"In five hours I shall be on the road." So I wrote at six o'clock. I
wrote too confidently.
At eleven I had mounted my horse, had sent my last good-bye through
the open window, and had caught the last soft answer from within. I
lingered yet an instant, held by those links of tenderness and
solicitude that bind to home and make the moment of parting for any
unusual absence, even though a pleasant and desired one, a moment of
effort. A heavy, dragging step, which I almost knew before I saw the
lounging figure of Phil Phinn, warned me of a different delay. I
watched his slow approach with a resignation which had still a little
hope in it; but when he at last stood beside me and began his
ingratiating preamble, I felt my sentence confirmed. His woe-begone
face, his quivering voice, announced the suppliant before he reached
the recital of his wrongs; while the utter self-abandonment of his
attitude conveyed renunciation of all cares and responsibilities in
favor of his elected patron. I will not give you the details of the
difficulty of to-day,--an absurd and paltry one, yet capable of
serious consequences to him. I obeyed instinctively the old-fashioned
New-England principle I was brought up in, which requires us to
postpone the desire of the moment to its demands. Sadly I led my horse
to the stable, took off the saddle and put him up. "I cannot be back
until two," I thought, "perhaps not before three. I shall lose our
walk and our sunset; but even if it is as late as four, I will still
go." I ran into the house to say a word of explanation to my mother;
but she had heard and understood. She gave me a look of sympathy, and
I did not wait for more.
I set out resolutely in a direction opposite to that in which my own
road lay. Phil Phinn followed, already raised to complacency, though
not to energy. I outwalked him continually, and was obliged to stop
and wait for him to come up. He plainly thought my haste unseasonable,
and did not disguise that he was incommoded by the sun and the mud. It
was a tedious way, a long five miles for him and for me.
We arrived at last at the house of his adversary, who, having, besides
the advantage of being in a superior position, also that of justice on
his side, could the more easily give way. I should soon have come to
an understanding with him, if my client, while leaving me the whole
responsibility of his case, had not found himself unable to resign its
management: he must lend me the aid of his argumentative and
persuasive gifts. After some hours of wrangling and pleading, the
matter was accommodated, and Phil Phinn, without a care in the world,
or the apprehension of ever having one again, sauntered away toward
his home. I set off for mine, already doubtful of myself, remembering
that I was not the only disappointed one.
When I reached home, it was half-past six o'clock. I felt strongly
impelled to go, even then. My mother did not offer any objection, but
her look showed so plainly the anxiety the thought of a night-ride
caused her, that I gave it up without a word. I could not, indeed,
have arrived at Omocqua before midnight, and Harry would long have
done expecting me.
I am not as well satisfied with myself as I ought to be, having made
such a sacrifice to duty. I begin to ask myself, Was it made to duty?
After all, a little suspense would have done Phil Phinn good,--if
anything can do him good. And are not the claims of friendship
paramount to all other? Harry will be pained by needless anxiety. Can
he believe that I would, without grave cause, lose any of the time we
might yet have together? But a few hours will set all right.
FRIDAY NIGHT, April 19.
I am at home again. I take out the package which has been waiting for
the day at Omocqua. Hoarding is always imprudence. If these letters of
last week had gone on their day, they would have been faithful
messengers. Now they go to tell you of a happiness which already is
not mine,--of hopes and plans that you can never share.
Are these last pages yesterday's? A lifetime is between me and them.
The book I pushed aside to write them lies there open, waiting to be
recalled. Had it an interest for me only yesterday? The flowers on my
table still hold their frail, transient beauty. No longer ago than
when I gathered them, I could take pleasure in flowers!
I sit here and go through the history of these last two days,
retracing every minutest incident. I begin again. I make some one
little circumstance different, and with it all is changed. I pass into
a happy dream; I find myself smiling. And then I remember that I
cannot smile!
I was to write to you to-night. I should have written, if I had not
promised. I must spend these hours with you. Every object here is so
full of pain! Everything is so exactly as it was; and yet nothing can
ever be as it was to me again!
It seemed last evening that I suffered more from my disappointment
than was reasonable. I wished for sleep to shorten the hours of
waiting. But troubled dreams lengthened them instead. I was up at
three; at four I was on the road. I had an hour over fields and
cleared land; then came some miles through the woods. The forest-ride
had not its usual charm. I was still haunted by the failure of
yesterday. I could not bear the thought of being misjudged by Harry,
even for a moment. I longed to be with him and explain. But would he
find me absolved? I was glad to come out into light and cheerfulness
at Quickster. It was six o'clock when I stood before the door of the
Rapid Run. Barton came down to me, drew out his pocket-book, and took
from it a folded paper.
