REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
Afraid to trust my own judgment with reference to Jo, whom I always
thought of now as standing in the shadow of a scaffold, about four weeks
after he went to jail, I resolved to visit the mill on Bull River and
solicit Damon Barker’s advice, which I knew would be friendly and
sensible. He was a man of excellent judgment, and though he had been to
Twin Mounds but once since the trouble, I knew he was ready at any time
to aid Jo, as he had said, no difference what necessity might require,
and that he was only waiting a summons, trusting to me to bring it. I
felt sure that Jo’s intention was to admit his guilt when called upon,
and suffer the penalty, and I was not satisfied that I had done enough
to dissuade him from the intention. Barker had great influence with him,
and for this reason I sought his counsel and advice.
I intended to start in the middle of the afternoon, hoping to reach the
mill by nightfall, and return early the next day, and an hour before my
departure I went into the jail to announce to Jo that I would be away
during the night. It was the first night I had been out of his company
since his confinement in the prison, and I was therefore surprised that
he seemed rather pleased with the prospect, though he apologized for it
by saying that I had been there so long that I would enjoy a night out.
He seemed to know that I was going to Barker’s to talk about him, for
he asked me to thank him and Agnes for any good they might find it in
their hearts to say of him; and he said over and over again how kind we
all were, and how much trouble we had been to on his account.
“You must not go away feeling down at heart, or ill at ease, but
cheerful,” he said, when I confessed that I was going to Barker’s in his
behalf. “I will tell you something that will please you. I have studied
over this matter a great deal during the past few weeks, and have come
to a conclusion that will relieve us all. I will only say now that it
will end all confusion and worry, and that it is the very best thing
that can be done. I know that you have confidence in my judgment, and
will be content to wait until you return, when you shall know all. It is
not a plan that will cause you more trouble, but one that will be a
relief to you, therefore be as happy as you can while away, and carry my
kindest wishes to Agnes and her father. Tell them that I am well, and
that in a little while we shall be through worrying over this matter,
for I have hit upon a plan to relieve us of it. It is sure to work, tell
them, and that they need not fear as to that. I may say it is the only
thing that can be done, which you will be glad to hear, for it is
sometimes hard to hit upon the right plan, but after a great deal of
thought I have it. You feel better now, do you not?”
I answered him that I did, which was the case, for I believed that while
I was away during the day he was thinking, and hoped that he had hit
upon something that would meet with the approval of all his friends.
Probably it was an escape, and a life in some distant country, where I
would join him in course of time, or perhaps a plea of self-defence,
backed by circumstances of which I knew nothing, but at any rate I was
sure the plan was a good one, for Jo did not often make mistakes in
such matters, and I felt a relief of which I was greatly in need. I
determined at once to bring Barker back with me to hear the plan, and
aid in its execution.
“You look happier to-day,” he said, taking both my hands in his own,
“than I have seen you in a long while. I am very glad of that, and I
hope I, too, look pleasant, for I am sure the plan is a good one. Do I
not look much as I did when we were happy boys together; when I was your
good friend, and loved you more than any one else in the world? Look at
me and answer.”
I did as he requested, and saw that there was the old cheerfulness in
his smile, as there had been the old tenderness in his voice.
“A little older, and a little paler,” I replied, “but certainly you look
more natural to me this moment than you have for four years. And you
look more like my old friend, too; for when we were boys, and you told
me of your friendship, you were so earnest and feeling that tears came
into your eyes. There are tears in your eyes now.”
He did not brush them away, as I expected he would, but let them roll
down his cheeks and fall to the floor.
“I did not know there were tears in my eyes until you spoke,” he said.
“But they are only tears of gratitude that I am permitted to have one
friend like you.”
He still held both my hands, and looked at me in such a way that I
thought he was thinking he had a bold piece of work to demand of me to
effect his release,--a part of his plan,--and that I would undertake it
without hesitating, no matter what the risk, as I would have done.
“It is as much as a man ought to expect during his life to realize a
friendship as pure and unselfish as yours has always been for me, and I
want to say while I am looking in your eyes--please do not say it is
nothing, for it is a great deal--that you have been the one solace of a
very unhappy man. I may not have deserved it, but it has been given to
me, and I love you as a bad man ought to love a good wife who has been
faithful to him through all his misdeeds. I am very wicked, and have a
wicked heart, but you can have it to say that you had all the love there
was in one man’s life. All the tenderness in my rough nature has been
given to you, and no one else has ever found welcome in my heart. No
one, not even my father or mother, divided my affection for you. It is
not much, but it is all I have.”
