JACK’S STORY CONTINUED.
When the man had reached the part of his story recorded in the preceding
chapter, he was greatly agitated for several moments, as if the memory
of that dreadful time was even now, after the lapse of more than twenty
year, more than he could bear, while Geoffrey, too, felt as if he could
hardly sit there and listen to the remainder of the fearful tale.
“The horror of it all sobered me a’most as quick as if I’d been struck
by lightning,” Jack at length resumed, pulling himself together with an
effort. “I don’t know how long I stood there, lookin’ down on them two
that I believed I’d sent out o’ world without a moment’s warning. Then I
slunk out o’ the house, hardly knowin’ what I did, and went and hid
myself in the barn. I must have gone to sleep, or fell into a stupor
from the liquor I’d drank, for I didn’t know anything more till the
roosters set up such a crowing that nobody could have slept. I never
could tell ye what the horror of that wakin’ was, sir, and it’s a’most
like livin’ it over again to tell it,” groaned the man, with a shudder.
“It was only about two in the mornin’, but the moon was shinin’, and it
was most as light as day. I crept out into the yard and listened; there
wasn’t a sound except those roosters, and every crow sounded like a
knell o’ doom in my ears, and made my flesh creep with fear.
“I stole up to the house and looked in at the kitchen window. I couldn’t
help it—something drove me to it, though I shivered at every step. There
they lay, just as they fell, with the light still burnin’, and
everything just as I’d left it. But, while I stood there the little
shaver stirred and moaned, and my heart leaped straight into my throat,
near about, chokin’ me at the sight. It gave me hope—p’raps after all I
hadn’t murdered ’em, and they might be brought to. I rushed in, took the
boy up, and laid him on the bed in the bedroom just off the kitchen. He
moaned all the time, till I got a wet cloth and put it on his head, when
he grew quiet and dropped off into a stupor again. Then I went to her—my
girl—Margery—the woman I’d sworn to love and take care of till I died,
and who had done me nothin’ but kindness ever since we first met.
“I lifted her up, but she hung limp and lifeless over my arm. I laid her
head on my breast and begged her to come back to me, to call me her Jack
once more, and say she’d forgive me, and I’d never lift my hand ag’in
her ag’in, nor touch another drop as long as I lived. But ‘twan’t no
use. She lay there quiet and peaceful enough, but there was that
dreadful purple mark and cut on her forehead where it had hit the stove.
She wa’n’t cold or stiff as I thought dead people always were, but there
wa’n’t no sign of life about her either and I laid her down again, my
heart a-breakin’, and feelin’ like another Cain, only worse, for I’d
killed a woman, and she my own wife!
“Then I began to think what would happen if I was found there, and I
grew frightened. I couldn’t make up my mind to stay and confess what I’d
done, and hang like a dog for it, so I got together a few things and all
the money that Margery had in her own little box, and the boy’s safe,
and wrappin’ him in a shawl—for I daren’t leave him while there was a
breath o’ life in him and a chance of savin’ him—I stole out of the
house, without even darin’ to give my girl a kiss after the ill I’d done
her and made for a station a mile or more away.
“I had an awful time of it, for the boy moaned every minute of the time;
but I told people on the cars that he’d had a fall and I was takin’ him
to a doctor. I traveled all day in the fastest trains, and got to a town
just about dusk. Here I called a doctor to the boy. He doubted if he
could save him; but he pulled through after five weeks of terrible fever
and pain, though when he got up again, lookin’ more like a spirit than
like flesh and blood, he didn’t know me or remember anything that had
happened. The doctor said he was a fool, and always would be one.”
It seemed very strange to Geoffrey to be sitting there in his right mind
and listening to this dreadful story about himself. It seemed almost
like a case of dual existence.
“As soon as he was well enough,” Jack went on, “I felt that we ought to
be gettin’ out of that place; it was too near home to be safe, and the
police were liable to get on my track any day. So I began my roamin’.
First we went to Texas, where I got work on a cattle and sheep ranch.