"Here is something of yours."
I opened it and found written in pencil,--"Jackson House, Omocqua."
The sight of that frank handwriting dispelled every doubt.
"When was he here?"
"He came in a little before one yesterday. He asked if you had been
along. I thought not; you would have given me a call. He stayed round
here about an hour, waiting for you. I told him that you might have
struck the road farther down,--at Ossian, perhaps. He took a horse of
me, knowing you would ride."
"He was alone?"
"Yes. He told me Dr. Borrow was at Rentree; was to join him at Omocqua
this morning, though."
In half an hour we were on our way again. I was eager still, but no
longer impatient. There was no uncertainty in my mind now. Harry was
at Omocqua. He was expecting me. As to blaming me, he had never
thought of it. He would have imagined for me some better excuse than I
had to give. Or rather, it had never occurred to him that I could need
excuse. I should find him at the door on the lookout for me. His hand
would be in mine before I could dismount. In the mean while the miles
between us diminished rapidly. My horse enjoyed, as I did, every step
of the happy road. His prompt, elastic tread showed it, and the alert
ears which seemed not watchful against danger, but vigilant to catch
all the sweet and animating sounds that cheered us forward.
Three miles from Quickster we came on the intended town of Ossian. I
stopped a moment. Harry had probably lingered here yesterday, watching
to see me emerge from that dusky wood-path. He had found no one to
speak to. One inhabitant outstayed the rest a year; but he has now
been long gone, and his house is falling in.
Beyond Ossian the road was new to me. For about three miles it is
good. Then the country becomes uneven, and soon after very hilly. It
was slower work here; but Brownie and I took it pleasantly.
"How far is it to Omocqua?" I asked, as he was passing me, a man whom
I had watched painfully descending in his little wagon the hill I was
about to climb.
He drew up at once.
"Omocqua? You are for Omocqua? An hour, or a little more; though I am
a good hour and a half from there. They had something of a fuss down
there last night, perhaps you know."
"What about?"
"Well, a man from Tenpinville met a runaway boy of his who had been
hiding round there. The fellow ran; his master hailed him, and when he
wouldn't stop, out with a pistol and shot him flat."
"What was the man's name?"
"If I heard, I've lost it. I put up just outside the town. If I'd gone
in to hear the talk, I might have got mixed up; and I'd no call."
The hour was a long one. I hardly wished it shorter, yet I tried to
hasten. I urged my horse; but mastery is of the spirit, not of the
hand or will. He had obeyed so well the unconscious impulse! and now,
though he started forward under the spur of an inciting word, he soon
forgot it, and mounted the slow hills and descended them again with
drudging step and listless ears.
What a meeting! what a topic for the nineteenth of April! I imagined
Harry's grief, his shame, his concentrated indignation. I remembered
the flash of his eye, the flush of his cheek, when Dr. Borrow was
telling of the approach of the slave-coffle from which they had
rescued Orphy. And with this a keen apprehension seized me. Would
Harry have been able to repress his remonstrance, his reprobation? The
common man I had just met had not trusted the acquired prudence of
half a century. Could Harry's warm young heart contain itself?
Why was I not there? A warning, a restraining word----. But would
Harry have heard it? Could I have spoken it? Would he not have felt,
must not I have felt with him, that this was one of those moments when
to see wrong done without protesting is to share in it? And then rose
before me the possible scenes:--the beautiful, glowing face, the
noble, passionate words, the tumult, the clamor, the scoff, the
threat, the ---- Oh, no! surely the angels would have had charge
concerning him!
When we reached the summit of the last hill, my horse stopped of
himself, as if to let me receive well into my mind the first lovely
aspect of the town below us, and thus connect a charm with its name
which nearer knowledge should not be able to disturb.
I yielded to the influence of the scene the more easily that it was in
such contrast with my perturbed feelings. We may court and cherish a
fanciful or a superficial grief; but the bitterly tormented mind asks
ease as the tortured body does, and takes eagerly the soothing draught
from any hand. The landscape, still freshened by the night, and
already brilliant with the day, spoke peace and hope. I accepted the
promise. Descending the hill, I thought and reasoned cheerfully. I
smiled that I should have fancied nothing could happen in Omocqua,
when Harry was there, without his having a part in it. This took place
last evening; he had not heard of it yet, perhaps. Or he had heard of
it; but not until it was over, and there was nothing to be done. He
was commonly silent under strong emotion. He would have heard this
story as he had heard others of the sort, with resolved composure,
finding in it new food for his inward purpose.
