AWAKENING.
Ratke was in no great pain, physical or mental, as Manie led him from
the scene of the fire. The repeated blows which he had received had
deadened sensation, and he had neither concern for the present nor
anxiety for the future. At intervals he passed his palm across his
brow, generally repeating the act before he dropped his hand.
His face and hands were blistered in places, and his hair adhered to
his head in singed clusters, his eyes were inflamed, and the lashes
burned nearly off.
"You are badly burned. Uncle James," said Manie, who was crying. "How
it must hurt you."
"No," answered the major, "I am past suffering. All that can hurt me
is thinking. Sluggishness has come to my relieve. Do not make me talk
or think."
Jake Sheppard's house was a small, one story building, which lay
between the church and the Ratke farm. Back of it was a log stable,
and east of it a diminutive shop in which its previous owner, a
blacksmith, had worked. When it was reached by the Ratkes, some
chairs were already in it, and dishes and furniture were approaching
near by in a wagon.
Manie went to the residence of Holmes for remedies to apply to her
uncle's burned face and hands. She bathed them in oil and arranged a
shade for his eyes. He did not seem to appreciate her kindness,
although he submited to it without a word of opposition or comment.
"Miss Grippin," said Daggett, coming to the back door of their new
residence, "the men all want to do something for you. We're going to
get up a pile of wood. If anybody else offers you any wood, you tell
'em you've got enough already spoke for, will you?"
"I will," returned Mrs. Grippin. "Thank you, Mark."
Daggett retreated a few steps, and motioned Mrs. Grippin to follow
him. "How is he?" he asked, pointing toward the room where the major
was.
"I'm afraid he will never be any better," said Mrs. Grippin. "He is
losing his mind. He don't realize much of anything that is going on.
He can understand when we talk right to him, but if we don't, he wont
pay any attention."
"Boys," said Daggett, as he joined his fellow-workmen, who were in
front of the house, "you go over to the woods. I'll skip up and see
Miss Green. I know she'll sell me a tree or two."
Daggett purchased three fallen trees of Mrs. Green and proceeded
across to the woods, which were in sight of the smouldering farmhouse
which was now deserted by spectators.
"This won't be a quarter enough," he said to Sheppard. "We can buy
the rest of some one else cheaper that we can of her, though."
The men worked with a will, as though to atone for their neglect of
duty while in the major's service. Strange to say, the most active
and efficient of them all was Archer. He pulled an end of a cross-cut
saw with such energy that Daggett, Sheppard and Brown were
successively obliged to desist from working with him.
"You chop, Will," said Daggett, "there can't no man saw with you."
Archer snatched an ax and hurried to the top of the tree, where he
struck off limb after limb, trimmed them and chopped them into
stove-wood with astonishing rapidity.
"What's Phleet Takum a pokin' round that fire for?" said Jake.
"Philetus stood by the edge of the ruins which marked the site of
Ratke's dwelling. He had a rake with which he reached as far as
possible, systematically dragging the ashes and bringing to him
whatever he could conveniently pull. A pack of dogs was scouring
about the yard.
"Git out o' that, you thief," yelled Jake. Immediately after, the men
in chorus set up a prolonged yell. The startled Takum, followed by
his dogs, made swiftly for the woods, and he was not seen again by
his neighbors for two days.
"My faithful men," said the major after the wood was hauled, "my
faithful men, and I did not even thank them." For a week he mourned
that he had not expressed to them his gratitude.
Let us pause in our account of Ratke's experience to note some events
in the history of the neighborhood which is connected with our
narrative.
Sparks, who had offered a considerable reward for the recovery of
Madge T. was rejoiced when a detective found his property in New
York. He was soon in possession of the valuable beast, the speed of
which he took special pains to improve.
Nora, whose singular demeanor at any other time would have been
commented upon, declared that she could not longer stay in Jefferson.
A few days after the family was settled in Sheppard's house, she went
to live with her aunt in Ohio.
The day after the fire a telegram for Montcalm came to Break o' Day,
stating that his mother was dead and naming the date of her funeral.
In the burying-ground by Green's orchard they placed the son in whom
she had trusted.
Could he have arisen from his resting-place and stood upright, he
might have viewed the house in which he had lost his peace of mind
and his hope of eternity. Had he taken two steps, he would have been
above the body of his victim. If withdrawing his gaze from the spot
beneath which lay the disfigured forehead and cloven brain, he had
turned it to the right would have rested on the cottage which
sheltered Ratke, whose lethargic, nearly-demented condition of mind
he had helped to produce.
