Ah! what a commentary upon the uses of an attractive tavern was here! My heart ached, as I thought of all that unknown mother had suffered, and was doomed to suffer. I could not shut out the image of her drooping form as I lay upon my pillow that night; she even haunted me in my dreams.
The landlord did not make his appearance on the next morning until nearly ten o'clock; and then he looked like a man who had been on a debauch. It was eleven before Harvey Green came down. Nothing about him indicated the smallest deviation from the most orderly habit. Clean shaved, with fresh linen, and a face, every line of which was smoothed into calmness, he looked as if he had slept soundly on a quiet conscience, and now hailed the new day with a tranquil spirit.
The first act of Slade was to go behind the bar and take a stiff glass of brandy and water; the first act of Green, to order beefsteak and coffee for his breakfast. I noticed the meeting between the two men, on the appearance of Green. There was a slight reserve on the part of Green, and an uneasy embarrassment on the part of Slade. Not even the ghost of a smile was visible in either countenance. They spoke a few words together, and then separated as if from a sphere of mutual repulsion. I did not observe them again in company during the day.
"There's trouble over at the mill," was remarked by a gentleman with whom I had some business transactions in the afternoon. He spoke to a person who sat in his office.
"Ah! what's the matter?" said the other.
"All the hands were discharged at noon, and the mill shut down."
"How comes that?"
"They've been losing money from the start."
"Rather bad practice, I should say."
"It involves some bad practices, no doubt."
"On Willy's part?"
"Yes. He is reported to have squandered the means placed in his hands, after a shameless fashion."
"Is the loss heavy?"
"So it is said."
"How much?"
"Reaching to thirty or forty thousand dollars. But this is rumor, and, of course, an exaggeration."
"Of course. No such loss as that could have been made. But what was done with the money? How could Willy have spent it? He dashes about a great deal; buys fast horses, drinks rather freely, and all that; but thirty or forty thousand dollars couldn't escape in this way."
At the moment a swift trotting horse, bearing a light sulky and a man, went by.
"There goes young Hammond's three hundred dollar animal," said the last speaker.
"It was Willy Hammond's yesterday. But there has been a change of ownership since then; I happen to know."
"Indeed."
"Yes. The man Green, who has been loafing about Cedarville for the last few years—after no good, I can well believe—came into possession to-day."
"Ah! Willy must be very fickle-minded. Does the possession of a coveted object so soon bring satiety?"
"There is something not clearly understood about the transaction. I saw Mr. Hammond during the forenoon, and he looked terribly distressed."
"The embarrassed condition of things at the mill readily accounts for this."
"True; but I think there are causes of trouble beyond the mere embarrassments."
"The dissolute, spendthrift habits of his son," was suggested. "These are sufficient to weigh down the father's spirits,—to bow him to the very dust."
"To speak out plainly," said the other, "I am afraid that the young man adds another vice to that of drinking and idleness."
"What?"
"Gaining."
"No!"
"There is little doubt of it in my mind. And it is further my opinion, that his fine horse, for which he paid three hundred dollars only a few days ago, has passed into the hands of this man Green, in payment of a debt contracted at the gaming table."
"You shock me. Surely, there can be no grounds for such a belief."
"I have, I am sorry to say, the gravest reasons for what I allege. That Green is a professional gambler, who was attracted here by the excellent company that assembled at the 'Sickle and Sheaf' in the beginning of the lazy miller's pauper-making experiment, I do not in the least question. Grant this, and take into account the fact that young Hammond has been much in his company, and you have sufficient cause for the most disastrous effects."
"If this be really so," observed the gentleman, over whose face a shadow of concern darkened, "then Willy Hammond may not be his only victim."
"And is not, you may rest assured. If rumor be true, other of our promising young men are being drawn into the whirling circles that narrow toward a vortex of ruin."
In corroboration of this, I mentioned the conversation I had held with one of the frequenters of Slade's bar room, on this very subject; and also what I had myself observed on the previous evening.
The man, who had until now been sitting quietly in a chair, started up, exclaiming as he did so—
"Merciful heaven! I never dreamed of this! Whose sons are safe?"
