The news of the arrest of O’Rourke, following upon his robbery of
Himes, more especially because one of the notes stolen from Lakeside
was found upon his person, was highly exasperating to Colonel Bangs. He
visited the jail that same evening, and held a rather stormy interview
with the prisoner, reminding him of his warning that it was a dangerous
thing to carry that note about with him, and telling him passionately
that he should have kept it carefully hidden in some safe place.
“You’ve been a precious fool!” he concluded, “for who now will put any
faith in the _alibi_ I swore to in your favor?”
“If ye’re the smart lawyer I take ye fer, ye kin git me out o’ this
throuble in spite o’ that,” returned Phelim, coolly; “an’ ye’d betther
be afther thryin’ yer purtiest, or mabbe I moight be indooced to turn
State’s ividence agin ye in that matther o’ the Lakeside burglary, to
say nothin’ o’ wan or two ither jobs o’ the same sort.”
Bangs’s face flushed hotly; he was furious at the implied threat, but
felt it his wisest course to conceal his anger and adopt a milder and
more conciliatory tone.
“That would be very foolish, Phelim,” he said, with a forced laugh;
“for if you got me sent to prison, who would defend you in future
scrapes? I’ll undertake your defence this time, as a matter of course,
and never fear that I’ll fail to clear you. I’d be willing to wager my
head that we’ll come off with flying colors.”
“But I’ll have to clear out o’ this part o’ the counthry; ’twouldn’t
niver do to attimpt to ply me thrade round here no more.”
“It would be a great risk, certainly,” returned Bangs. “But tell me, is
there any truth in Himes’s story that his wife aided and abetted you?”
“Av coorse not!” asserted Phelim; “what fer wad she be afther
poverizin’ hersilf? If the ould man’s money was all gone, sure he’d
have none to use in buyin’ victuals an’ clo’es fer hissilf, let alone
her.”
“And you weren’t intending to rob him of her as well as the money, eh?”
queried Bangs, with a covert sneer.
Phelim’s only answer was a harsh laugh.
Bangs did not press the question. “I must go now,” he said, rising and
drawing out his watch. “Good-night; I’ll be in again before long.”
The next morning, while Belinda sat in despairing wretchedness upon the
raft, and Phelim, the hardened criminal, slept unconcernedly in his
prison cell, Bangs wended his way to the butcher’s shop to secure for
his dinner the cut of beef most to his liking. He was early, but found
several customers there before him, among them Barney Nolan.
“Out of my way, fellow!” growled Bangs, pushing rudely past Barney.
“There, Hicks,” to the butcher, who was busily at work, saw in hand,
over the dead animal, “that’s the very cut I’m after.”
“Now, that’s rather a pity, isn’t it, colonel, seein’ it’s sold
already?” returned Hicks, in a slightly sarcastic tone, taking it up
with despatch, throwing it into the scales, then wrapping a piece of
brown paper about it and bestowing it in Barney’s basket.
“Sir, I am not accustomed to such treatment!” cried Bangs, wrathfully.
“I spoke for that particular cut before you had it sawed off.”
“Just so,” returned Hicks, with nonchalance; “but Nolan spoke for it
full five minutes sooner; and it’s first come first served in this
shop.”
“An Irish laborer, with a family to support, has no business to be
buying the most expensive piece of beef in the market, when there’s
plenty of cheaper to be had,” said Bangs, eyeing Barney with anger and
disdain.
“Faix, sor, an’ isn’t it jist yersilf that wad betther be afther
moindin’ yer own business, an’ lavin’ an honest man, that pays as good
money an’ honest fer his mate as anny in yer purse, to moind hisn?”
queried Barney, with air and tone of sturdy independence. “An’ I’m not
a sodger no longer, sor; nor is yersilf the colonel o’ me rigiment, to
have it in yer power to thrate me loike a brute baste intirely, as yez
did in the war that’s over an’ done wid, thank the blissid Vargin an’
all the howly saints.”
Bangs replied with a volley of oaths and curses, while Barney stepped
leisurely past him to the outer door and into the street, as if he
heeded them no more than the idle whistling of the wind.
Bangs shook his fist after the retreating form, then turned and poured
out the vials of his wrath upon Hicks. He had never in all his life
been so shamefully treated! The idea of a man of his circumstances and
standing in society having his wishes set aside for the gratification
of those of a low-born foreigner; a fellow without means or brains!
“I’ll not stand it, sir,” he concluded. “I’ll take my custom elsewhere.”