One night Jake Sheppard, who was something of a hunter, was cooning
in Mrs. Green's woods when he was guided by his dog to a tree which
had a large hollow. Ordinarily Jake was not a rigid respecter of the
law. He procured an ax and chopped down the tree as speedily as
possible, that he might secure the game before his unwarranted
cutting of the timber was discovered. As the fall of the tree did not
frighten the coon from his refuge, Jake cut into the body, which in
that place was but a shell. He was both surprised and chagrined when
the ax struck a metallic substance which took from it a deep nick.
"What blamed fool has been a-stuffin' an auger in here?" he
exclaimed, pulling the designated tool from its place of secretion.
His astonishment increased as he drew out some clothes and, lastly, a
long pocket-book, which, upon examination, he saw contained a large
roll of bills. He thought at once of the robbery in July, and,
forgetting the coon, started for Mrs. Green's house. Owing to the
deafness of Mrs. Green and the timidity of William Henry Harrison,
who never quite recovered from his terror of the midnight visitor by
whom his master had been slain, Sheppard was some time in securing an
answer to his knocks and calls. Mrs. Green, however, was at last
aroused by the half-wit, who broke the fastening to her bedroom door
and entered her room for protection, Jake went to her window, made
known his errand, and was admitted to the house. The only reward
which he received from the widow was forgiveness for his depredation
in her timber. Shortly after this event he called at the cottage by
the church and left an envelope directed to the major. The envelope
contained fifty dollars in currency and a badly spelled note which
stated that Sheppard was going away from the neighborhood and begged
that Ratke would accept the money as a token of regard.
The major rallied in part from the stupor which chained him in the
few days succeeding the fire. He made an auction, and sold his
personal property. When Taylor was taken away by a Jackson horseman,
who bought him for four hundred dollars, Ratke with sadness watched
the handsome animal, trotting behind the owner's sulky as he was led
up the road. He paid first his hired men, with the exception of
Sheppard, who could not be found. The remainder of his money he
distributed among his creditors, who were numerous. Most of them were
content to allow him time for his fortunes to mend, but a few gave
warning that, unless payment was speedily made, they would cause him
trouble. This insulting language revived a portion of his old-time
spirit. He wrote them letters, stating his intention to liquidate
every dollar of his indebtedness, but affirming his resolution not to
pay a cent of costs for legal proceedings. "Those who would be
first," he said, "should be last."
Ratke sought work and found it.
His former hired men saw him coming home night after tight,
stoop-shouldered and listless. They took a job of grubbing from
Holmes for twelve dollars and told him to let it to Ratke for twenty,
and they would make up the difference to him. They instructed him
also to say nothing of their connection with the affair to Ratke,
who, should he be made aware of it, would be certain to refuse the
charity. The major accepted Holmes's offer and labored with all his
strength at the grubbing.
Manie, on applying in several districts for a position as teacher,
found that the fall terms of country schools were almost invariably
conducted by those who had been engaged in the spring. She then
obtained a place to work in the family of Osborne.
The habits of Ratke had changed with the circumstances which
surrounded him. He was silent, but apparently not thoughtful. No
longer in his moments of leisure did he sit with his left leg thrown
over the arm of his rocking-chair, his chin resting on his hand, and
his elbow on his knee. No longer did he speculate or philosophize. He
seemed to be again sinking, with his grief forgotten, into a gradual
and peaceful decline. When he talked, which was seldom, it was
concerning business matters; and his former force of delivery was
entirely wanting. All that seemed to attract his special notice was
the absence of Manie, who came home every Saturday night and remained
until Monday morning. He would sometimes ask what day of the week it
was, and on receiving an answer would sit silent some minutes and
then repeat his question. Mrs. Grippin, who feared that he was going
into insanity or idiotcy, longed to hear again the tiresome theories
which she had once detested. With the hope of seeing him once more at
his studies, she borrowed a work on physics and some scientific
journals, which she placed where she imagined they would come under
his observation, but her ruse was unavailing. He did not notice them
until they were alluded to by his sister, when he picked them up,
apparently without interest, and threw them down with a sigh.
Manie, although she was obliged to do all the work in the family of
Osborne, who had seven children and one hired man, on being informed
of her uncle's dangerous apathy came home every night and returned in
the morning. Ratke showed the first pleasure which he had exhibited
for weeks. No matter how tired he was, when he had finished his toil
for the day, he walked up the road to meet her. His object was not to
talk, nor did it seem to be to hear her, for he was an indifferent
listener. Satisfied with her presence, he desired no exchange of
words. His instinct to be near her was like that of the dog which
silently follows his master, or that of the dying horse which, when
turned loose that he may have room to struggle, totters back to
breathe his last in his familiar stall. Years before, he had told her
stories while she had sat on his knee and combed his hair. Now he had
childishly asked her to do again as she had done then. She humored
his whim, and it was seldom that he had to remind her of his wish.
