THE AVENGER.
Several days passed in the gloomy mansion misnamed Dell-Delight. Miriam
and Paul avoided each other like death. Both dreaded like death any
illusion to the awful subject that lay so heavy upon the heart of each.
Paul, unacquainted with her thoughts, and relying upon her promise to do
nothing with the letters without further evidence, contented himself
with watching her motions, feeling comparatively at ease as long as she
should remain in the house; and being resolved to prevent her from going
forth, or to accompany her if she persisted in leaving home.
With Miriam, the shock, the anguish, the struggle had well-nigh passed;
she was at once subdued and resolved, like one into whom some spirit had
entered and bound her own spirit, and acted through her. So strange did
all appear to her, so strange the impassiveness of her own will, of her
habits and affections, that should have rebelled and warred against her
purpose that she sometimes thought herself not herself, or insane, or
the subject of a monomania, or some strange hallucination, a dreamer, a
somnambulist, perhaps. And yet with matchless tact and discretion, she
went about her deadly work. She had prepared her plan of action, and now
waited only for a day very near at hand, the fourth of April, the
anniversary of Marian's assassination, to put Thurston to a final test
before proceeding further.
The day came at last--it was cold and wintry for the season. Toward
evening the sky became overcast with leaden clouds, and the chill
dampness penetrated into all the rooms of the old mansion. Poor Fanny
was muttering and moaning to herself and her "spirits" over the wood
fire in her distant room.
Mr. Willcoxen had not appeared since breakfast time. Miriam remained in
her own chamber; and Paul wandered restlessly from place to place
through all the rooms of the house, or threw himself wearily into his
chair before the parlor fire. Inclement as the weather was, he would
have gone forth, but that he too remembered the anniversary, and a
nameless anxiety connected with Miriam confined him to the house.
In the kitchen, the colored folk gathered around the fire, grumbling at
the unseasonable coldness of the weather, and predicting a hail-storm,
and telling each other that they never "'sperienced" such weather this
time o' year, 'cept 'twas that spring Old Marse died--when no wonder,
"'siderin' how he lived long o' Sam all his life."
Only old Jenny went in and out from house to kitchen, Old Jenny had
enough to do to carry wood to the various fires. She had never "seed it
so cold for de season nyther, 'cept 'twas de spring Miss Marian went to
hebben, and not a bit o' wonder de yeth was cole arter she war gone--de
dear, lovin' heart warm angel; 'deed I wondered how it ever come summer
again, an' thought it was right down onsensible in her morning-glories
to bloom out jest de same as ever, arter she was gone! An' what minds me
to speak o' Miss Marian now, it war jes' seven years this night, since
she 'parted dis life," said Jenny, as she stood leaning her head upon
the mantel-piece, and toasting her toes at the kitchen fire, previous to
carrying another armful of wood into the parlor.
Night and the storm descended together--such a tempest! such a wild
outbreaking of the elements! rain and hail, and snow and wind, all
warring upon the earth together! The old house shook, the doors and
windows rattled, the timbers cracked, the shingles were torn off and
whirled aloft, the trees were swayed and snapped; and as the storm
increased in violence and roused to fury, the forest beat before its
might, and the waves rose and overflowed the low land.
Still old Jenny went in and out of the house to kitchen and kitchen to
house, carrying wood, water, meat, bread, sauce, sweetmeats, arranging
the table for supper, replenishing the fire, lighting the candles,
letting down the curtains--and trying to make everything cozy and
comfortable for the reassembling of the fireside circle. Poor old Jenny
had passed so much of her life in the family with "the white folks,"
that all her sympathies went with them--and on the state of their
spiritual atmosphere depended all her cheerfulness and comfort; and now
the cool, distant, sorrowful condition of the members of the little
family circle--"ebery single mudder's son and darter ob 'em,
superamblated off to derself like pris'ners in a jailhouse"--as she
said--depressed her spirits very much. Jenny's reaction from depression
was always quite querulous. And toward the height of the storm, there
was a reaction and she grew very quarrelsome.