“All right, Mr. Bangs; I’m able to do without it,” returned Hicks, with
cheerful indifference; “there’s always a plenty of folks wantin’ meat
for themselves and their families.”
“Of course, people must eat to live,” remarked a bystander. “And hard
words are not the sort to win favors with,” he added, with a meaning
glance at Bangs—a glance that spoke ill-concealed contempt and
aversion; for the latter—never a favorite with his neighbors and
townsmen—was growing more and more unpopular day by day; at least,
with the better class.
“I ask no favors from any man, but neither will I submit to injustice,”
he retorted, stalking haughtily into the street and away.
Meanwhile, Barney was hastening homeward, chuckling over Bangs’s
discomfiture, which on his arrival he described with great glee to Nora
and the children.
Nora had cleaning to do at Lakeside that day, and an hour or two later
rehearsed the story in the ears of Mrs. Heath and Miriam.
“Mr. Hicks was quite right,” was the old lady’s comment, and Miriam
echoed it in her heart, though she said nothing.
“And did yees know, Miss Miriam, that Phalim O’Rourke was the scoundrel
that robbed yees, afther all, jist as Barney said? wan o’ thim notes
bein’ found on his person when they catched him.”
“Yes, I heard it; and the note was brought to me last night.”
“Indade, miss! an’ sure I’m glad fer yees that ye’ve got it back; an’
it’s mesilf as hopes they’ll all come back till ye—ivery wan o’ thim;
an’ it’s me that’s glad intirely they’ve got that thafe of a villain
an’ murderer safe in jail. It’s no thanks to him, the scoundrel, that
the ould man—Farmer Himes—wasn’t kilt intirely; an’ for why shouldn’t
he swing for the wicked deed?”
“The law doesn’t hang men in this State,” said Miriam; “besides,
fortunately, Mr. Himes isn’t dead, and the doctors, I believe, consider
him likely to recover.”
“An’ sure, miss, wad the loike o’ that be afther makin’ anny difference
to the dirty rascal, Phalim O’Rourke?” asked Nora; “wad they be afther
lettin’ him go?”
“He’ll be tried for his crime, and if found guilty will be sent to the
penitentiary for a term of years,” answered Miriam.
“An’ Misther Bangs wull be afther clearin’ av him, av coorse,” remarked
Nora, in extreme disgust.
“I think it altogether likely he will try to do so,” Miriam said.
Before the day was over she had learned that her surmise was correct,
and the tidings increased her already intense detestation of Bangs. She
could see no redeeming trait in his character, and strongly suspected
him of being in league with the band of burglars who had committed so
many depredations in the valley for months past. Surely that _alibi_ he
had sworn to on Phelim’s trial for the Lakeside burglary was a lie, and
what motive could he have had for thus perjuring himself unless he were
a party to the theft and a sharer in the spoils?
She put that query to Ronald while having a little private chat with
him before they separated for the night.
“It certainly looks very suspicious,” he said in reply; “still
it is possible that some one else may have committed the robbery
here—another one of the gang, for instance—and passed off the note
upon O’Rourke afterward, and that Bangs had had no connection with the
deed or knowledge of it afterward.”
“Yes,” returned Miriam, slowly and thoughtfully, “I suppose it is
possible, yet I cannot help feeling that my suspicion is just; I am
morally certain of it; and I shall find it difficult to treat Bangs
with the barest civility should he ever call here again.”
“He will be here again; I haven’t a doubt of it,” Ronald said,
laughingly. “It’s plain that he comes a wooing, Mirry; but I warn you
that I shall never give my consent to the match.”
“It will never be asked by me,” she said, her eyes flashing and the hot
blood surging over face and neck at the thought of the baseness of the
man and the audacity of his pursuit of her. “Oh, Ronald, I would die a
thousand deaths rather than link my life with that of so sordid, cruel,
haughty, and unprincipled a wretch!”
“And I,” said Ronald, dropping his bantering tone and speaking with
emotion, “should even prefer to see my darling Sister Miriam sleeping
peacefully in her coffin; though what we should ever do without her I
cannot tell.”
“I think you are not likely to find out very soon, Ron dear,” she said,
forcing a smile, for her heart was very heavy; “I’m strong and healthy,
and hope to live till you are all ready to do without me.”
“In that case you certainly will not die young, sister mine,” he
responded, with a look of strong, brotherly affection. “But you are
worn out with the cares and labors of the day; so we’ll say good-night;
and don’t, I beg of you, sit up to sew, or lie awake brooding over
losses and the perplexing problem how we are to pay off that
troublesome mortgage. It’s a good omen that a part of the stolen money
has been recovered, and I do believe we’ll be helped through the whole
difficulty. Just think what good Christians our father and mother were,
and how many prayers they sent up for us, their loved children.”
