; but it happens that I have thought more of exercise
lately, and have taken regular evening walks, besides playing my old
gymnastic tricks every day.”
They talked on many subjects, but through all he said Helen perceived a
pervading tone of sadness, and an expression as of a dreamy foreboding
of unknown evil. They parted at the usual hour, and went to their
several rooms. The sadness of Mr. Bernard had sunk into the heart
of Helen, and she mingled many tears with her prayers that evening,
earnestly entreating that he might be comforted in his days of trial and
protected in his hour of danger.
Mr. Bernard stayed in his room a short time before setting out for his
evening walk. His eye fell upon the Bible his mother had given him when
he left home, and he opened it in the New Testament at a venture.
It happened that the first words he read were these,--“Lest, coming
suddenly, he find you sleeping.” In the state of mind in which he was at
the moment, the text startled him. It was like a supernatural warning.
He was not going to expose himself to any particular danger this
evening; a walk in a quiet village was as free from risk as Helen Darley
or his own mother could ask; yet he had an unaccountable feeling of
apprehension, without any definite object. At this moment he remembered
the old Doctor's counsel, which he had sometimes neglected, and,
blushing at the feeling which led him to do it, he took the pistol his
suspicious old friend had forced upon him, which he had put away loaded,
and, thrusting it into his pocket, set out upon his walk.
The moon was shining at intervals, for the night was partially clouded.
There seemed to be nobody stirring, though his attention was unusually
awake, and he could hear the whirr of the bats overhead, and the
pulsating croak of the frogs in the distant pools and marshes. Presently
he detected the sound of hoofs at some distance, and, looking forward,
saw a horseman coming in his direction. The moon was under a cloud
at the moment, and he could only observe that the horse and his rider
looked like a single dark object, and that they were moving along at an
easy pace. Mr. Bernard was really ashamed of himself, when he found his
hand on the butt of his pistol. When the horseman was within a hundred
and fifty yards of him, the moon shone out suddenly and revealed each
of them to the other. The rider paused for a moment, as if carefully
surveying the pedestrian, then suddenly put his horse to the full
gallop, and dashed towards him, rising at the same instant in his
stirrups and swinging something round his head, what, Mr. Bernard could
not make out. It was a strange manoeuvre,--so strange and threatening in
aspect that the young man forgot his nervousness in an instant, cocked
his pistol, and waited to see what mischief all this meant. He did not
wait long. As the rider came rushing towards him, he made a rapid
motion and something leaped five-and-twenty feet through the air, in
Mr. Bernard's direction. In an instant he felt a ring, as of a rope or
thong, settle upon his shoulders. There was no time to think, he would
be lost in another second. He raised his pistol and fired,--not at the
rider, but at the horse. His aim was true; the mustang gave one bound
and fell lifeless, shot through the head. The lasso was fastened to his
saddle, and his last bound threw Mr. Bernard violently to the earth,
where he lay motionless, as if stunned.
In the mean time, Dick Venner, who had been dashed down with his horse,
was trying to extricate himself,--one of his legs being held fast under
the animal, the long spur on his boot having caught in the saddle-cloth.
He found, however, that he could do nothing with his right arm, his
shoulder having been in some way injured in his fall. But his Southern
blood was up, and, as he saw Mr. Bernard move as if he were coming to
his senses, he struggled violently to free himself.
“I 'll have the dog, yet,” he said,--“only let me get at him with the
knife!”
He had just succeeded in extricating his imprisoned leg, and was ready
to spring to his feet, when he was caught firmly by the throat, and
looking up, saw a clumsy barbed weapon, commonly known as a hay fork,
within an inch of his breast.
“Hold on there! What 'n thunder 'r' y' abaout, y' darned Portagee?” said
a voice, with a decided nasal tone in it, but sharp and resolute.
Dick looked from the weapon to the person who held it, and saw a sturdy,
plain man standing over him, with his teeth clinched, and his aspect
that of one all ready for mischief.
“Lay still, naow!” said Abel Stebbins, the Doctor's man; “'f y' don't,
I'll stick ye, 'z sure 'z y' 'r' alive! I been arfter ye f'r a week,
'n' I got y' naow! I knowed I'd ketch ye at some darned trick or 'nother
'fore I'd done 'ith ye!”
Dick lay perfectly still, feeling that he was crippled and helpless,
thinking all the time with the Yankee half of his mind what to do about
it. He saw Mr. Bernard lift his head and look around him. He would
get his senses again in a few minutes, very probably, and then he, Mr.
Richard Venner, would be done for.
“Let me up! let me up!” he cried, in a low, hurried voice,--“I 'll give
you a hundred dollars in gold to let me go. The man a'n't hurt,--don't
you see him stirring? He'll come to himself in two minutes. Let me up!