"Sam's waystin'[A] roun' in dere," said Jenny, as she thrust her feet
into the kitchen fire, before carrying in the urn; "Sam's waystin', I
tells you all good! all werry quiet dough--no noise, no fallin' out, no
'sputin' nor nothin'--all quiet as de yeth jest afore a debbil ob a
storm--nobody in de parlor 'cept 'tis Marse Paul, settin' right afore de
parlor fire, wid one long leg poked east and toder west, wid the boots
on de andirons like a spread-eagle! lookin' as glum as if I owed him a
year's sarvice, an' nebber so much as a-sayin', 'Jenny, you poor old
debbil, ain't you a-cold?' an' me coming in ebery minnit wid the icicles
a-jinglin' 'roun' my linsey-woolsey skurts, like de diamonds on de
Wirgin Mary's Sunday gown. But Sam's waystin' now, I tells you all good.
Lors Gemini, what a storm!
[Footnote A: Waysting--Going up and down.]
"I 'members of no sich since dat same storm as de debbil come in to
fetch ole marse's soul--dis berry night seven year past, an' he carried
of him off all in a suddint whiff! jist like a puff of win'. An' no
wonder, seein' how he done traded his soul to him for money!
"An' Sam's here ag'in to-night! dunno who he's come arter! but he's
here, now, I tells you all good!" said Jenny, as she took up the urn to
carry it into the parlor.
When she got there she could scarcely get to the fire; Paul took up the
front. His immobility and unconsciousness irritated Jenny beyond silent
endurance.
"I tell you all what," she said, "I means to 'sign my sitewation! 'deed
me! I can't kill myself for dem as wouldn't even care 'nough for me to
have a mass said for de 'pose o' my soul."
"What do you mean?" asked Paul, angrily, for confinement, solitude, bad
weather, and anxiety, had combined, to make him querulous, too.
"I means how ef yer doesn't have a kivered way made from de house to de
kitchen an' back ag'in, I gwine give up waitin' on de table, now min' I
tell yer, 'deed me! an' now ef you likes, yer may jes' go an' tell Marse
Rooster."
"'Marse Rooster!' Will you ever give up that horrid nonsense. Why, you
old--! Is my brother--is your master a barn-door chicken-cock, that you
call him 'Rooster?'" asked the young man, snappishly.
"Well, Shrooster, den, ef you wants me to wring my tongue in two. Ef
people's sponsors in baptism will gib der chillun such heathen names,
how de debbil any Christian 'oman gwine to twis' her tongue roun' it? I
thanks my 'Vine Marster dat my sponsors in baptism named me arter de
bressed an' holy S'int Jane--who has 'stained an' s'ported me all my
days; an' 'ill detect now, dough you do try to break my poor ole heart
long wid onkindness at my ole ages o' life! But what's de use o'
talkin'--Sam's waystin'!" And so saying, Jenny gave the finishing
touches to the arrangement of the table, and then seized the bell, and
rang it with rather needless vigor and violence, to bring the scattered
members of the family together.
They came, slowly and singly, and drew around the table more like ghosts
than living persons, a few remarks upon the storm, and then they sunk
into silence--and as soon as the gloomy meal was over, one by one they
dropped away from the room--first went poor Fanny, then Mr. Willcoxen,
then Miriam.
"Where are you going, Miriam?" asked Paul, as the latter was leaving the
room.
"To my chamber."
And before he could farther question, or longer detain her, she pressed
his hand and went out. And Paul, with a deep sigh and a strangely
foreboding heart, sank back into his seat.
When Miriam reached her bedroom, she carefully closed and locked the
door, went to her bureau, opened the top-drawer, and took from it a
small oblong mahogany glove-box. She unlocked the latter, and took out a
small parcel, which she unwrapped and laid before her upon the bureau.
It was the xyphias poniard.
The weapon had come into her possession some time before in the
following manner: During the first winter of Paul Douglass' absence from
home, Mr. Willcoxen had emancipated several of his slaves and provided
means for their emigration to Liberia. They were to sail early in March.
