Madelon stood for a second looking at the dark, prostrate form as one
of her Iroquois ancestors might have looked at a fallen foe before he
drew his scalping-knife; then suddenly the surging of the savage
blood in her ears grew faint. She fell down on her knees beside him.
"Have I killed you, Burr?" she said, and bent her face down to
his--and it was not Burr, but Lot Gordon!
The white, peaked face smiled up at her out of the snow. "You haven't
killed me if I die, since you took me for Burr," whispered Lot
Gordon.
"Are you much hurt?"
"I--don't know. The knife has gone a little way into my side. It has
not reached my heart, but that was hurt unto death already by life,
so this matters not."
Madelon felt along his side and hit the handle of the clasp-knife,
firmly fixed.
"Don't try to draw it out--you cannot," said Lot, and his pain forced
a groan from him. "I'll live, if I can, till the wound is healed for
the sake of your peace. I'd be content to die of it, since you gave
it in vengeance for another man's kiss, if it were not for you. But
they shall never know--they shall never--know." Lot's voice died
away in a faint murmur between his parted lips; his eyes stared up
with no meaning in them at the wintry stars.
Madelon ran back on the road to the village, taking great leaps
through the snow, straining her eyes ahead. Now and then she cried
out hoarsely, as if she really saw some one, "Hullo! hullo!" At the
curve of the road she turned a headlong corner and ran roughly
against a man who was hurrying towards her; and this time it was Burr
Gordon.
Burr reeled back with the shock; then his face peered into hers with
fear and wonder. "Is it you?" he stammered out. "What is the matter?"
But Madelon caught his arm in a hard grip. "Come, quick!" she gasped,
and pulled him along the road after her.
"What is the matter?" Burr demanded, half yielding and half
resisting.
Madelon faced him suddenly as they sped along. "I met your cousin Lot
just below here and he kissed me, and I took him for you and stabbed
him, if you must know," she sobbed out, dryly.
Burr gave a choking cry of horror.
"I think I--have killed him," said she, and pulled him on faster.
"And you meant to kill me?"
"Yes, I did."
"I wish to God you had!" Burr cried out, with a sudden fierce anger
at himself and her; and now he hurried on faster than she.
Lot was quite motionless when they reached him. Burr threw himself
down in the snow and leaned his ear to his cousin's heart. Madelon
stood over them, panting. Suddenly a merry roulade of whistling broke
the awful stillness. Two men were coming down the road whistling
"Roy's Wife of Alidivalloch" as clearly soft and sweet as flutes,
accented with human gayety and mirth.
On came the merry whistlers. Burr sprang up and grasped Madelon
Hautville's arm. "He isn't dead," he whispered, hoarsely. "Somebody's
coming. Go home, quick!"
But Madelon looked at him with despairing obstinacy. "I'll stay,"
said she.
"I tell you, go! Somebody is coming. I'll get help. I'll send for the
doctor. Go home!"
"No!"
"Oh, Madelon, if you have ever loved me, go home!"
Madelon turned away at that. "I'll be there when they come for me,"
said she, and went swiftly down the road and out of sight in the
converging distance of trees, with the snow muffling her footsteps.
When she reached home she groped her way into the living-room, which
was lighted only by the low, red gleam of the coals on the hearth.
Her father's gruff voice called out from the bedroom beyond: "That
you, Madelon?"
"Yes," said she, and lighted a candle at the coals.
"Have the boys come?"
"No."
Madelon went up the steep stairs to her chamber, but before she
opened her door her brother Louis's voice, broken with pain, besought
her to come into his room and bathe his sprained shoulder for him.
She went in, set the candle on the table, and rubbed in the
cider-brandy and wormwood without a word. Louis, in the midst of his
pain, kept looking up wonderingly at his sister's face. It looked as
if it were frozen. She did not seem to see him. Nothing about her
seemed alive but her gently moving hands.
Suddenly he gave a startled cry. "What's that? Have you cut your
hand, Madelon?" Madelon glanced at her hand, and there was a broad
red stain over the palm and three of her fingers.