I'll give you a hundred and fifty dollars in gold, now, here on the
spot,--and the watch out of my pocket; take it yourself, with your own
hands!”
“I'll see y' darned fust! Ketch me lett'n' go!” was Abel's emphatic
answer. “Yeou lay still, 'n' wait t'll that man comes tew.”
He kept the hay-fork ready for action at the slightest sign of
resistance.
Mr. Bernard, in the mean time, had been getting, first his senses, and
then some few of his scattered wits, a little together.
“What is it?”--he said. “Who'shurt? What's happened?”
“Come along here 'z quick 'z y' ken,” Abel answered, “'n' haalp me fix
this fellah. Y' been hurt, y'rself, 'n' the' 's murder come pooty nigh
happenin'.”
Mr. Bernard heard the answer, but presently stared about and asked
again, “Who's hurt? What's happened?”
“Y' 'r' hurt, y'rself, I tell ye,” said Abel; “'n' the' 's been a
murder, pooty nigh.”
Mr. Bernard felt something about his neck, and, putting his hands up,
found the loop of the lasso, which he loosened, but did not think to
slip over his head, in the confusion of his perceptions and thoughts. It
was a wonder that it had not choked him, but he had fallen forward so as
to slacken it.
By this time he was getting some notion of what he was about, and
presently began looking round for his pistol, which had fallen. He
found it lying near him, cocked it mechanically, and walked, somewhat
unsteadily, towards the two men, who were keeping their position as
still as if they were performing in a tableau.
“Quick, naow!” said Abel, who had heard the click of cocking the pistol,
and saw that he held it in his hand, as he came towards him. “Gi' me
that pistil, and yeou fetch that 'ere rope layin' there. I 'll have this
here fellah fixed 'n less 'n two minutes.”
Mr. Bernard did as Abel said,--stupidly and mechanically, for he was but
half right as yet. Abel pointed the pistol at Dick's head.
“Naow hold up y'r hands, yeou fellah,” he said, “'n' keep 'em up, while
this man puts the rope mound y'r wrists.”
Dick felt himself helpless, and, rather than have his disabled arm
roughly dealt with, held up his hands. Mr. Bernard did as Abel said; he
was in a purely passive state, and obeyed orders like a child. Abel then
secured the rope in a most thorough and satisfactory complication of
twists and knots.
“Naow get up, will ye?” he said; and the unfortunate Dick rose to his
feet.
“Who's hurt? What's happened?” asked poor Mr. Bernard again, his memory
having been completely jarred out of him for the time.
“Come, look here naow, yeou, don' Stan' askin' questions over 'n'
over;--'t beats all! ha'n't I tol' y' a dozen times?”
As Abel spoke, he turned and looked at Mr. Bernard.
“Hullo! What 'n thunder's that 'ere raoun' y'r neck? Ketched ye 'ith a
slippernoose, hey? Wal, if that a'n't the craowner! Hol' on a minute,
Cap'n, 'n' I'll show ye what that 'ere halter's good for.”
Abel slipped the noose over Mr. Bernard's head, and put it round
the neck of the miserable Dick Veneer, who made no sign of
resistance,--whether on account of the pain he was in, or from mere
helplessness, or because he was waiting for some unguarded moment to
escape,--since resistance seemed of no use.
“I 'm go'n' to kerry y' home,” said Abel; “'T' th' ol Doctor, he's got
a gre't cur'osity t' see ye. Jes' step along naow,--off that way, will
ye?--'n' I Ill hol' on t' th' bridle, f' fear y' sh'd run away.”
He took hold of the leather thong, but found that it was fastened at the
other end to the saddle. This was too much for Abel.
“Wal, naow, yeou be a pooty chap to hev raound! A fellah's neck in a
slippernoose at one eend of a halter, 'n' a hors on th' full spring at
t' other eend!”
He looked at him from' head to foot as a naturalist inspects a new
specimen. His clothes had suffered in his fall, especially on the leg
which had been caught under the horse.
“Hullo! look o' there, naow! What's that 'ere stickin' aout o' y'r
boot?”
It was nothing but the handle of an ugly knife, which Abel instantly
relieved him of.
The party now took up the line of march for old Doctor Kittredge's
house, Abel carrying the pistol and knife, and Mr. Bernard walking in
silence, still half-stunned, holding the hay-fork, which Abel had thrust
into his hand. It was all a dream to him as yet. He remembered the
horseman riding at him, and his firing the pistol; but whether he was
alive, and these walls around him belonged to the village of Rockland,
or whether he had passed the dark river, and was in a suburb of the New
Jerusalem, he could not as yet have told.
They were in the street where the Doctor's house was situated.