Among the number was Melchisedek. A few days previous to their
departure, this man had come to the house, and sought the presence of
his youthful mistress, when he knew her to be alone in the parlor, and
with a good deal of mystery and hesitation had laid before her a dagger
which he said he should rather have given to "Marster Paul," if the
latter had been at home. He had picked it up near the water's edge on
the sands the night of Miss Mayfield's death, which "Marster" had taken
so to heart, that he was afraid to harrow up his feelings by bringing it
to him a second time--but that as it was an article of value, he did not
like to take it away with him. And he begged Miss Miriam to take charge
of it. And Miriam had taken it, and with surprise, but without the
slightest suspicion, had read the name of "Thurston Willcoxen" carved
upon its handle. To all her questions, Melchisedek had given evasive
answers, or remained obstinately silent, being determined not to betray
his master's confidence by revealing his share in the events of that
fatal night. Miriam had taken the little instrument, wrapped it
carefully in paper, and locked it in her old-fashioned long glove-box.
And from that day to this she had not opened it.
Now, however, she had taken it out with a fixed purpose, and she stood
and gazed upon it. Presently she took it up, rolled it in the paper,
took her lamp, and slowly left her room, and passed along the passages
leading to Mr. Willcoxen's library.
The storm howled and raved as she went, and the strong blast, driving
through the dilapidated window-sashes, nearly extinguished her light
before she reached the study door.
She blew out the light and set down the lamp, and rapped at the door.
Again and again she rapped, without awakening any response from within.
Then she turned the latch, opened the door, and entered. No wonder she
had received no answer.
The abstracted man before her seemed dead to every sight and sound
around him. He sat before the table in the middle of the room, his elbow
on the mahogany; his face bowed upon his hand, his haggard countenance
revealing a still, speechless despair as awful as it was profound.
Miriam approached and stood by him, her breath went by his cheek, so
near she stood, and yet her presence was unheeded. She stooped to see
the object upon which he gazed--the object that now shut out all the
world from his sight--it was a long bright tress of golden auburn hair.
"Mr. Willcoxen!"
He did not hear her--how should he hear her low tones, when he heard not
the cannonading of the storm that shook the house to its foundations?
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she said once more.
But he moved not a muscle.
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she repeated, laying her hand upon his arm.
He looked up. The expression of haggard despair softened out of his
countenance.
"Is it you, my dear?" he said. "What has brought you here, Miriam? Were
you afraid of the storm? There is no danger, dear child--it has nearly
expended its force, and will soon be over--but sit down."
"Oh, no! it is not the storm that has brought me here, though I scarcely
remember a storm so violent at this season of the year, except one--this
night seven years ago--the night that Marian Mayfield was murdered!"
He started--it is true that he had been thinking of the same dread
tragedy--but to hear it suddenly mentioned pierced him like an
unexpected sword thrust.
Miriam proceeded, speaking in a strange, level monotone, as if unwilling
or afraid to trust her voice far:
"I came this evening to restore a small but costly article of _virtu_,
belonging to you, and left in my care some time ago by the boy
Melchisedek. It is an antique dagger--somewhat rusty and spotted. Here
it is."
And she laid the poniard down upon the tress of hair before him.
He sprang up as if it had been a viper--his whole frame shook, and the
perspiration started from his livid forehead.
Miriam, keeping her eye upon him, took the dagger up.
"It is very rusty, and very much streaked," she said. "I wonder what
these dark streaks can be? They run along the edge, from the extreme
point of the blade, upwards toward the handle; they look to me like the
stains of blood--as if a murderer had stabbed his victim with it, and in
his haste to escape had forgotten to wipe the blade, but had left the
blood upon it, to curdle and corrode the steel. See! don't it look so to
you?" she said, approaching him, and holding the weapon up to his view.
"Girl! girl! what do you mean?" he exclaimed, throwing his hand across
his eyes, and hurrying across the room.
Miriam flung down the weapon with a force that made its metal ring upon
the floor, and hastening after him, she stood before him; her dark eyes
fixed upon his, streaming with insufferable and consuming fire, that
seemed to burn through into his brain. She said:
"I have heard of fiends in the human shape, nay, I have heard of Satan
in the guise of an angel of light! Are you such that stand before me
now?"
"Miriam, what do you mean?" he asked, in sorrowful astonishment.
"This is what I mean! That the mystery of Marian Mayfield's fate, the
secret of your long remorse, is no longer hidden! I charge you with the
murder of Marian Mayfield!"