On the outskirts of the town I came to a little tavern, the one
probably at which my acquaintance of the road had lodged. I had
almost stopped to ask the news, but thought better of it, and was
going on, when a man sitting on a bench under a tree started up and
ran after me, shouting. I stopped, and he came up out of breath.
"You thought we were shut, seeing us so still; but we're all on hand."
I explained, that I was going to the Jackson House, where a friend was
to meet me.
"The Jackson House! That's head-quarters for news, just now. All
right. You looked as if you wanted to stop."
"I thought of stopping for a moment. I heard on the road that there
had been some sort of disturbance in your town yesterday. Is all quiet
now?"
"For aught I know."
"I heard there was a boy shot here yesterday."
"A boy?"
"A runaway."
"One of our waiters brought down such a story last night. They are
sharp after news of their own. I told him 'twas wholesome, if it
turned out so. But this morning it comes that it was the man who was
running him off that was shot. You'll hear all about it at the
Jackson. If you come back this way, stop and give me a word. I can't
leave."
There were a number of men on the piazza of the Jackson House. Most
of them had the air of habitual loungers; a few were evidently
travellers newly arrived. Not a figure that even from a distance I
could take for Harry Dudley. Some trunks and valises were waiting to
be carried in, but I saw nothing familiar. I recognized the landlord
in a man who was leaning against a pillar, smoking. He did not come
forward, or even raise his eyes, when I rode up. I bade him
good-morning, addressing him by name. He came forward a little,--bowed
in answer to my salutation, but did not speak.
"Is Mr. Dudley here?"
Brompton did not reply. He threw out two or three puffs of smoke, then
took the cigar from his lips and flung it from him. He looked serious,
and, I thought, displeased. My misgivings returned. Had Harry incurred
ill-will by some generous imprudence? Had he left the house, perhaps?
Was the landlord afraid of being involved in his guest's discredit?
He spoke at last, with effort.
"Is your name ----?"
"Colvil."
He came down the steps and stood close to me, laying a hand on my
horse's neck and stroking down his mane.
"Mr. Colvil, I don't know that anybody is to blame; but an accident
has happened here. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you of it."
I dismounted. Brompton made several attempts at beginning, but stopped
again.
"You had some trouble in your town yesterday," I said; "can that in
any way concern Mr. Dudley?"
"Are you a near friend of his?"
"Yes."
"A relation?"
"No."
He went on with more assurance.
"Mr. Dudley was here about a month ago. He had a sick boy with him,
whom he left here, in a manner under my care. He was to have taken him
away to-day. He arrived yesterday afternoon and asked me to send for
the boy. I sent for him. Mr. Dudley was expecting you yesterday
afternoon, and walked over to the Jefferson to see if there was any
mistake.
"The boy was his. It was all regular. He had him of Ruffin, who never
does anything unhandsome. I knew all about it. Ruffin was here with a
lot of all sorts he had been picking up round the country. He told me
to keep the boy pretty close while I had him in charge; and I boarded
him outside the town, with an old granny, who didn't know but he was
really in hiding. But it was all right. He was a pet servant, spoiled
till he grew saucy, and his master swapped him off,--but quietly, the
family set so much by the boy. They were to think he'd been enticed
away. But it must happen, that, exactly yesterday afternoon, one of
the sons came riding up to this very house. He left his horse to the
servant he brought with him; then comes up to the door and asks if Mr.
Dudley is here; hears that he has walked out, and so walks out too.
The first thing he meets, just out here on the square, is this boy,
whom he had been fond of, and only over-kind to. The boy checks up,
and then, like a fool, turns and runs. The young man calls to him to
stop,--and then, to stop or he'd shoot. The boy only runs faster.
Dudley was crossing the square, on his way back from the Jefferson,
and came up at the moment. He told Orphy to stand still, and, stepping
right between him and the levelled pistol, called to the other to hold
on. But the man was so mad with rage at seeing his servant flout him
and mind another, that he could not stop his hand. I was standing
where you are now. I saw Dudley come up, with his even step, just as
usual. I heard his voice, clear and cool. I did not look for mischief
until I heard the crack of the pistol,--and there he was on the
ground! I ran down to him. I was going to have him taken into the
house, but he wanted to lie in the open air. We carried him round to
the green behind the barn. There was an army-surgeon here, on his way
West. He did what he could, but said it was only a question of hours.
Dudley knew it. He wanted to keep on till morning, thinking you might
come. He lasted till after daybreak. Will you go to him?"