"No," said she, and went on rubbing.
"But it looks like blood!" cried Louis, knitting his pale brows at
her.
Madelon made no reply.
"Madelon, what is that on your hand?"
"Blood."
"How came it there?"
"You'll know to-morrow." Madelon put the stopper in the cider-brandy
and wormwood bottle; then she covered up the wounded arm and went
out.
"Madelon, what is it? What is the matter? What ails you?" Louis
called after her.
"You'll know to-morrow," said she, and shut her chamber door, which
was nearly opposite Louis's. His youngest brother Richard occupied
the same room, having his little cot at the other side, under the
window. When he came in, an hour later, Louis turned to him eagerly.
"Has anything happened?" he demanded.
The boy's face, which was always so like his sister's, had the same
despair in it now. "Don't know of anything that's happened," he
returned, surlily.
"What ails Madelon?"
"I tell you I don't know." Richard would say no more. He blew out
his candle and tumbled into bed, turned his face to the window and
lay awake until and hour before dawn. Then he arose, dressed himself,
and went down-stairs. He put more wood on the hearth fire, then knelt
down before it, and puffed out his boyish cheeks at the bellows until
the new flames crept through the smoke. Then he lighted the lantern,
and went to the barn to milk and feed the stock. That was always
Richard's morning task, and he always on his way thither replenished
the hearth fire, that his sister Madelon might have a lighter and
speedier task at preparing breakfast. Madelon usually arose a
half-hour after Richard, and she was not behindhand this morning. She
entered the great living-room, lit the candles, and went about
getting breakfast. Human daily needs arise and set on tragedy as
remorselessly as the sun.
Madelon Hautville, who had washed but a few hours ago the stain of
murder from her hand, in whose heart was an unsounded depth of
despair, mixed up the corn-meal daintily with cream, and baked the
cakes which her father and brothers loved before the fire, and laid
the table. She had always attended to the needs of the males of her
family with the stern faithfulness of an Indian squaw. Now, as she
worked, the wonder, softer than her other emotions, was upon her as
to how they would get on when she was in prison and after she was
dead; for she made no doubt that she had killed Lot Gordon and the
sheriff would be there presently for her, and she felt plainly the
fretting of the rope around her soft neck. She hoped they would not
come for her until breakfast was prepared and eaten, the dishes
cleared away, and the house tidied; but she listened like a savage
for a foot-fall and a hand at the door. She had packed a little
bundle ready to take with her before she left her chamber. Her cloak
and hood were laid out on the bed.
When she sat down at the table with her father and brothers, all of
them except Richard and Louis stared at her with open amazement and
questioned her. Richard and Louis stared furtively at their sister's
face, as stiff, set, and pale as if she were dead, but they asked no
questions. Madelon said, in a voice that was not hers, that she was
not sick, and put pieces of Indian cake into her untasting mouth and
listened. But breakfast was well over and the dishes put away before
anybody came. And then it was not the sheriff to hale her to prison
on a charge of murder, but an old man from the village big with news.
He was a relative of the Hautvilles, an uncle on the mother's side,
old and broken, scarcely able to find his feeble way on his shrunken
legs through the snow; but, with the instinct of gossip, the sharp
nose for his neighbors' affairs, still alert in him, he had arisen at
dawn to canvass the village, and had come thither at first, since he
anticipated that he might possibly have the delight of bringing the
intelligence before any of the family had heard it elsewhere. He came
in, dragging his old, snow-laden feet, tapping heavily with his stout
stick, and settled, cackling, into a chair.
"Heard the news?" queried Uncle Luke basset, his eyes, like black
sparks, twinkling rapidly at all their faces.
Madelon set the cups and saucers on the dresser.
"We don't have any time for anybody's business but our own," quoth
David Hautville, gruffly. He did not like his wife's uncle. He was
tightening a string in his bass-viol; he pulled it as he spoke, and
it gave out a fierce twang. Louis sat moodily over the fire with his
painful arm in wet bandages. Richard was whittling kindling-wood,
with nervous speed, beside him. Eugene and Abner were cleaning their
guns. They all looked at the eager old man except Richard and Louis
and Madelon.