Mrs. Green, who wailed until after seeding to thresh her grain, one
day dispatched William Henry Harrison to secure Ratke's assistance.
The next morning the major with his pitchfork appeared early at the
house of his old enemy. He was given a place on the bundle stack, but
through the intervention of his friend, Jim Turner, he was allowed
the easy duty of holding bags. At noon Jim was obliged to leave on
account of a previous promise which he had made to Osborne.
William Henry Harrison, Sparks and Wingscheut were on the
straw-stack. Throughout the forenoon the halfwit had worked by the
carrier, in the language of Wingscheut, "vith his mouth vite open
ketchin, all te chaff." After dinner the major noticed the poor
fellow toiling away in the same uncomfortable place. "Sparks," he
shouted, "why don't you go up and change with him?"
"I don't have to," replied Sparks.
"Come down here, William Henry Harrison," called Ratke, "I will
change with you. You can hold bags."
The major took the position which had been occupied by the half-wit,
who slid down the stack and was buried in the litterings at the
bottom, from which he soon emerged. Sparks motioned to the feeder,
with whom, on the night of the expedition to Wallace's, the major had
quarreled over the disposition of the horse-thieves in case they were
captured. The driver, in turn, received the signal from the feeder,
the horses bent their heads and tugged, the machine sang more loudly,
and every man about it bestirred himself anew. The straw rolled in
great masses up the carrier, to the head of which a suffocating cloud
of dust was borne by the wind.
The major, whose temper and dignity were aroused, stood at his post,
too proud to ask for relief. The straw gathered in a wall behind him,
and Wingscheut lazily or purposely let it fall back, so that he was
obliged to pitch back large quantities of it the second time. At each
one of the huge forkfuls which he had to take his body trembled, and
he wondered how much longer he could endure the strain. Most of the
hands were busily occupied, and those who were not bestowed little
sympathy on the old man in his weakness so heroically and pitifully
trying to keep up an appearance of strength. He was at the point of
exhaustion, when the threshing was finished and the machine suspended
motion. Without waiting for his supper or his coat and vest, which,
of course, he had stripped off, he went away from the barn-yard, his
breathing difficult, his eyes blinded and his face blackened with
dirt.
"Guess Jerusalem got about enough," said the Oakville man, loud
enough for Ratke to hear, "I ain't sorry neither. It ain't any worse
for him to work than it is for me."
"This ain't makin' wagons," remarked Sparks.
The words rankled deep in the majors breast, as with his pitchfork on
his shoulder he went slowly home. He was hurt most by the grim
satisfaction with which Sparks spoke of his downfall. On his farm,
surrounded by his books and his inventions, he could smile at
riddles; but now, removed from his defenses, he could not endure it.
Mrs. Gnppin had gone to visit Mrs. Boyle, with whom she expected to
stay that night. Manie, who had finished her work for Osborne,
received her uncle with expressions of pity. She brought some water
and washed the dirt from his face and neck. While she was combing the
chaff from his hair, a constable came to serve a summons on him in
behalf of the Empire Machine Company.
"The completion of disgrace," said Ratke, after the man had gone. "I
cannot pay them. Judgment will be rendered against me, and I must
have it thrown in my teeth that my promises are lies. How much more!
Oh, God, how much more can I endure!"
"Let me comb the chaff from your hair," said Manie.
"No," answered the major, taking his hat and going out of the house.
He went straight to the little blacksmith shop and stood before it.
The sun, now a reddish ball, stripped of its fiery spikes, seemed
lying in a slight depression of the landscape, as if it had rolled
thither from one of the declivities between which it rested. Its
latest rays were permitted to fall on Ratke by the parting of a strip
of cloud, which was drawn asunder like curtains on a stage. The
major's gaze rested longest on the buildings which had been erected
on his former farm. The windows of the house threw back among the
apple trees, by which it was partly hidden, the rays of the sun,
whose splendid reflections glimmered like wondrous lanterns among the
branches. From Green's woods, which were red and yellow in the cloak
of fall, came the voice of William Henry Harrison, who was calling
the cows. A night-hawk swept high over the major's head, carrying its
mournful cry over his desolated and rebuilded homestead.