"No man's," was the answer of the gentleman in whose office we were sitting—"No man's—while there are such open doors to ruin as you may find at the 'Sickle and Sheaf.' Did not you vote the anti-temperance ticket at the last election?"
"I did," was the answer; "and from principle."
"On what were your principles based?" was inquired.
"On the broad foundations of civil liberty."
"The liberty to do good or evil, just as the individual may choose?"
"I would not like to say that. There are certain evils against which there can be no legislation that would not do harm. No civil power in this country has the right to say what a citizen shall eat or drink."
"But may not the people, in any community, pass laws, through their delegated law-makers, restraining evil-minded persons from injuring the common good?"
"Oh, certainly—certainly."
"And are you prepared to affirm, that a drinking-shop, where young men are corrupted, aye, destroyed, body and soul—does not work an injury to the common good?"
"Ah! but there must be houses of public entertainment."
"No one denies this. But can that be a really Christian community which provides for the moral debasement of strangers, at the same time that it entertains them? Is it necessary that, in giving rest and entertainment to the traveler, we also lead him into temptation?"
"Yes—but—but—it is going too far to legislate on what we are to eat and drink. It is opening too wide a door for fanatical oppression. We must inculcate temperance as a right principle. We must teach our children the evils of intemperance, and send them out into the world as practical teachers of order, virtue and sobriety. If we do this, the reform becomes radical, and in a few years there will be no bar-rooms, for none will crave the fiery poison."
"Of little value, my friend, will be, in far too many cases, your precepts, if temptation invites our sons at almost every step of their way through life. Thousands have fallen, and thousands are now tottering, soon to fall. Your sons are not safe; nor are mine. We cannot tell the day nor the hour when they may weakly yield to the solicitation of some companion, and enter the wide open door of ruin. And are we wise and good citizens to commission men to do the evil work of enticement—to encourage them to get gain in corrupting and destroying our children? To hesitate over some vague ideal of human liberty when the sword is among us, slaying our best and dearest? Sir! while you hold back from the work of staying the flood that is desolating our fairest homes, the black waters are approaching your own doors."
There was a startling emphasis in the tones with which this last sentence was uttered; and I do not wonder at the look of anxious alarm that it called to the face of him whose fears it was meant to excite.
"What do you mean, sir?" was inquired.
"Simply, that your sons are in equal danger with others."
"And is that all?"
"They have been seen, of late, in the bar-room of the 'Sickle and Sheaf.'"
"Who says so?"
"Twice within a week I have seen them going there," was answered.
"Good heavens! No!"
"It is true, my friend. But who is safe? If we dig pits, and conceal them from view, what marvel if our own children fall therein?"
"My sons going to a tavern?" The man seemed utterly confounded. "How CAN I believe it? You must be in error, sir."
"No. What I tell you is the simple truth. And if they go there—"
The man paused not to hear the conclusion of the sentence, but went hastily from the office.
"We are beginning to reap as we have sown," remarked the gentleman, turning to me as his agitated friend left the office. "As I told them in the commencement it would be, so it is happening. The want of a good tavern in Cedarville was over and over again alleged as one of the chief causes of our want of thrift, and when Slade opened the 'Sickle and Sheaf,' the man was almost glorified. The gentleman who has just left us failed not in laudation of the enterprising landlord; the more particularly, as the building of the new tavern advanced the price of ground on the street, and made him a few hundred dollars richer. Really, for a time, one might have thought, from the way people went on, that Simon Slade was going to make every man's fortune in Cedarville. But all that has been gained by a small advance in property, is as a grain of sand to a mountain, compared with the fearful demoralization that has followed."
I readily assented to this, for I had myself seen enough to justify the conclusion.
As I sat in the bar-room of the "Sickle and Sheaf" that evening, I noticed, soon after the lamps were lighted, the gentleman referred to in the above conversation, whose sons were represented as visitors to the bar, come in quietly, and look anxiously about the room. He spoke to no one, and, after satisfying himself that those he sought were not there, went out.
"What sent him here, I wonder?" muttered Slade, speaking partly to himself, and partly aside to Matthew, the bar-keeper.
"After the boys, I suppose," was answered.
"I guess the boys are old enough to take care of themselves."