"Burr Gordon has killed Lot so's to get his property," proclaimed the
old man, and his voice broke with eager delight and importance.
Madelon gave a cry and sprang forward in front of him. "It's a lie!"
she shouted.
The old man laughed in her face. "No, 'tain't, Madelon. You're
showin' a Christian sperrit to stan' up for him when he's jilted ye
for another gal, but 'tain't a lie. His knife, with his name on to
it, was a-stickin' out of Lot's side."
"_It's a lie!_ I killed him with my brother Richard's knife!"
The old man shrank back before her in incredulous horror. The great
bass-viol fell to the ground like a woman as David strode forward and
Abner and Eugene turned their shocked, white faces from their guns.
"I killed him with Richard's knife," repeated Madelon.
Richard got up and came around before her, thrusting his hand in his
pocket. He pulled out his own clasp-knife, and brandished it in her
face. "Here is my knife," he cried, fiercely--"my knife, with my name
cut in the handle. Say you killed Lot Gordon with it again!"
Madelon snatched the knife out of her brother's hand and looked at it
with straining eyes. There, indeed, was a rude "R. H." cut in the
horn handle. She gasped. "What does this mean?" she cried out.
"It means you have lost your wits," answered Richard, contemptuously;
but his eyes on his sister's face were full of pleading agony.
"What knife did you give me when I started home last night?"
"I gave you no knife."
Old Luke Basset asserted himself again. "The gal's lost her balance,"
he said. "It was Burr Gordon's knife, with his name cut into it, that
was stickin' out of Lot Gordon's side."
"Is Lot Gordon dead?" Louis demanded, hoarsely.
"No, he ain't dead, but the doctor thinks he can't live long. Ephraim
Steele and Eleazer Hooper were a-goin' home from the ball when they
come right on Lot layin' side of the road and Burr a-tryin' to draw
his knife out, so it shouldn't testify against him."
"It's a lie!" Madelon groaned. "Burr Gordon did not kill him. It was
I! He met me, and tried to--kiss me, and--the knife was in my
hand--Richard made me take it because I was coming home alone, and
there had been rumors of a bear."
"I did not," persisted Richard, doggedly. "I did not make her take my
knife. Here is my knife, with my name cut in the handle."
Madelon turned on him fiercely. "You did, you know you did!" said
she.
"Here is my knife, with my name cut on the handle."
"You gave me a knife as I was coming out of the tavern."
"No, I did not."
"You did, and I killed him with it. It was not Burr! I ran for help,
and I met Burr, and I told him what I had done, and he went back with
me to Lot. Then he sent me home when he heard somebody coming. Ask
Lot Gordon if I did not kill him; if he can speak he can tell you."
"There won't neither him nor Burr say a word," said the old man, "but
there was Burr's knife a-stickin' into Lot's side, with his name cut
into it."
Madelon turned sharply to Louis. "You saw the blood on my hand when I
was rubbing your arm last night," she said.
He made no reply, but stared gloomily at the fire.
"Louis, you saw Lot Gordon's blood on my hand?"
Louis sprang up with an oath, and pushed past her out of the room.
"Louis," Madelon cried, "tell them!"
"She is trying to shield Burr Gordon!" Louis called back, fiercely,
and the closing door shook the house like a cannon-shot.
"Where is Burr?" Madelon demanded of old Luke Basset.
"The sheriff took him to New Salem to jail this morning," he replied,
grinning.
Madelon gave a great cry and started to rush out of the room, but her
father stood in her way.
"Where are you going?" he asked, sternly.
"I am going to get my hood and cloak, and then I am going to Lot
Gordon's." Her father stood aside, and she went out and up-stairs to
her chamber. She took up the red cloak which lay on her bed, and
examined it eagerly to see if by chance there was a blood stain
thereon to prove her guilt and Burr Gordon's innocence, but she could
find none. She had flung it back when she struck. She looked also
carefully at her pretty ball gown, but the black fabric showed no
stain.