“Yes; it is often the greatest comfort to me to think of that, and of
what the Bible says about a good man leaving an inheritance to his
children’s children,” she said, smiling through tears.
The next few weeks were a time of heavy trial to Miriam. Bangs beset
her at every turn, meeting her in her walks and rides, coming on her
when she was in the field, and could not escape from him, and urging
his suit with persuasions, promises, and threats, determined to win
her, in spite of the most firm and decided rejection repeated again and
again.
And Warren Charlton, whose visits were always so welcome, stayed away.
She would hardly own it to herself, but that was an added drop in her
cup of bitterness, as she wondered vaguely what she could have said or
done to offend him.
She did her best to hide her troubles from her grandmother and Ronald,
assuming in their presence a cheerfulness and even gayety which she was
far from feeling. The only friends in whom she felt ready to confide,
and whose sympathy and advice would have been a help to her, were Dr.
and Mrs. Jasper; but she had not the heart to ask it of them, a
pathetic note from Serena having acquainted her with the trial they
were passing through.
Earthly helpers failed her; she seemed left to breast the storm alone,
while the clouds grew darker day by day, as Bangs waxed more and more
wroth at her steadfast refusal to bend to his will.
Then she turned for help to the God of her fathers, crying to Him:
“‘Deliver me, oh, my God, out of the hand of the wicked, out of the
hand of the unrighteous and cruel man.’”
Meanwhile, Mr. Himes was recovering from his wounds much more rapidly
than had been supposed possible, and was gloating over the prospect of
bringing his intended murderer to trial. He held frequent interviews
with Charlton, and the latter was kept very busy in hunting up evidence
in that and several important cases likely to be called up at the next
term of court.
It was this unusual pressure of important business which kept him away
from Lakeside, in spite of a strong desire to see his friends
there—Miriam not less than other members of the family.
Mr. Himes’s condition had so greatly improved that he was no longer
confined to his room, but usually spent the greater part of the day
among the loungers on the porch before the barroom door, and
occasionally walked a short distance up or down the street. He was an
early riser, and often came down-stairs long before the call
to breakfast, eager to exchange the closeness and heat of his
circumscribed bedroom for the fresh outside air of street or porch.
“Strong,” he asked, one evening as they sat smoking there together,
“what’s become o’ that raft o’ mine? d’ye know?”
“I b’lieve it’s lyin’ moored just where ye left it,” was the reply; “I
heard somebody say so a day or two since.”
“Well, I’m goin’ to walk out there and see for myself.”
“I wouldn’t try a walk o’ that length yet awhile, if I was you, Himes,”
returned Strong, with a look of surprise; “ye’re weak yet and the
weather’s hot; the sun was scorching hot to-day.”
“Then I’ll be up and off before sunrise; back again before your
breakfast-bell rings. I’ll try it to-morrow mornin’.”
“I wouldn’t if I was you,” repeated Strong; “you haven’t got the
strength for it; besides,” drawing closer to the old man and speaking
in an undertone, “there’s been two suspicious-looking fellows hanging
round the town for the last day or two, and who knows but they may
belong to the gang that robbed and tried to murder you? They may be
watching an opportunity to finish up the job.”
“Nonsense! I won’t have a cent about me, and, of course, it was the
money they was after then. Besides, the rascal that did the job is fast
locked up in jail now.”
“Yes; but they may be wantin’ to put you out o’ the way, so’s you can’t
give evidence against him on the trial. I wouldn’t trust ’em.”
“I’m not afeard,” sneered the old man; “I never gave nobody no reason
to call me a coward, and I don’t mean to, neither.”
“Common-sense prudence is not cowardice,” returned the landlord; “in
your weak state you’d stand no chance against one strong man, let alone
two.”
“It’s all guesswork that those fellers belong to the gang and are after
me, and I don’t believe a word of it,” said Himes, testily.
Strong was beginning a fresh expostulation when his wife interposed,
“Oh, let him alone, John, do! If he’s a mind to throw away his life,
why need you worry yourself to prevent him?”
“Well, now, that’s not it,” said Himes; “I’ve no mind to throw away my
life; not till I’ve seen Phelim O’Rourke brought to justice, anyhow; so
I’ll maybe put off goin’ out o’ town for a while; I’m gittin’ stronger
every day.” With that he knocked the ashes from his pipe, put it in his
pocket, and with a gruff, “Good-night to ye, folks,” started off for
his bedroom.