"They ought to be," returned Matthew.
"And are," said Slade. "Have they been here this evening?"
"No, not yet."
While they yet talked together, two young men whom I had seen on the night before, and noticed particularly as showing signs of intelligence and respectability beyond the ordinary visitors at a bar-room, came in.
"John," I heard Slade say, in a low, confidential voice, to one of them, "your old man was here just now."
"No!" The young man looked startled—almost confounded.
"It's a fact. So you'd better keep shady."
"What did he want?"
"I don't know."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing. He just came in, looked around, and then went out."
"His face was as dark as a thunder-cloud," remarked Matthew.
"Is No. 4 vacant?" inquired one of the young men.
"Yes."
"Send us up a bottle of wine and some cigars. And when Bill Harding and Harry Lee come in, tell them where they can find us."
"All right," said Matthew. "And now, take a friend's advice and make yourselves scarce."
The young men left the room hastily. Scarcely had they departed, ere I saw the same gentleman come in, whose anxious face had, a little while before, thrown its shadow over the apartment. He was the father in search of his sons. Again he glanced around nervously; and this time appeared to be disappointed. As he entered, Slade went out.
"Have John and Wilson been here this evening?" he asked, coming up to the bar and addressing Matthew.
"They are not here;" replied Matthew, evasively.
"But haven't they been here?"
"They may have been here; I only came in from my supper a little while ago."
"I thought I saw them entering, only a moment or two ago."
"They're not here, sir." Matthew shook his head and spoke firmly.
"Where is Mr. Slade?"
"In the house, somewhere."
"I wish you would ask him to step here."
Matthew went out, but in a little while came back with word that the landlord was not to be found.
"You are sure the boys are not here?" said the man, with a doubting, dissatisfied manner.
"See for yourself, Mr. Harrison!"
"Perhaps they are in the parlor?"
"Step in, sir," coolly returned Matthew. The man went through the door into the sitting-room, but came back immediately.
"Not there?" said Matthew. The man shook his head. "I don't think you'll find them about here," added the bar-keeper.
Mr. Harrison—this was the name by which Matthew addressed him—stood musing and irresolute for some minutes. He could not be mistaken about the entrance of his sons, and yet they were not there. His manner was much perplexed. At length he took a seat, in a far corner of the bar-room, somewhat beyond the line of observation, evidently with the purpose of waiting to see if those he sought would come in. He had not been there long, before two young men entered, whose appearance at once excited his interest. They went up to the bar and called for liquor. As Matthew set the decanter before them, he leaned over the counter, and said something in a whisper.
"Where?" was instantly ejaculated, in surprise, and both of the young men glanced uneasily about the room. They met the eyes of Mr. Harrison, fixed intently upon them. I do not think, from the way they swallowed their brandy and water, that it was enjoyed very much.
"What the deuce is he doing here?" I heard one of them say, in a low voice.
"After the boys, of course."
"Have they come yet?"
Matthew winked as he answered, "All safe."
"In No. 4?"
"Yes. And the wine and cigars all waiting for you."
"Good."
"You'd better not go through the parlor. Their old man's not at all satisfied. He half suspects they're in the house. Better go off down the street, and come back and enter through the passage."
The young men, acting on this hint, at once retired, the eyes of Harrison following them out.
For nearly an hour Mr. Harrison kept his position, a close observer of all that transpired. I am very much in error, if, before leaving that sink of iniquity, he was not fully satisfied as to the propriety of legislating on the liquor question. Nay, I incline to the opinion, that, if the power of suppression had rested in his hands, there would not have been, in the whole state, at the expiration of an hour, a single dram-selling establishment. The goring of his ox had opened his eyes to the true merits of the question. While he was yet in the bar-room, young Hammond made his appearance. His look was wild and excited. First he called for brandy, and drank with the eagerness of a man long athirst.
"Where is Green?" I heard him inquire, as he set his glass upon the counter.
"Haven't seen anything of him since supper," was answered by Matthew.
"Is he in his room?"
"I think it probable."
"Has Judge Lyman been about here tonight?"
"Yes. He spouted here for half an hour against the temperance party, as usual, and then"—Matthew tossed his head toward the door leading to the sitting-room.