“I guess I'll fire off one o' these here berrils,” said Abel.
He fired.
Presently there was a noise of opening windows, and the nocturnal
head-dresses of Rockland flowered out of them like so many developments
of the Nightblooming Cereus. White cotton caps and red bandanna
handkerchiefs were the prevailing forms of efflorescence. The main point
was that the village was waked up. The old Doctor always waked easily,
from long habit, and was the first among those who looked out to see
what had happened.
“Why, Abel!” he called out, “what have you got there? and what 's all
this noise about?”
“We've ketched the Portagee!” Abel answered, as laconically as the hero
of Lake Erie, in his famous dispatch. “Go in there, you fellah!”
The prisoner was marched into the house, and the Doctor, who had
bewitched his clothes upon him in a way that would have been miraculous
in anybody but a physician, was down in presentable form as soon as if
it had been a child in a fit that he was sent for.
“Richard Veneer!” the Doctor exclaimed. “What is the meaning of all
this? Mr. Langdon, has anything happened to you?”
Mr. Bernard put his hand to his head.
“My mind is confused,” he said. “I've had a fall.--Oh, yes!--wait a
minute and it will all come back to me.”
“Sit down, sit down,” the Doctor said. “Abel will tell me about it.
Slight concussion of the brain. Can't remember very well for an hour or
two,--will come right by to-morrow.”
“Been stunded,” Abel said. “He can't tell nothin'.”
Abel then proceeded to give a Napoleonic bulletin of the recent combat
of cavalry and infantry and its results,--none slain, one captured.
The Doctor looked at the prisoner through his spectacles.
“What 's the matter with your shoulder, Venner?”
Dick answered sullenly, that he didn't know, fell on it when his horse
came down. The Doctor examined it as carefully as he could through his
clothes.
“Out of joint. Untie his hands, Abel”
By this time a small alarm had spread among the neighbors, and there was
a circle around Dick, who glared about on the assembled honest people
like a hawk with a broken wing.
When the Doctor said, “Untie his hands,” the circle widened perceptibly.
“Isn't it a leetle rash to give him the use of his hands? I see there's
females and children standin' near.”
This was the remark of our old friend, Deacon Soper, who retired from
the front row, as he spoke, behind a respectable-looking, but somewhat
hastily dressed person of the defenceless sex, the female help of a
neighboring household, accompanied by a boy, whose unsmoothed shock of
hair looked like a last year's crow's-nest.
But Abel untied his hands, in spite of the Deacon's considerate
remonstrance.
“Now,” said the Doctor, “the first thing is to put the joint back.”
“Stop,” said Deacon Soper,--“stop a minute. Don't you think it will be
safer--for the women-folks--jest to wait till mornin', afore you put
that j'int into the socket?”
Colonel Sprowle, who had been called by a special messenger, spoke up at
this moment.
“Let the women-folks and the deacons go home, if they're scared, and put
the fellah's j'int in as quick as you like. I 'll resk him, j'int in or
out.”
“I want one of you to go straight down to Dudley Venner's with a
message,” the Doctor said. “I will have the young man's shoulder in
quick enough.”
“Don't send that message!” said Dick, in a hoarse voice;--“do what you
like with my arm, but don't send that message! Let me go,--I can walk,
and I'll be off from this place. There's nobody hurt but myself. Damn
the shoulder!--let me go! You shall never hear of me again!”
Mr. Bernard came forward.
“My friends,” he said, “I am not injured,--seriously, at least. Nobody
need complain against this man, if I don't. The Doctor will treat him
like a human being, at any rate; and then, if he will go, let him. There
are too many witnesses against him here for him to want to stay.”
The Doctor, in the mean time, without saying a word to all this, had got
a towel round the shoulder and chest and another round the arm, and had
the bone replaced in a very few minutes.
“Abel, put Cassia into the new chaise,” he said, quietly. “My friends
and neighbors, leave this young man to me.”
“Colonel Sprowle, you're a justice of the peace,” said Deacon Soper,
“and you know what the law says in cases like this. It a'n't so clear
that it won't have to come afore the Grand Jury, whether we will or no.”
“I guess we'll set that j'int to-morrow mornin',” said Colonel
Sprowle,--which made a laugh at the Deacon's expense, and virtually
settled the question.
“Now trust this young man in my care,” said the old Doctor, “and go home
and finish your naps. I knew him when he was a boy and I'll answer for
it, he won't trouble you any more. The Dudley blood makes folks proud, I
can tell you, whatever else they are.”
The good people so respected and believed in the Doctor that they left
the prisoner with him.
Presently, Cassia, the fast Morgan mare, came up to the front-door,
with the wheels of the new, light chaise flashing behind her in the
moonlight. The Doctor drove Dick forty miles at a stretch that night,
out of the limits of the State.