The old man had a good deal of obstinacy and tenacity of purpose in his
composition, and waking early the next morning, he resolved to carry
out his plan at once; for why should he care what Strong and his wife
thought about it? he had as much sense as either of them, or both
together, for that matter.
He hurried on his clothes and stole quietly from the house, for it was
hardly broad daylight, and no one, not even a servant, yet astir.
An hour later a farmer driving into the town with a load of produce for
the market found him lying dead by the roadside, foully murdered; the
assassins had done their work thoroughly this time, and life was
utterly extinct.
The news flew like lightning, not through Fairfield only, but to the
neighboring towns and all up and down the valley, being telegraphed
from point to point.
It caused great excitement, and increased the feeling of hot
indignation against the leader of the gang, by whose orders, as almost
every one believed, this second and successful attempt had been made
upon the old man’s life; and also the unpopularity of Bangs, who was to
defend him on the approaching trial.
Besides that, it set men to discussing the justice and righteousness of
the law of the State, which ran counter to that law of God, “Whoso
sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”
The large majority felt and said that the death penalty was the only
adequate punishment that could be inflicted upon O’Rourke and his
confederates, who had finally accomplished the deed of blood attempted
by him, and them under his leadership.
Miriam heard the news with a thrill of horror. “Had Bangs had anything
to do with the instigation of the atrocious crime?” she asked herself;
“might he not be wicked enough to connive at such a deed, that thus the
principal witness against his client should be prevented from
testifying at the trial?”
She shuddered at the thought, but could not banish it, and when, a few
days later, he called to once more press his suit, she shrank from him
in undisguised aversion.
It roused him to fury, which he vainly endeavored to hide under an
appearance of lover-like devotion. He had come to her in no amiable
mood, for ever since the news of Himes’s death had reached Prairieville
his fellow-townsmen had treated him to nothing but looks of coldness,
scorn, and contempt. No one meeting him on the street or in the haunts
of business had a word of cordial greeting for him; each passed him by
with scarcely a nod of recognition, and their glances spoke only
disapproval and suspicion. It maddened him; all the more because his
conscience was not clear; and he had been on the verge of a violent
quarrel several times during the day.
It was about the middle of the afternoon when he reached Lakeside, and
found Miriam alone in the shaded porch, resting and reading after many
hours of close attention to affairs indoors and out.
Ignoring the coldness of her greeting, he took a seat close at her
side, and pouring out a perfect torrent of protestations of admiration
and love, repeated the offer of his hand and heart.
Lifting her head proudly, and looking him full in the eye, “Colonel
Bangs,” she said, “how often must I repeat my refusal before you will
receive it as final?”
“Forever!” he cried, his eyes flashing with anger. “I tell you, girl, I
will never give you up; marry me you shall! I have you in my power, and
you cannot escape me. I should much prefer to have you a willing bride,
but—I’ll even take you against your will rather than not have you at
all.”
Miriam rose from her chair and stepped back a pace or two; then
confronting him with pale but dauntless face, “What right have you to
address such language to me, sir?” she asked, in freezing, haughty
tones, holding her head proudly erect and gazing unflinchingly into his
eyes. “I am a free woman, living in a free land, and no one can compel
me to marry against my inclination.”
“Even a free woman may find the compelling force of circumstances too
strong for her,” he retorted; “and I think it will be so in your case,
for only by consenting to become my wife can you save yourself and
those nearest and dearest to you from being turned out homeless into
the world.”
She had grown very pale while he spoke, but she answered in firm,
though gentle tones, and with the same dauntless air with which she had
replied to him at first, “To do as you wish would be a sin, because to
love, honor, or respect you would be impossible to me. I utterly refuse
compliance, and putting my trust in God, my father’s God, I defy you to
do your worst!”
“And I’ll do it. I’ll take steps for the foreclosing of that mortgage
before I’m a day older,” he said, in low tones of concentrated fury, as
he rose and bowed himself out.
Turning on the threshold, “How happy you will feel when you have to
leave this beautiful place, the comfortable home and the farm that has
been your means of support! How you will enjoy the distress of your
aged grandmother and the little orphan brother and sister, knowing you
could have spared them all their pain and suffering!”
An expression of anguish swept over her features, but was gone in a
moment, while in a firm voice she answered, “I trust in Him of whom the
Bible tells me, ‘He shall judge the poor of the people, He shall save
the children of the needy, and shall break in pieces the oppressor....