I assured him it was a great deal, and that it had been a comfort to me
from the day I began to remember.
“You are the only one who was ever thoughtful or kind to me, though I
have always coveted such attention,” he added. “I suppose I deserved all
the neglect I have received--I hope not, but I cannot think anything
else--and you brought the only ray of genuine sunshine that ever found
its way into my desolate heart; without you I should have been
friendless all my life. I hope I could have made myself worthy of
friends had they come in my way, but they never came, and I have had no
other object in life than to deserve your good opinion. I am afraid I
can never repay you, but I am very thankful.”
He was very earnest, but not sad, and I believed he was telling me this
because when I came back there would be active work to do, and a long
separation, and when I turned again to call the keeper to release me, Jo
said for me to remember that it was all for the best.
“All for the best, I am certain,” I replied.
“And do I look cheerful again, as though I felt that what I say is
true?”
“I have not seen a pleasant smile on your face before in a long while,”
I said, “and I feel greatly encouraged. I hope my recollection of you
will always be as you appear now.” There was a mingled look of bravery
and tenderness in his face which made me very fond of him. “I am sure
the plan is a good one, for it has made us both happier already.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” he said, putting his hand through the
little wicket to bid me good-by, when I was finally in the corridor,
“and so it will turn out. But even if it did not meet your approval at
first, you would not upbraid me, or think less of me than you do now?”
“No, Jo,” I answered, for I thought that if ever a man was justified in
breaking jail and hiding away in a place where he could make amends for
his mistakes, he was. “I could not think less of you than I do, for even
if my judgment should not accord with yours, I should believe it to be
my own fault, and that I should finally discover that you were right. I
have so much confidence in you that I am sure that the plan is a good
one.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” he repeated, “and so it will turn out.
Good-by.”
How his hand trembled in mine! I thought it was joy over the prospect of
once more being free, and I had so much confidence in the friendship of
the sheriff, who stood beside me, that I had a mind to tell him that Jo
had at last consented to take advantage of the opportunities he
delighted to give him, and escape; I was so pleased with it all that I
thought I must talk to some one, but, thinking better of it, I waved my
hand gayly to the prisoner, and, passing out at the front door, was soon
on my way to Fairview.
As I drove rapidly along the familiar road, I had a hundred pleasant
conjectures of the morrow, when Jo would reveal to me the plan by which
he was to be free. The one I fixed upon and took most pleasure in was an
escape to some distant country, where I would follow him in a few
months, and where we should live happily together the remainder of our
lives. There was a rough rugged country beyond ours where hunted men
went, and where no questions were asked, and I thought of our living
together in a cabin on a mountain side, companions in toil and peace. I
thought this plan might make it necessary for me to give up Agnes for a
while, but her patience I knew was great, and she would think of me all
the more kindly for the sacrifice I had made for love of Jo.
He had said there was nothing else to do; that surely meant a rapid
flight to the mountains, for that was the speedy and the certain way out
of the difficulty, and I almost rejoiced in it, for I determined to go
with him at once, and leave my affairs to be settled up by Barker, who
alone should know of my whereabouts. I even regarded it as a prospect of
a happy relief from my weary work, and thought that while Jo would say
it was best I should remain, and settle our joint affairs in person, I
stoutly decided to go with him, and even planned how to get ready money
for the purpose.
These thoughts so occupied my mind that I was surprised when I came in
the vicinity of the mill, and also by the circumstance that it was
growing dark, for I had taken no note of time. As was usually the case
at that season of the year, the mill was in operation when I arrived a
half hour after dark, and, hoping to find Agnes alone in the house, I
dismounted at the side gate and went in. The evening being pleasant, the
front door was wide open, and, stepping on the inside, I was debating
whether they were not all down at the mill, when Agnes came out suddenly
from the room, and stood beside me. It may have been surprise at her
sudden appearance, but without thinking what I did, I put my arms about
her, and kissed her.
“I have been in so much trouble of late,” I said, still holding her in
my arms, “and felt your absence so keenly, that I could not resist the
temptation. I hope you will forgive me; I came on an important errand,
but my distress has made me brave, and I cannot help showing how much I
love you.”
She was perfectly still, looking into my eyes, and I thought that,
though it was the same sweet face, it was different from what it had
ever been before; no longer the face of my patient friend, but the face
of my sweetheart--a picture of a woman’s perfect love.