When she went down-stairs with her cloak and hood on old Luke Basset
was gone, and so were her brothers. Her father stood waiting for her,
and he had on his fur cap and his heavy cloak. He came forward and
took her firmly by the arm. "I'm going with you to Lot Gordon's,"
said he. And they went out together and up the road, he still keeping
a firm hand on his daughter's arm, and neither spoke all the way to
Lot Gordon's house.
When they reached it David Hautville opened the door without touching
the knocker, and strode in with Madelon following. Old Margaret Bean
was just passing through the entry with a great roll of linen cloths
in her arms, and she stopped when she saw them.
"How is he?" whispered David, hoarsely.
"He's pretty low," returned Margaret Bean, at the same time nodding
her head cautiously towards the door on her right. Long, smooth loops
of sallow hair fell from Margaret Bean's clean white cap over her
cheeks, which looked as if they had been scrubbed and rasped red with
tears. Her own gray hair was strained back out of sight--not to be
discovered, even when there was a murder in the house.
"Does he know anybody?" queried David Hautville.
"Just as well as ever he did." Margaret Bean rubbed a tear dry on
her cheek with her starched apron.
"We've got to see him, then."
"I dunno as you can--the doctor--"
"I don't care anything about the doctor! We've _got_ to _see him!"_
David's voice rang out quite loud in the hush of murder and death
which seemed to fill the house. Margaret Bean stood aside with a
scared look. David Hautville threw open the door on the right, and he
and Madelon went in.
Lot Gordon's eyes turned towards them, but not his head. He lay as
still in bed as if he were already dead, and his long body raised the
gay patchwork quilt in a stiff ridge like a grave.
Madelon went close to him and bent over him. "Tell who stabbed you,"
said she, in a sharp voice.
Lot looked up at her, and a red flush came over his livid face.
"Tell who stabbed you."
Lot smiled feebly, but he did not speak.
Margaret Bean came in, with her old husband shuffling at her heels. A
great face, bristling with a yellow stubble of beard, appeared in the
door. It belonged to the sheriff, Jonas Hapgood, who had just
returned from taking Burr to New Salem. Madelon cast a desperate
glance around at them. "Lot Gordon," she cried out, "tell them--tell
them I was the one who stabbed you, and set Burr free!"
There was a chuckle from Jonas Hapgood in the door. "Likely story,"
he muttered to Margaret Bean's husband, and the old man nodded
wisely.
"Tell them!" commanded Madelon. She reached out a hand as if she
would shake Lot Gordon into obedience, wounded unto death although he
was, but Lot only smiled up in her face.
Then David Hautville bent his stern face down to the sick man's. "Lot
Gordon, tell the truth before God, daughter of mine or no daughter of
mine," said he, in his deep voice. Lot only followed Madelon with his
longing, smiling eyes.
"Speak, Lot Gordon!"
The wounded man turned his eyes on David and made a feeble motion,
scarcely more than a quiver of his hand, which seemed to express
negation.
"Can't you speak?"
Again Lot made that faint signal.
"He ain't spoke sence they brought him home," said Margaret
Bean--"not a word to the doctor nor nobody."
"I couldn't get a word out of him," announced the sheriff, stepping
farther into the room. "In course, there was Burr's knife and Burr
himself over him when the others came up, and that was proof enough;
but still we kinder thought we'd like to have Lot's word for it afore
he died, in case it came to hangin' with Burr; but I guess he's past
speakin'. I miss my guess if he can sense anything we say."
"Tell them--tell them I was the one who stabbed you, and Burr is
innocent!" Madelon pleaded; but he smiled back at her unmoved.
Jonas Hapgood's great body shook with mirth. "Likely story a gal did
it," he chuckled.
"I did do it!" returned Madelon, fiercely, turning to him.
"I guess you don't want your beau hung."
"I tell you I killed this man. I am the one to be hung!"