"Miriam, you are mad!"
"Oh! well for me, and better still for you, if I were mad!"
He was tremendously shaken, more by the vivid memories she recalled than
by the astounding charge she made.
"In the name of Heaven, what leads you to imagine such impossible
guilt!"
"Good knowledge of the facts--that this month, eight years ago, in the
little Methodist chapel of the navy yard, in Washington City, you made
Marian Mayfield your wife--that this night seven years since, in just
such a storm as this, on the beach below Pine Bluff, you met and
murdered Marian Willcoxen! And, moreover, I as sure you, that these
facts which I tell you now, to-morrow I will lay before a magistrate,
together with all the corroborating proof in my possession!"
"And what proof can you have?"
"A gentleman who, unknown and unsuspected, witnessed the private
ceremony between yourself and Marian; a packet of French letters,
written by yourself from Glasgow, to Marian, in St. Mary's, in the
spring of 1823; a note found in the pocket of her dress, appointing the
fatal meeting on the beach where she perished. Two physicians, who can
testify to your unaccountable absence from the deathbed of your parent
on the night of the murder, and also to the distraction of your manner
when you returned late the next morning."
"And this," said Thurston, gazing in mournful amazement upon her; "this
is the child that I have nourished and brought up in my house! She can
believe me guilty of such atrocious crime--she can aim at my honor and
my life such a deadly blow?"
"Alas! alas! it is my duty! it is my fate! I cannot escape it! I have
bound my soul by a fearful oath! I cannot evade it! I shall not survive
it! Oh, all the heaven is black with doom, and all the earth tainted
with blood!" cried Miriam, wildly.
"You are insane, poor girl! you are insane!" said Thurston, pityingly.
"Would Heaven I were! would Heaven I were! but I am not! I am not! Too
well I remember I have bound my soul by an oath to seek out Marian's
destroyer, and deliver him up to death! And I must do it! I must do it!
though my heart break--as it will break in the act!"
"And you believe me to be guilty of this awful crime!"
"There stands the fearful evidence! Would Heaven it did not exist! oh!
would Heaven it did not!"
"Listen to me, dear Miriam," he said, calmly, for he had now recovered
his self-possession. "Listen to me--I am perfectly guiltless of the
crime you impute to me. How is it possible that I could be otherwise
than guiltless. Hear me explain the circumstances that have come to your
knowledge," and he attempted to take her hand to lead her to a seat. But
with a slight scream, she snatched her hand away, saying wildly:
"Touch me not! Your touch thrills me to sickness! to faintness!
curdles--turns back the current of blood in my veins!"
"You think this hand a blood-stained one?"
"The evidence! the evidence!"
"I can explain that evidence. Miriam, my child, sit down--at any
distance from me you please--only let it be near enough for you to
hear. Did I believe you quite sane, Miriam, grief and anger might
possibly seal my lips upon this subject--but believing you partially
deranged--from illness and other causes--I will defend myself to you.
Sit down and hear me."
Miriam dropped into the nearest chair.
Mr. Willcoxen took another, and commenced:
"You have received some truth, Miriam. How it has been presented to you,
I will not ask now. I may presently. I was married, as you have somehow
ascertained, to Marian Mayfield, just before going to Europe. I
corresponded with her from Glasgow. I did appoint a meeting with her on
the beach, upon the fatal evening in question--for what purpose that
meeting was appointed, it is bootless to tell you, since the meeting
never took place--for some hours before I should have set out to keep my
appointment, my grandfather was stricken with apoplexy. I did not wish
to leave his bedside until the arrival of the doctor. But when the
evening wore on, and the storm approached, I grew uneasy upon Marian's
account, and sent Melchisedek in the gig to fetch her from the beach to
this house--never to leave it. Miriam, the boy reached the sands only to
find her dying. Terrified half out of his senses, he hurried back and
told me this story. I forgot my dying relative--forgot everything, but
that my wife lay wounded and exposed on the beach. I sprung upon
horseback, and galloped with all possible haste to the spot. By the time
I had got there the storm had reached its height, and the beach was
completely covered with the boiling waves. My Marian had been carried
away. I spent the wretched night in wandering up and down the bluff
above the beach, and calling on her name. In the morning I returned home
to find my grandfather dead, and the family and physicians wondering at
my strange absence at such a time. That, Miriam, is the story."