“It has been so often necessary for you to forgive me--I always made so
many mistakes, while you were so womanly--that you will forgive me once
more for declaring, though I came on an errand in poor Jo’s behalf, that
I have loved you as man and boy for eight years; that you have been so
necessary to me that I could not have lived but for the hope your
friendship gave me. I have never been able to show you how dear you have
been to me, I was always so awkward, but I show you my heart now, and
declare what I may not have acted, that I have never had any other wish
to live than that I might win you.”
She attempted to speak, but I would not permit it, for I had not yet
finished.
“When I was a boy, it was my hope of the future to become a worthy man,
and prepare a home for homeless Agnes, who was always my friend, no
matter how undeserving I was. In all my hard life, which has seemed like
a night, you have been the kindly star which was always shining and
bidding me hope. When your father came back to you, I feared that your
happiness was so great that I could never again add to it, but even if
this is so, I can no longer keep my secret. It has been crying out at
its confinement for years, and I must tell you that I love you.”
She remained silent and motionless so long that I began to fear that
what I had said without believing was really true; that she was so happy
with her father that she would never leave him, and that she was framing
an answer that would not offend me.
“I have always known,” she said at last, “that you loved me, and have
always believed that some time you would come to me and declare it, just
as you have to-night. It was my only wish ungratified, for nothing was
lacking besides that to complete my happiness.”
I pressed her closer to me, and for the first time in a great many
months the tears came into my eyes until I could not see her. During all
the trouble at Jo’s my concern found no relief, but her love for me made
me realize how wretched I had been, and in spite of all I could do the
tears came into my eyes. I tried to apologize for the weakness, but she
wiped the tears away so tenderly that I thought certainly there was
never such a loving touch as hers, and blessed her for the hundredth
time. I led her into the adjoining room, and when we sat down by the
window, and opened the shutters, I saw by the moonlight which came
streaming in that she was dressed in white, and that she so much
resembled a pretty bride that I could not help holding her off from me,
and admiring her.
“You remember I used to tell you,” Agnes said, “that some day my ship
would come in after a stormy voyage, and bring me many rich gifts. I
think you always thought I referred to my father.”
I acknowledged that I did.
“But really I referred to your coming to me, and telling me (as I
believed you would) that you loved me. I never had a hope that my father
was alive, and as I told you about my ship sailing toward me when you
were but a boy--I was but a girl when I first came to Fairview--I must
have referred to you, as I certainly did.”
She was sitting near an open piano, and lightly touching the keys, I
recognized the air of an old love song she had taught me the first year
of our acquaintance, “In flattering dreams I dreamed thee mine.”
“We were both so wretched during the first years of our acquaintance,”
Agnes said, “that I sometimes feared we must always remain apart, but I
never for a moment thought you did not love me. I always knew it, and
was constantly trying to deserve it. If I heard of you in a creditable
connection, I was pleased, and strived harder than ever, and there never
was a doubt but that you would come to me--some time; I did not know
when--and tell me what you have told me to-night. I have nothing to wish
for now except that I may be long spared to show you how much I love you
for it.”
We must have been very happy during the hour or more we sat by the
window, for during that time I did not once think of Jo, nor should I
have thought of him for a much longer time had not Barker’s step on the
walk aroused me.
We both went out to meet him--he had finished his work, and was coming
to the house for the night--and, frightened at my neglect, I hurriedly
ran over what I came to say. He looked at me in grave surprise, and,
leading me back to the room, asked me to repeat what I had said.
I then told them both substantially what Jo had said to me on my
leaving, and that I had come for him to go back with me, for I was sure
that in this important emergency his cool judgment would be valuable.
Agnes was very much pleased, but Barker was as grave as usual, and only
said that he would return with me at once if I thought it necessary.
It was agreed that before we started we should refresh ourselves with
food, and while Agnes was preparing it (how gay she was; I think even
her father must have noticed it) he again inquired very particularly as
to what Jo had said, and when I had finished, he went out and sat on the
porch alone until Agnes called him. I believed he was thinking that, no
matter what the plan was, he would not falter in his part in it, and I
was so much encouraged that I went out to tell Agnes that within a week
our dear friend Jo would be free.
During the drive back to town Barker was very grave, saying but little,
and in consequence I drove rapidly. As we passed the jail I saw that all
the lights were out, and supposing that Jo was asleep, we went on to the
house to spend the night, and in a very little while I was fast asleep.