He shall deliver the needy when he crieth; the poor, also, and him that
hath no helper.’”
He had heard enough, and hurried away with the words ringing in his
ears, while Miriam sought the privacy of her own room, to pour out her
distresses and her cry for deliverance from the unrighteous and cruel
man to Him who had declared Himself the “Father of the fatherless and a
judge of the widows” and “the hearer and answerer of prayer.”
Bangs had walked out from the town, and was now hurrying back to it,
almost beside himself with rage, mortification, and disappointment. He
had made sure that Miriam would yield to his demand rather than face
the alternative he set before her; and the estimate of his character
which she had given him was far from flattering to his self-love and
conceit.
There had been nothing of unselfish love in his passion for her, and
now it was turned to bitterest hate, so that he could have found a
fiendish delight in dealing her a death-blow; in fact, he was so full
of rage and hatred toward the whole human race, that he would have felt
an inclination to attack almost any one who should cross his path.
He met no one, however, till he had reached the principal business
street of the town; then, as he hurried along, catching the sound of
footsteps in his rear, he turned about to find Barney Nolan coming
toward him at a pace nearly as rapid as his own.
“What are you following me for, scoundrel?” he demanded, accompanying
the query with a volley of oaths and curses.
“It’s mesilf as has as good a right to walk the strates o’ the town as
you, sor,” retorted Barney. “Go ’long wid yees, an’ niver be afther
thryin’ to kape Barney Nolan in order.”
“None of your impudence, sirrah!” growled Bangs, walking on, Barney
still keeping in his wake.
In another minute he faced about upon the Irishman again, crying
furiously, “I’ll not be followed by you or anybody else, and I tell you
if you don’t stop it instantly it’ll be the worse for you!”
“I’m not followin’ ye, but jist goin’ about me own business, an’ that
same I’ll continue to do,” returned Barney, coolly.
“Do it at your peril!” cried Bangs, grinding his teeth with rage.
He walked on again a few paces, but still hearing the echoing footsteps
in his rear, pulled out a pistol, and turning toward Barney for the
third time, fired, instantly killing the innocent object of his
unreasonable anger.
Before the report had fairly died away people came rushing to the spot
from all directions, so that in less than five minutes a mob of
infuriated men had collected, and Bangs perceived at once that he would
be lynched unless he could save himself by flight.
He darted down a side street and flew onward, the mob in hot pursuit.
Panting, breathless, he gained a large distillery, and rushing in, hid
behind the casks of beer.
But the mob were close at his heels; they instantly swarmed over the
whole building, hunting for him with yells and shouts of rage.
“Where is he—the bloody assassin?” “Catch him!” “Hang him!” “Lynch
him!” “Don’t wait for the law; that’ll only send the wretch to State
prison, though he’s killed a better man than himself!”
Bangs crouched in his hiding-place, shaking with terror. Presently the
barrels in front of him were violently shoved aside, a dozen hands
seized him with no gentle grasp, and he was dragged out with exultant
shouts of fury.
“Here he is! we’ve got the double-dyed villain, the bloody-handed
murderer, and we’ll deal out even-handed justice to him!”
“That we will!” echoed a chorus of voices.
“A rope! a rope!” was the next cry; “a rope round the murderer’s neck,
and off with him to the big oak-tree in front of Barton’s.”
Hicks, the butcher, came pushing his way through the crowd with a stout
rope in his hands.
“Here, boys, how’ll this answer? It’s what I brought that bull into
town with yesterday, and I reckon it’s strong enough to hold this wild
beast. Hold him, and I’ll put it round his neck!”
Bangs’s face was ashen, and he was trembling like an aspen leaf.
“Friends, neighbors,” he began, hoarsely, “will you murder me? Will you
send me into eternity without a moment’s time to prepare?”
“How many minutes did you give Barney Nolan?” asked a stern voice.
“‘With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.’”
“Yes, yes! Off with him! Off with him! That’s right,” as Hicks threw
the rope over the head of the trembling culprit, and drew it close
about his neck.
A shriek of mortal anguish went up from the pale lips quivering with
fright: “The law! Let the law deal with me, and don’t stain your hands
with my blood!”
“No, no! the law’s too easy for a wretch like you!” they yelled in his
ears, as they dragged him away out of the building, over the sidewalk
to the middle of the street, and on, on, his head striking against the
cobble-stones at every step.
He was dead before they reached the tree where they meant to hang him,
but they raised the lifeless body to one of its branches, and left it
dangling there, all the same.