I followed Brompton into the house, along the entry, across the yard,
through the great barn. A road led from a gate on a side-street to a
shed. Before us, on the other side of the road, was a green field with
one great tree. The grass under the tree was flattened.
"Yes, it was there," said Brompton. "He asked to be laid under that
tree. The sun was just setting over there. When evening came, we
wanted to take him to the house; but no. We let him have his will. It
was natural he should want to see the sky while he could."
Brompton led the way to the shed.
What struggles must have rent that strong young breast before the life
was dislodged from it! How must the spirit which had known this earth
only through innocent joys and sweet affections and lovely hopes,--how
must it have clung to its dear mortal dwelling-place! how mourned its
dividing ties! how claimed its work, unfinished, unbegun! This grief,
this yearning, this reluctance would have left their story on the
cold immovable face. With these, bodily torture would have done its
part to alter and impair! I followed my guide, foreboding that the
dumb anguish in my heart was to be displaced by a fiercer pain.
There was no pain in his presence. In death, as in life, he kept his
own gift of blessing. The holy light still lay on the brow; about the
lips hovered a smile, last ethereal trace of the ascended spirit. My
soul lifted itself to his. I understood the peace that passeth
understanding.
An angry voice brought me back to the world and its discords.
"Do you think you were worth it?"
I looked where Brompton was looking, and saw, seated near, on an
overturned barrel, a figure which could be no other than that of
Orphy. He sat impassive. Brompton's cruel words had not reached him.
His misery was its own shield. His utter wretchedness precluded more.
But he felt my look fixed upon him. He raised his eyes to me for a
moment, then closed them again to shut himself in with his woe. And
now his face quivered all over; his lips parted and closed
rapidly,--not as forming articulate accents, but in the helpless
forlornness that has no language in which to utter plaint or appeal.
And yet on these trembling cheeks, about this inane mouth, still
lingered some of the soft, playful lines I remembered on the pretty,
varying face of little Airy Harvey!
On the way from the house I was conscious that a step followed us,
stopping when we stopped, and going on again when we did; but I had
not given thought to it until now, when I perceived a timid movement
behind me, and felt a light touch laid on my arm. I turned, and met a
pair of mournful, pleading eyes.
"Jasper!"
The old man stretched one trembling hand toward the dead, while the
other clasped my wrist.--"It was not meant! It was not meant!"
"It was not," said Brompton.
"Do not bear anger! _He_ did not."
"He did not," echoed Brompton.
Jasper, searching my face, saw there what changed his look of entreaty
into one of compassion. He stroked my sleeve soothingly with his poor
shrunken fingers.--"And yet there never was anything but love between
you! Oh, think there is a sorer heart than yours this day!"
"Where is he?" I asked, fearing lest that most unhappy one might be
near.
"Gone."--It was Brompton who answered.--"Gone, I believe. He was here
until all was over. He locked himself into a room up-stairs. Dudley
sent for him many times the night through, in the intervals of his
pain. I took the messages to him. But he could neither bear to see the
one he had killed, nor yet to go away, and have no chance of seeing
him again. At daybreak Dudley got up, saying he had strength enough,
and went as far as the barn on his way to the house. There the surgeon
met him and led him back, pledging his word that the man should be
brought, if it was by force. And it was almost by force, but he was
brought. Dudley raised himself a little, when he came up, took his
hand and clasped it close. 'Good-bye, Fred!'--in a pleasant voice, as
if he were ready for a journey and must cheer up the friend he was to
leave behind. And then he sank back, still holding the other's hand,
and looking up at him with his kind eyes, not forgiving, but
loving,--till the eyelids drooped and closed softly, and he passed
into a quiet sleep. When we left him, he was breathing gently. We
thought it was rest."
Jasper went humbly away, secure of his suit. Brompton, too, withdrew
silently.
* * * * *
In those first moments I had left below my loss and my grief to follow
the ascended; but now my human heart asked after the human friend.
On the rich, disordered hair were signs of the mortal agony: the soft,
bright curls were loosened and dimmed. The pure forehead could not be
fairer than it was, yet the even, delicately finished eyebrows seemed
more strongly marked. The brown eyelashes showed long and dark over
the white cheek. The same noble serenity; the same gentle strength;
only the resolute lines about the mouth were softened;--nothing now to
resist or to dare!
Dr. Borrow would be here soon. I sat down on a block and waited. Dr.
Borrow! I had thought his love for Harry tinctured with worldliness;
but how honest and hearty it appeared to me now! I had loved in Harry
Dudley what he was to be, what he was to do. Dr. Borrow had loved him
for himself only, simply and sincerely. I remembered the Doctor's
misgivings, his cautions to me. How negligently heard! Then it was
only that he did not yet comprehend the high calling of the boy whom
we equally loved. Now I almost felt as if I had a complicity in his
fate,--as if the Doctor could demand account of me.
