MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
Althea was very weak, but continued slowly to recover. Several days
elapsed, during which time Thornton's pain in the head had been upon the
increase, and other alarming symptoms had been developed. These were
intensely strengthened by the imprudence of a meddlesome neighbor.
Curtis Coe was Windsor's merchant tailor. He may have been more than the
ninth part of a man in some respects; but when, under pretence of a
friendly call, he informed Thornton Rush, already very sick, that the
priest, Father Ryan, had baptized Althea--we say, when he did this
intentionally and with malice aforethought, and with a sinful love of
tale-bearing, and with utter recklessness as to consequences, he proved
himself infinitely less, even than ordinary tailors of the proverbial
size. He deserved the punishment of being hissed by his own goose.
The effect of this ill-advised news upon Thornton can be better imagined
than described. What increased it ten-fold was the man's utter impotence
to resent or punish what had been done. His ravings were fearful, his
imprecations multiplied. Vain were the doctor's warnings that his anger
would aggravate his disease. He continued to rave until he became
unconscious of the words he uttered. To all in the house it was a relief
when this man passed into unconscious delirium. One can listen to insane
blasphemies with sorrow and pity; but only with horror and disgust to
revilings, and railings sanely spoken.
On that night which followed Curtis Coe's wicked impertinence, two men
sat up with the sick man. They must both have fallen asleep at one and
the same time, for they discovered on coming to their senses, that
Thornton Rush was nowhere to be found. The lamp was burning, even the
fire in the stove had not died out. Having searched the room, they gave
the alarm, and thoroughly searched the house, then all the outhouses,
and finally the town.
All classes, friend and foe, were aroused. A general panic prevailed.
Each one considered himself in danger, while Thornton Rush, as a
lunatic, was at large. Posters were sent abroad and telegrams announced
the mysterious disappearance to neighboring villages and cities. The
river was dragged, old cellars and wells were dived into.
Windsor had at length a mystery, and it was an appalling one. People
began to canvass it in whisper. A suspicion began to be bruited around.
We do not affirm that Mrs. Moffat originated this suspicion, but she
whispered it about from house to house. It was to this strange effect,
the Catholics had formed a league and spirited away this enemy of their
faith. Kitty Brett had boldly set his words at defiance, and the priest
had boldly entered the house he had been forbidden, and baptized and
anointed, and practiced what other witcheries he had no business.
If Kitty would do this much, and if Father Ryan would do that much, why,
what was there they would _not_ do?
This view of the case accounted for the wise solemnity prevailing among
the Catholics generally. They were observed to purse up their mouths,
and shake their heads; and one old patriarch had been heard to say that
the Evil One had got his own. Why should he say that, if he did not know
something about it?
It became another Morgan affair. Women began to turn off Catholic
servant girls. There was a strong talk of discharging every Irishman
from the Mills and Railroad. A continual espionage upon the movements of
the Catholics was kept up. Traps were laid for self-committal. Bribes
were offered and promises of security to any who would turn State's
evidence. Threats were made here and there that leading Catholics should
be arrested; at all events, the ringleader should be made to suffer. All
seemed to settle down upon that Father Ryan must necessarily have been
the aider and abettor, if not the suggestor, in such a high-handed
proceeding. It mattered not, that during his five years' stay at
Windsor, he had lived peaceably and orderly, and set a good example. All
that served but a cloak to just such deeds as this kidnapping of a
respectable citizen.
This whirlwind of talk, however, amounted to nothing more. The Catholic
population was getting stronger every day; it was surprising how many
new families kept pouring in. So it happened no one dared lay hands on
Father Ryan.
Autumn passed into winter, and winter merged into spring, still no trace
had been discovered of the missing man.
Althea had entirely recovered the health and bloom of youth. She was
never more beautiful than now, at the still early age of twenty-two. She
had mourned for her husband only as for a soul that was lost. She
believed he must have perished in some strange way, and her daily prayer
was that the manner of his death might some time be brought to light.
The good God had snatched herself from the verge of the grave. He had
said unto her, through his servant, "wait, and trust in God," and God
had delivered her out of her troubles. She lived alone at Vine Cottage,
the faithful Kitty her servant and companion.