After a time I scraped together a little money, and started out to raise
sheep for myself. It wa’n’t easy to be with any one, lest somebody
should come along who had heard about what I’d done, and I might get
snapped up. The boy and me lived in a cabin by ourselves, away from
everybody else, but I never let him out of my sight, and I grew that
fond of him I would have died rather than let harm come to him, and I’d
vowed I’d do the best I could by him as long as I lived, and get
together something handsome to leave him, to make up as far as I could
for the deadly wrong I’d done him. As soon as I could get enough
together, I meant to take him to some place where they care for them
that have lost their mind.
“My sheep turned out wonderful; in five years money began to come in
right fast, and I might have kep’ on an’ been a rich man by this time,
if it hadn’t been that a man I knew came down that way about that time.
I saw him first at the village, where I went to lay in a stock of
provisions. He didn’t see me, but I heard him say he was goin’ to buy
out a cattle ranch ten miles away, and that was enough to give me a
scare and unsettle me. I feared I’d be recognized and seized as the
murderer of my girl, and though life wa’n’t much to me with the heavy
conscience and the grief I had to carry around with me all the time,
yet, for the boy’s sake, I was bound to stick to it as long as I
could—there was nobody else to take care of him, and I knew he’d fare
hard without me.
“The man who owned the ranch next to mine had offered to buy me out the
year before, so I went to him and told him I’d made up my mind to go
North and see if the doctors couldn’t do something for the boy, and if
he’d take everything off my hands I’d sell out cheap.
“He took me up quick as a wink, and in less than a week the money was in
my pocket and the boy and me were on our way to New York. I bought a
small farm just across the river in New Jersey. There was a good house
and barn on it, and I stocked it well, hired a good strong woman to do
the inside work and a man to help me outside, and then settled down to a
quiet life; for I didn’t believe anybody would think of lookin’ for me
there.
“I took the name of ‘John Landers,’ and tried to make the boy call
himself ‘George Landers’; but he didn’t know enough to learn it, and
seemed to have forgotten how to talk at all; so I hadn’t much to fear
from his lettin’ anything out. We lived here for almost five years more,
and I got ahead a little every season. But, sir, the horror of that
dreadful deed never left me for a minute. My Margery’s dead face was
always before me, and my heart heavy with its load of guilt and
loneliness. If ever a man paid for an evil deed in torment, I paid for
mine a hundred times over.
“But the worst of my troubles was yet to come. The world’s a small place
to hide in when a man has committed a crime. I went to town one day on
business, and stepped into the post-office—which was in the same
buildin’ with the railway station—to send a letter for the woman at
home, when I heard two men talking in a low tone of voice, and one of
them spoke the name of Jack Henly.
“My blood ran cold in a minute. My back was to them, for I was payin’
for the postage on the letter, and they hadn’t seemed to notice me. I
didn’t hurry, frightened as I felt, but took my own time and listened.
“It was me they were after, sure enough; they had tracked me all the way
from Texas to that place, but, somehow, couldn’t get any farther. Nobody
had heard of a man named Jack Henly, and no one answered to their
description. It was no wonder, for I was greatly changed, looking like
an old man, for my grief had whitened my hair, wrinkled my face, and
bent my form. I walked straight by them on goin’ out of the office, but
they never suspected me. I’d got another scare, though, that I couldn’t
get over, and made up my mind that I’d quit the country. So I sold off
my stock, drew what money I’d laid by in the bank—my farm I couldn’t
sell at such short notice—shut up my house, and, takin’ the boy, went to
New York, intendin’ to take passage in a vessel goin’ to Australia,
where I meant to go to sheep raisin’ again, since I had done so well in
Texas, while I thought I needn’t fear any man in that country. I took
passage, and bought a comfortable outfit for both of us, but the vessel
wan’t to sail for a week, so I kep’ very quiet in a room I’d hired on a
by-street, fearin’ those men might still be lookin’ me up.
“But I let the boy play out, for he pined in the house, while I sat by a
window to watch that he did not get out of sight. Wall, one day I must
have fallen asleep, for I woke with a start, and lookin’ out, couldn’t
see hide nor hair of the boy. I went to the door, but he wasn’t nowhere
in sight. I started out to find him, never thinkin’ of danger then. I
walked for hours, askin’ people about him, but nobody could tell me
anything of him.
“Three days I kep’ this up, until I nigh about went crazy, and wore
myself out with loss on sleep, travelin’ about, and with my grief for
the little fellow.