“Do you want money?” he said, before he left him.
Dick told him the secret of his golden belt.
“Where shall I send your trunk after you from your uncle's?”
Dick gave him a direction to a seaport town to which he himself was
going, to take passage for a port in South America.
“Good-bye, Richard,” said the Doctor. “Try to learn something from
to-night's lesson.”
The Southern impulses in Dick's wild blood overcame him, and he kissed
the old Doctor on both cheeks, crying as only the children of the sun
can cry, after the first hours in the dewy morning of life. So Dick
Venner disappears from this story. An hour after dawn, Cassia pointed
her fine ears homeward, and struck into her square, honest trot, as
if she had not been doing anything more than her duty during her four
hours' stretch of the last night.
Abel was not in the habit of questioning the Doctor's decisions.
“It's all right,” he said to Mr. Bernard. “The fellah 's Squire Venner's
relation, anyhaow. Don't you want to wait here, jest a little while,
till I come back? The's a consid'able nice saddle 'n' bridle on a dead
boss that's layin' daown there in the road 'n' I guess the' a'n't no use
in lettin' on 'em spite,--so I'll jest step aout 'n' fetch 'em along. I
kind o' calc'late 't won't pay to take the cretur's shoes 'n' hide off
to-night,--'n' the' won't be much iron on that hose's huffs an haour
after daylight, I'll bate ye a quarter.”
“I'll walk along with you,” said Mr. Bernard; “I feel as if I could get
along well enough now.”
So they set off together. There was a little crowd round the dead
mustang already, principally consisting of neighbors who had adjourned
from the Doctor's house to see the scene of the late adventure. In
addition to these, however, the assembly was honored by the presence of
Mr. Principal Silas Peckham, who had been called from his slumbers by
a message that Master Langdon was shot through the head by a
highway-robber, but had learned a true version of the story by this
time. His voice was at that moment heard above the rest,--sharp, but
thin, like bad cider-vinegar.
“I take charge of that property, I say. Master Langdon 's actin' under
my orders, and I claim that hoss and all that's on him. Hiram! jest slip
off that saddle and bridle, and carry 'em up to the Institoot, and bring
down a pair of pinchers and a file,--and--stop--fetch a pair of shears,
too; there's hosshair enough in that mane and tail to stuff a bolster
with.”
“You let that hoss alone!” spoke up Colonel Sprowle. “When a fellah
goes out huntin' and shoots a squirrel, do you think he's go'n' to
let another fellah pick him up and kerry him off? Not if he's got a
double-berril gun, and t'other berril ha'n't been fired off yet! I
should like to see the mahn that'll take off that seddle 'n' bridle,
excep' the one th't hez a fair right to the whole concern!”
Hiram was from one of the lean streaks in New Hampshire, and, not being
overfed in Mr. Silas Peckham's kitchen, was somewhat wanting in stamina,
as well as in stomach, for so doubtful an enterprise, as undertaking to
carry out his employer's orders in the face of the Colonel's defiance.
Just then Mr. Bernard and Abel came up together. “Here they be,” said
the Colonel. “Stan' beck, gentlemen!”
Mr. Bernard, who was pale and still a little confused, but gradually
becoming more like himself, stood and looked in silence for a moment.
All his thoughts seemed to be clearing themselves in this interval.
He took in the whole series of incidents: his own frightful risk; the
strange, instinctive, nay, Providential impulse, which had led him so
suddenly to do the one only thing which could possibly have saved him;
the sudden appearance of the Doctor's man, but for which he might yet
have been lost; and the discomfiture and capture of his dangerous enemy.
It was all past now, and a feeling of pity rose in Mr. Bernard's heart.
“He loved that horse, no doubt,” he said,--“and no wonder. A beautiful,
wild--looking creature! Take off those things that are on him, Abel, and
have them carried to Mr. Dudley Veneer's. If he does not want them, you
may keep them yourself, for all that I have to say. One thing more. I
hope nobody will lift his hand against this noble creature to mutilate
him in any way. After you have taken off the saddle and bridle, Abel,
bury him just as he is. Under that old beech-tree will be a good place.
You'll see to it,--won't you, Abel?”
Abel nodded assent, and Mr. Bernard returned to the Institute, threw
himself in his clothes on the bed, and slept like one who is heavy with
wine.
Following Mr. Bernard's wishes, Abel at once took off the high-peaked
saddle and the richly ornamented bridle from the mustang. Then, with
the aid of two or three others, he removed him to the place indicated.
Spades and shovels were soon procured, and before the moon had set, the
wild horse of the Pampas was at rest under the turf at the wayside, in
the far village among the hills of New England.