He opened the door of the shop and entered. Inside were a few tools
which had been left by the blacksmith who had previously owned the
lot. These were a workbench, an anvil, two saw-horses and two
hammers. The blacksmith evidently had worked some in wood; and, in
fact, such was the case, for he had been exorbitant in his charges,
and his trade afforded him but a meager subsistence. On the workbench
was Ratke's one-man saw, which was badly rusted. Taking a hammer, the
major loosened the saw-blade from the frame and fastened it with a
strap to a strong hickory pole, the upper part of which he nailed
firmly to the wall. He tied a small rope to the other end of the saw
and pulling it until the stiff pole bent far back, he made it fast to
a ring in the opposite wall, leaving the saw stretched horizontally
within about two feet of the floor. His next movement was to place
nearly under the saw a saw-horse on which he rested his head so that
his throat was within a few inches of the sharp saw-teeth. Satisfied
that the arrangements for suicide were complete, he arose to take his
farewell of terrestrial things.
Once more he stepped out into the cool evening air. The sun had
disappeared, and its light had ceased to tint the clouds along the
western horizon, but it was reflected from the stray patches which
were moving slowly near the zenith.
"Ah," he said, "the cloud at the horizon is as red as the one at the
zenith. It does not appear so to me, because I am not in a proper
position to see its brilliancy. If the light of merit has fallen on
me and my inventions, the world has not been in a situation to
recognize it."
To no purpose had his philosophy been neglected; at the last hour it
persistently returned, demanding that he should harbor it for a brief
space before he and it took their final separation. It mingled with
his every observation; it asserted itself in the arrangement of the
machine for his destruction.
He prepared for a last look at earth, which twilight was plunging in
partial obscurity.
"Oh, Trace, Trace!" he exclaimed, as his eyes fell on the graveyard,
"why did you shatter my faith in you? It was you that first broke my
old heart, and it has been cracking and crumbling ever since. I would
I were with you, and Nature, not my hand, had sent me there."
Resolutely he went inside the shop. He would see no more the fair
landscape in its autumnal beauty; he was hearing for the last time
the night-hawk, the solemn notes of which were a fitting preliminary
to the approaching tragedy. In the morning, or, perhaps, that night,
they would find him with his throat hacked and, it might be, entirely
cut in twain. He crawled under the saw and rested his head on the
saw-horse. He raised a scythe to strike a blow which would allow the
hickory spring to pull the saw across his throat.
Some one jerked him back, tipping over the saw-horse. Manie's arms
were about his neck, her face close to his, her soothing voice in his
ear. After pulling him gently away she struck the rope with the
scythe. The vicious force with which the spring propelled the saw
showed how deadly an implement of destruction the major had planned.
"What made you interrupt me?" cried the major. "The world has no use
for James Ratke! Wherever I am, I am in the way. I am refuse in the
economy of Nature, refuse which her creatures abhor, but which she
will not remove. I will remove myself! Go away, Manie! Go away, I
tell you!"
"Uncle James, Uncle James," pleaded Manie, "do not act so! Come into
the house."
"You, too, have become my enemy," said Ratke. "No friend of mine
would like to prolong my wretched existence. I thought that I had
suffered until I had no further capacity for suffering, but sensation
only slept. It racks me now as it racked me before my mind fell into
torpidity, when I sat on the log watching my burning wagon. Oh, Manie
I Must I, must I fall into that stupor again? Must I, my God! Must I
see my mind, like my fortunes, waste away, leaving me a wreck and a
wretch indeed?"
"Trust in God," said Manie. "He can rescue you from any trouble."
"God!" echoed the major, "God has deserted me utterly; utterly,
utterly," he added with an accent of incescribable despair. "Where is
my farm on which I prided myself? Where are my horses and cattle?
Where are my books, which were my study and my comfort? Where are my
inventions, which I would have given my life to save? Where is Trace,
the trusted son of my comrade, whom I loved better than myself? His
mutilated body is in that graveyard! He died in destroying my all! If
I could forget! If I only could! 'The waters are come in unto my
soul.'"
"Come in," said Manie, pulling him toward the door.
The major went passively to the house, where Manie induced him to be
seated. "'The Lord will not cast off forever,'" she said, "'but,
though he cause grief yet will he have compassion, according to the
multitude of his mercies.'"
"You talk of consolation," replied Ratke, rising from his chair and
striding restlessly about the room. "There is no consolation for me.