“On the last day before we were to sail, while I was rovin’ about the
streets in search of him, I ran against those two men again—the ones who
were lookin’ for me. I knew by their quick, keen glances at me that they
had got a suspicion I might be their man, and I got out of their way in
a hurry. I was discouraged about findin’ the boy. I didn’t dare to look
for him any more. I was afraid to go to the police about him, lest they
had been notified to be on the lookout, and should snap me up; so, half
crazed with fear and grief, I staggered on board the vessel I was to
sail in, crawled into my berth, and lay there till we were well out to
sea.
“Wall, sir, my heart was broke. I thought I never could hold up my head
again, and I wouldn’t have turned over my hand to have saved myself from
goin’ to the bottom; for I got to lovin’ that poor little chap with my
whole soul, and I didn’t know how to get on without him.
“But we had a good passage. I was hale and hearty when we landed, and
seemed likely to live my lonely life for many a year. I went into the
interior, bought a sheep ranch, and set myself to do the work of three
men; nothin’ else would ease the pain and worry that was eatin’ my heart
out.
“Well, sir, to make a long story short, I’ve been on that sheep ranch
ever since, until about six months ago, when a longin’ seized me to come
home and take a last look at my own land. I’ve grown to be a well-to-do
farmer; I’ve plenty of money, and no one to spend it on or leave it to,
unless I give it to you, Master Geoffrey, now that I have found you.
Heaven be praised for that, and that you’ve got your mind back! I’ve
been to New Jersey, found my place there neglected and all out of
repair, but still a thrifty little farm if ’twas well taken care of.
I’ve been to Texas for a look at my old ranch there. The man that bought
it got rich, sold out, and then went North to live on his money. Then I
came on here to see the place where I first found my Margery, and it was
nigh this very spot—just there by that clump of spruce, where I was hid
when you came—that we plighted our troth. Ah! my girl! my girl!”
The poor man broke down completely here, and sobbed like a child, and
Geoffrey’s eyes were full of tears, too, as he witnessed his emotion and
realized what he must have suffered during the checkered life that he
had led.
He had been deeply touched by the faithfulness and devotion which he had
exhibited in his care of him during all those years while he was such a
helpless burden, mentally, on his hands.
He saw that the man was naturally honorable and kind-hearted, and that
he would never have been guilty of the crime which he had just
confessed, but for the misfortunes that led him into evil company and to
the use of intoxicating drinks.
“I’m a broken-down old man, sir,” Jack said, after struggling hard for
self-control, “or I never should blubber like this; but this place
brings back those old days when my conscience was free—when life was
bright and full of hope before me and my girl, and it seems more’n I can
bear. It’s wonderful, though, that I should run across ye here! Oh, sir,
I did ye a woeful wrong, in my anger and jealous fit, when ye were a
child. I’ve no right to expect it, but ’twould comfort my poor old heart
more’n I could tell ye, if I could hear ye say ye don’t lay it up ag’in
me.”
Geoffrey turned frankly toward the humble suppliant beside him.
“I do not, Jack,” he said, heartily; “you were the victim of drink, and
were hardly accountable for the deeds of that night; you condemn
yourself more than you really deserve, for if you have told me
everything just as it occurred, your wife did not die by your hand—her
death was caused by an accident.”
The man shook his head sadly.
“No, no,” he said; “I can’t get it off my conscience that it was murder:
for if I hadn’t laid hands on her she might have been living to-day.”
“Still it was not willful or premeditated,” Geoffrey persisted.
“However,” he added, “I freely forgive you for your share in my
misfortune, if that will be any comfort to you.”
“Thank ye, sir; thank ye; and if there is a God, I thank Him, too, that
I’ve been allowed to set eyes on ye once more, and in yer right mind,
too,” was the fervent response.
“I reckon,” he continued, after a moment of thought, “it might be called
the work of Providence that I lost ye there in New York, for if ye’d
gone with me to Australia, I doubt that ye’d ever been cured, and I’m
right sure ye’d never been the gentleman that ye are. I’d thank ye to
tell me about the good man that befriended ye.”
“I will, Jack, presently, but I first want to ask you a few more
questions about the past.”
“All right, sir: anything I can tell ye, ye shall know.
“Well, then, I’d like you to describe the man who was my father,”
Geoffrey said, gravely.
Jack turned to look upon the young man beside him.