That Harry Dudley would give himself to a great cause had been my hope
and faith; that he would spend himself on a chimera had been Doctor
Borrow's dread. But which of us had looked forward to this utter
waste? How reconcile it with Divine Omnipotence? with Supreme Justice?
Was there not here frustration of a master-work? Was there not here a
promise unfulfilled?
Careless footsteps and voices gave notice of the approach of men
brought by curiosity. Seeing me, and judging me not one of themselves,
they stop outside, confer a moment in lower tones, come in singly,
look, and go out again.
Then new voices. A tall, stout man stalked heavily in. "And the boy
was his own, after all," burst from him as he rejoined the others.
"The boy was not his own. He didn't buy him fairly to keep and work
him. It was a sham sale. He meant to free him from the first, and the
boy knew it. He was free by intention and in fact. He had all the
mischief in him of a free negro."
"The man was a New-Englander, and saw it differently," answered the
first voice.
"A man is not a fool because he is a New-Englander," replied the
second. "I am from New England myself."
"I don't see much of the same about you. Are there more there like him
or like you?"
"I tell you he has died as the fool dieth," the other answered
sharply, coming carelessly in as he spoke. He was a mean-looking man,
trimly dressed, in whom I could not but recognize the Yankee
schoolmaster.
As he stooped down over the man he had contemned, some dormant
inheritance of manhood revealed itself in his breast, some lingering
trace of richer blood stirred in his dull veins. He turned away, cast
towards me a humble, deprecating look, and, still bending forward,
went out on tiptoe.
Then, accompanied by a sweeping and a rustling, came a light step, but
a decided, and, I felt, an indifferent one. A woman came in. She took
account with imperious eyes of every object,--of me, of Orphy, of the
coarse bench spread with hay, which served as bier,--and then walked
confidently and coldly forward to the spectacle of death. When she had
sight of the beautiful young face, she uttered a cry, then burst into
passionate sobs, which she silenced as suddenly, turned, shook her
fist at Orphy, and was gone.
"Dr. Borrow is come."
_Come!_ To what a different appointment!
"He asked for you," persisted Brompton, seeing that I did not rise.
"He is in the same room he had when they were here together. He
mistrusted something, or he had heard something; he said no word until
he was there. Then he asked me what he had got to be told, and I told
him."
I made a sign that I would go. Brompton left me with a look which
showed that he knew what a part I had before me.
Dr. Borrow was not a patient man. He was ruffled by a slight
contrariety. This unimagined grief, how was it to be borne? With what
words would he receive me? Would he even spare Harry Dudley himself,
in the reproaches which his love would only make more bitter?
We three were to have met to-day. Was _he_ the one to be wanting? he
who was never wanting? He who had been the life, the joy, of those
dearly remembered hours, was he to be the sorrow, the burden of these?
I went to him again; again earth and its anxieties vanished from me.
No, he would not be wanting to us.
* * * * *
When I touched the handle of the door, it was turned from the inside.
Dr. Borrow seized my hand, clasping it, not in greeting, but like one
who clings for succor. He searched my face with ardently questioning
look, as if I might have brought him mercy or reprieve. He saw that I
had not. A spasm passed over his face. His mouth opened to speak, with
voiceless effort. He motioned me to lead where he was to go. We went
down-stairs, and he followed me, as I had followed Brompton, along the
entry, across the yard, through the barn. He glanced towards the tree
and then took his way to the shed. I did not enter with him.
When he came back to me, he was very pale, but his expression was soft
and tender as I had never known it. We went in again together, and
stood there side by side.
Brompton spoke from without. "There is one thing I have not told you,
Dr. Borrow."
The Doctor turned to him patiently.
"There was an inquest held early this morning."
Dr. Borrow lifted his hand to ward off more.
"Let me take my child and go!"
The Doctor looked towards Orphy. Again I had almost wronged him in my
thought. "Come, my lad," he said, kindly; "you and I must take care of
him home."
Orphy left his place of watch. He came and stood close beside the
Doctor, devoting his allegiance; tears gathered in the eyes that the
soul looked through once more; the mouth retook its own pathetic
smile.
I knew that Harry Dudley must lie in Massachusetts ground, but I could
not look my last so soon. Dr. Borrow saw my intention and prevented
it. He took my hand affectionately, yet as holding me from him.
"Do not come. I am better off without you. I must battle this out
alone."