'The sorrows of death compass me.' I will not take my wretched life
to-night, because I could take only the bodily part. I would I could
place those saw teeth against my soul! I would annihilate myself, for
I could meet annihilation firmly. This old body I can bring to the
grave, but I cannot touch the after life. No. I must keep this
sensation, sensation which gives me no pleasure, only pain, eternal
pain, I am like an old harp which was once an instrument of melody,
but which now yields the harshest of sounds. Mirth, pleasure, rest,
they are for me neither now nor in eternity!"
"You have no reason to be so hopeless," said Manie. "God has promised
to help those who trust in Him. 'Whoso hearkeneth unto Me shall dwell
safely and shall be quiet from fear of evil.'
"'He hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted,
neither hath He hid his face from him. But when he cried unto Him, He
heard.'"
"What have I rendered unto Him in my prosperity," said Ratke, "that
He should help me now? I never openly acknowledged Him. When wealth
and friends were mine, I depended on my own resources with little
solicitude for God's assistance. I said, 'I will get wisdom;' and
that wisdom I worshipped. Now, when all my persecutors have overtaken
me between the straights, he has left me to be extricated by my
wisdom."
"You have fulfilled part of the Lord's requirements," said Manie.
"'Is not this the fast that I have chosen, to loose the bands of
wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens and to let the oppressed go
free, and that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to
the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy
house, when thou seest the naked that thou cover him?'"
"It was not enough," answered the major, "or I should have support in
this hour. He laughs at my calamity. 'He hath thrown down and hath
not pitied.' 'He hath made me desolate and faint all the day.' I
might call, but he would not answer. Oh, Manie, how can I live? 'My
heart is like wax!'"
"You will feel better to-morrow," said Manie. "When I am teaching
school, we shall have more money. We will pay up these little debts,
and how much comfort we will take, reading our books and studying
together. We will get some tools in the shop for you. Uncle James,
and you can work at your inventions as you used to do."
"I shall never know comfort again," said Ratke. "Is it nothing to
lose one's entire possessions, to see perishing what one prizes more
than property, to see wealth, position, friendships, aspirations, all
shivered in succession, and the ruins heaped in ashes on one's head?
My neighbors who have given me financial help laugh at me. They sneer
at my Jerusalem wagon and crack jokes about my one-man saw. I cannot
endure it. I shall die or go insane. 'The pains of hell have got hold
upon me.'"
"'The sorrows of hell compassed me about,'" said Manie. "'The snares
of death prevented me. In my distress I called on the Lord and my cry
came before him, even unto his ears.'"
"My sighs are many, and my heart is faint," said the major. "There is
anguish in reflection. Lure me into forgetfulness by song, Manie."
"Shall I sing one which John composed?" asked Manie.
"Anything," answered Ratke. "Sit close by me."
The room was quite dark, for Manie had not yet lighted a lamp. She
seated herself by Ratke, who had ceased his violent pacing of the
floor. The scene through which she had passed put a tremulous pathos
into her voice.
"A minstrel sang often Euterpa's gay song
Where the board of the feast was outspread,
Where the floor of the hall 'neath a great courtly throng
Bent and swayed to the dancers' light tread.
Sweet notes which were welcomed, applauded and famed
Came from the musicians' skilled art.
Their melody all except pleasure disclaimed;
It mixed with the revel where mirth was untamed,
But it touched not a comfortless heart.
'Hits fame and his fortune all perished away.
Those who in his prosperous days
Were loudest in flattery scoffed at his lay.
And hushed was their liberal praise.
He thought of his laurels, whose life was so brief,
In his gloomy and utter despair
No hand was extended to give him relief.
'My burden,' he faltered, in accents of grief,
'Is greater than I can bear.'
"He bowed low his head and he threw down his lyre
In a hall where its music had rung.
He felt that forever had left him that fire
With which in his youth he had sung.
Oh, deep was the anguish that swept o'er him then
When no solace his broken heart propped;
He mused on his trouble, remote from all men;
But mournfully from its mute corner again
He picked up the lyre he had dropped.
"Out on the wide world the sad measure was borne,
And the healing of pain was its goal.
It came from a bosom by misery torn;
It raised many a low-smitten soul.
Then woe left its sack-cloth forgotten and smiled;
The transgressor bent on his knee;
And men from the shades of their crimes were beguiled;
'Lord, now it is plain,' said the minstrel, a child;
'I know why Thou chastenest me.'"
"Comb my hair, Manie," said the major. "Sit on my
knee and comb my hair. Let me think that these are the
olden days, that you are a little girl, that I have not lost
my place, that I still have hope for my inventions. Oh,
this is luxury! What a soothing power there is in the
comb."
Manie, who was crying under cover of the darkness, tenderly combed
and brushed his hair.