“The best description ye could get of him’d be to go and look at yerself
in the glass,” he said, studying Geoffrey’s face and form, “for ye’re as
nigh like him as another man could be, when I first saw him after he
brought that pretty little woman to live here. He’d been off to meet her
somewhere, and he’d shaved off all his heavy beard, had his hair trimmed
up in the fashion, and wore a dandy suit o’ clothes.”
“His name was Dale, you say? Are you sure that was his true name?” the
young man asked.
“I couldn’t take my oath as to that, sir, but everybody here knew him as
Captain William Dale, though I don’t know how he came to be a captain.
She used to call him ‘Will,’ in a way that made his eyes shine enough to
do ye good.”
Geoffrey’s eyes lighted at this.
It was evident that Captain Dale had truly loved the girl whom he had
brought there, whether she had been his legal wife or not.
“Do you know what her name was before he married her?” he asked.
“No, sir; that is one of the things I can’t tell ye; even Margery never
found out that. They was both very shy of talkin’ about themselves afore
folks, and nobody ever knew where they came from, either.”
“Did they never have visitors—was there no friend whoever came to see
them?”
“No, sir; and they didn’t seem to want anybody; she was just his world,
and he her’n. My girl used to think it was kind of strange, though, that
they never got any letters; but she never did, and never writ any,
either.”
“Did she seem happy?” Geoffrey asked, in a hushed tone, as if this was
ground he hardly liked to trespass upon.
“As chipper as a bird,” Jack returned; “and she could sing like one,
too. Many’s the night the boys have stolen to yonder house to listen
while she sang and played to the cap; he had a pianer sent up from Santa
Fe; and she was always bright and smilin’; she was like a streak o’
sunshine in a dark place, for there wasn’t anybody like her anywhere
about.”
Geoffrey felt his heart yearn wistfully for this sweet and gentle woman,
who had been his mother, and who had brightened that wild and dreary
place with her presence for one short year.
Still the mystery regarding his father, and her relations to him, seemed
as dark as ever.
If he could not learn whence they came, it would be impossible to trace
his history any farther, and a feeling of depression and discouragement
began to settle upon him.
It seemed as if those two lovers had hidden themselves there, cut
themselves adrift from all previous associations, and then lived simply
for and in each other.
“Did Captain Dale’s mine here pay him well?” he asked.
“No, sir, it did not; and that is something that always seemed strange
to me,” Jack said, reflectively. “He couldn’t much more’n paid expenses
here, but he never seemed to care, and I’ve always had a notion that he
had an interest in other mines.”
“What other mines?” Geoffrey inquired, eagerly.
“I couldn’t say, sir; he was very close, and never talked business afore
his help.”
“What made you think he had other claims?”
“Well, after the first month or two he used to be away considerable—not
long at a time; but he went often, and was always so chipper when he
came back, I reasoned ’twas only good luck could make him so.”
“What arrangements did he make with you when he left me in your wife’s
care?”
“There wa’n’t any bargain,” Jack said. “Margery was that fond of ye
she’d been willin’ to kep’ ye for nothin’ rather than let ye go; but the
cap was always generous—he gave her two hundred dollars to start with,
besides a handsome present on her own account, for what she did for his
wife while she lay dyin’. Then, for the first two years he came once in
six months to see ye, and always left a good round sum for ye—there
wa’n’t nothin’ mean about Captain Dale—and when he didn’t come he sent
it.”
“Did he never mention where he spent his time?” Geoffrey asked, “or
speak of ever taking me away with him?”
“No, sir, never a word; the most he ever said was that he should put ye
to some school as soon as ye were old enough.”
“Did he—did he appear to be fond of me?” Geoffrey inquired,
hesitatingly, a hot flush rising to his cheek.
“That he were, sir; it was as much as ever he’d let ye out of his arms
from the time he came till he went, though he never staid very long, and
I’ve seen the tears a-standin’ in his eyes when he parted from ye.”
“How long before—my accident was his last visit?”
“It must have been more’n a year, if I remember right; but the money
came regular, and Margery seemed happier when he didn’t come—she was
always afraid he’d take ye away from her. I’ve often wondered what he
did when he came again and found ye gone—it must have been a mortal blow
to him,” Jack concluded, and then dropped into a fit of musing.