Miriam made no comment whatever. Mr. Willcoxen seemed surprised and
grieved at her silence.
"What have you now to say, Miriam?"
"Nothing."
"'Nothing?' What do you think of my explanation?"
"I think nothing. My mind is in an agony of doubt and conjecture. I must
be governed by stern facts--not by my own prepossessions. I must act
upon the evidences in my possession--not upon your explanation of them,"
said Miriam, distractedly, as she arose to leave the room.
"And you will denounce me, Miriam?"
"It is my insupportable duty! it is my fate! my doom! for it will kill
me!"
"Yet you will do it!"
"I will."
"Yet turn, dear Miriam! Look on me once more! take my hand! since you
act from necessity, do nothing from anger--turn and take my hand."
She turned and stood--such a picture of tearless agony! She met his
gentle, compassionate glance--it melted--it subdued her.
"Oh, would Heaven that I might die, rather than do this thing! Would
Heaven I might die! for my heart turns to you; it turns, and I love you
so--oh! I love you so! never, never so much as now! my brother! my
brother!" and she sunk down and seized his hands and wept over them.
"What, Miriam! do you love me, believing me to be guilty?"
"To have been guilty--not to be guilty--you have suffered remorse--you
have repented, these many long and wretched years. Oh! surely repentance
washes out guilt!"
"And you can now caress and weep over my hands, believing them to have
been crimsoned with the life-stream of your first and best friend?"
"Yes! yes! yes! yes! Oh! would these tears, my very heart sobs forth,
might wash them pure again! Yes! yes! whether you be guilty or not, my
brother! the more I listen to my heart, the more I love you, and I
cannot help it!"
"It is because your heart is so much wiser than your head, dear Miriam!
Your heart divines the guiltlessness that your reason refuses to credit!
Do what you feel that you must, dear Miriam--but, in the meantime, let
us still be brother and sister--embrace me once more."
With anguish bordering on insanity, she threw herself into his arms for
a moment--was pressed to his heart, and then breaking away, she escaped
from the room to her own chamber. And there, with her half-crazed brain
and breaking heart--like one acting or forced to act in a ghastly dream,
she began to arrange her evidence--collect the letters, the list of
witnesses and all, preparatory to setting forth upon her fatal mission
in the morning.
With the earliest dawn of morning, Miriam left her room. In passing the
door of Mr. Willcoxen's chamber, she suddenly stopped--a spasm seized
her heart, and convulsed her features--she clasped her hands to pray,
then, as if there were wild mockery in the thought, flung them fiercely
apart, and hurried on her way. She felt that she was leaving the house
never to return; she thought that she should depart without encountering
any of its inmates. She was surprised, therefore, to meet Paul in the
front passage. He came up and intercepted her:
"Where are you going so early, Miriam?"
"To Colonel Thornton's."
"What? Before breakfast?"
"Yes."
He took both of her hands, and looked into her face--her pallid
face--with all the color concentrated in a dark crimson spot upon either
cheek--with all the life burning deep down in the contracted pupils of
the eyes.
"Miriam, you are not well--come, go into the parlor," he said, and
attempted to draw her toward the door.
"No, Paul, no! I must go out," she said, resisting his efforts.
"But why?"
"What is it to you? Let me go."
"It is everything to me, Miriam, because I suspect your errand. Come
into the parlor. This madness must not go on."
"Well, perhaps I am mad, and my words and acts may go for nothing. I
hope it may be so."
"Miriam, I must talk with you--not here--for we are liable to be
interrupted every instant. Come into the parlor, at least for a few
moments."
She no longer resisted that slight plea, but suffered him to lead her
in. He gave her a seat, and took one beside her, and took her hand in
his, and began to urge her to give up her fatal purpose. He appealed to
her, through reason, through religion, through all the strongest
passions and affections of her soul--through her devotion to her
guardian--through the gratitude she owed him--through their mutual love,
that must be sacrificed, if her insane purpose should be carried out. To
all this she answered:
"I think of nothing concerning myself, Paul--I think only of him; there
is the anguish."
"You are insane, Miriam; yet, crazy as you are, you may do a great deal
of harm--much to Thurston, but much more to yourself. It is not probable
that the evidence you think you have will be considered by any
magistrate of sufficient importance to be acted upon against a man of
Mr. Willcoxen's life and character."
"Heaven grant that such may be the case."
"Attend! collect your thoughts--the evidence you produce will probably
be considered unimportant and quite unworthy of attention; but what will
be thought of you who volunteer to offer it?"
"I had not reflected upon that--and now you mention it, I do not care."
"And if, on the other hand, the testimony which you have to offer be
considered ground for indictment, and Thurston is brought to trial, and
acquitted, as he surely would be--"
"Ay! Heaven send it!"
"And the whole affair blown all over the country--how would you appear?"
"I know not, and care not, so he is cleared; Heaven grant I may be the
only sufferer! I am willing to take the infamy."
"You would be held up before the world as an ingrate, a domestic
traitress, and unnatural monster. You would be hated of all--your name
and history become a tradition of almost impossible wickedness."
"Ha! why, do you think that in such an hour as this I care for myself?
No, no! no, no! Heaven grant that it may be as you say--that my brother
be acquitted, and I only may suffer! I am willing to suffer shame and
death for him whom I denounce! Let me go, Paul; I have lost too much
time here."
"Will nothing induce you to abandon this wicked purpose?"
"Nothing on earth, Paul!"
"Nothing?"
"No! so help me Heaven! Give way--let me go, Paul."
"You must not go, Miriam."
"I must and will--and that directly. Stand aside."
"Then you shall not go."
"Shall not?"
"I said 'shall not.'"
"Who will prevent me?"
"I will! You are a maniac, Miriam, and must be restrained from going
abroad, and setting the county in a conflagration."
"You will have to guard me very close for the whole of my life, then."
At that moment the door was quietly opened, and Mr. Willcoxen entered.
Miriam's countenance changed fearfully, but she wrung her hand from the
clasp of Paul's, and hastened toward the door.
Paul sprang forward and intercepted her.
"What does this mean?" asked Mr. Willcoxen, stepping up to them.
"It means that she is mad, and will do herself or somebody else much
mischief," cried Paul, sharply.
"For shame, Paul! Release her instantly," said Thurston,
authoritatively.
"Would you release a lunatic, bent upon setting the house on fire?"
expostulated the young man, still holding her.
"She is no lunatic; let her go instantly, sir."
Paul, with a groan, complied.
Miriam hastened onward, cast one look of anguish back to Thurston's
face, rushed back, and threw herself upon her knees at his feet, clasped
his hands, and cried:
"I do not ask you to pardon me--I dare not! But God deliver you! if it
brand me and my accusation with infamy! and God forever bless you!" Then
rising, she fled from the room.
The brothers looked at each other.
"Thurston, do you know where she has gone? what she intends to do?"
"Yes."
"You do?"
"Assuredly."
"And you would not prevent her?"
"Most certainly not."
Paul was gazing into his brother's eyes, and, as he gazed, every vestige
of doubt and suspicion vanished from his mind; it was like the sudden
clearing up of the sky, and shining forth of the sun; he grasped his
brother's hands with cordial joy.
"God bless you, Thurston! I echo her prayer. God forever bless you! But,
Thurston, would it not have been wiser to prevent her going out?"
"How? Would you have used force with Miriam--restrained her personal
liberty?"
"Yes! I would have done so!"
"That would have been not only wrong, but useless; for if her strong
affections for us were powerless to restrain her, be sure that physical
means would fail; she would make herself heard in some way, and thus
make our cause much worse. Besides, I should loathe, for myself, to
resort to any such expedients."
"But she may do so much harm. And you?"
"I am prepared to meet what comes!"
"Strange infatuation! that she should believe you to be--I will not
wrong you by finishing the sentence."
"She does not at heart believe me guilty--her mind is in a storm. She is
bound by her oath to act upon the evidence rather than upon her own
feelings, and that evidence is much stronger against me, Paul, than you
have any idea of. Come into my study, and I will tell you the whole
story."
And Paul followed him thither.