Hammond was moving toward this door, when, in glancing around the room, he encountered the fixed gaze of Mr. Harrison—a gaze that instantly checked his progress. Returning to the bar, and leaning over the counter, he said to Matthew:
"What has sent him here?"
Matthew winked knowingly.
"After the boys?" inquired Hammond.
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"Up-stairs."
"Does he suspect this?"
"I can't tell. If he doesn't think them here now, he is looking for them to come in."
"Do they know he is after them?"
"Oh, yes."
"All safe then?"
"As an iron chest. If you want to see them, just rap at No. 4."
Hammond stood for some minutes leaning on the bar, and then, not once again looking toward that part of the room where Mr. Harrison was seated, passed out through the door leading to the street. Soon afterward Mr. Harrison departed.
Disgusted as on the night before, with the unceasing flow of vile, obscene, and profane language, I left my place of observation in the bar-room and sought the open air. The sky was unobscured by a single cloud, and the moon, almost at the full, shone abroad with more than common brightness. I had not been sitting long in the porch, when the same lady, whose movements had attracted my attention, came in sight, walking very slowly—the deliberate pace assumed, evidently, for the purpose of better observation. On coming opposite the tavern, she slightly paused, as on the evening before, and then kept on, passing down the street until she was beyond observation.
"Poor mother!" I was still repeating to myself, when her form again met my eyes. Slowly she advanced, and now came in nearer to the house. The interest excited in my mind was so strong, that I could not repress the desire I felt to address her, and so stepped from the shadow of the porch. She seemed startled, and retreated backward several paces.
"Are you in search of any one?" I inquired, respectfully.
The woman now stood in a position that let the moon shine full upon her face, revealing every feature. She was far past the meridian of life; and there were lines of suffering and sorrow on her fine countenance. I saw that her lips moved, but it was some time before I distinguished the words.
"Have you seen my son to-night? They say he comes here."
The manner in which this was said caused a cold thrill to run over me. I perceived that the woman's mind wandered. I answered:
"No, ma'am; I haven't seen any thing of him."
My tone of voice seemed to inspire her with confidence, for she came up close to me, and bent her face toward mine.
"It is a dreadful place," she whispered, huskily. "And they say he comes here. Poor boy! He isn't what he used to be."
"It is a very bad place," said I. "Come"—and I moved a step or two in the direction from which I had seen her approaching—"come, you'd better go away as quickly as possible."
"But if he's here," she answered, not moving from where she stood, "I might save him, you know."
"I am sure you won't find him, ma'am," I urged. "Perhaps he is home, now."
"Oh, no! no!" And she shook her head mournfully. "He never comes home until long after midnight. I wish I could see inside of the bar-room. I'm sure he must be there."
"If you will tell me his name, I will go in and search for him."
After a moment of hesitation she answered:
"His name is Willy Hammond."
How the name, uttered so sadly, and yet with such moving tenderness by the mother's lips, caused me to start—almost to tremble.
"If he is in the house, ma'am," said I, firmly, "I will see him for you." And I left her and went into the bar.
"In what room do you think I will find young Hammond?" I asked of the bar-keeper. He looked at me curiously, but did not answer. The question had come upon him unanticipated.
"In Harvey Green's room?" I pursued.
"I don't know, I am sure. He isn't in the house to my knowledge. I saw him go out about half an hour since."
"Green's room is No.——?"
"Eleven," he answered.
"In the front part of the house?"
"Yes."
I asked no further question, but went to No. 11, and tapped on the door. But no one answered the summons. I listened, but could not distinguish the slightest sound within. Again I knocked; but louder. If my ears did not deceive me, the chink of coin was heard. Still there was neither voice nor movement.
I was disappointed. That the room had inmates, I felt sure. Remembering, now, what I had heard about light being seen in this room through a rent in the curtain, I went down-stairs, and out into the street. A short distance beyond the house, I saw, dimly, the woman's form. She had only just passed in her movement to and fro. Glancing up at the window, which I now knew to be the one in Green's room, light through the torn curtain was plainly visible. Back into the house I went, and up to No. 11. This time I knocked imperatively; and this time made myself heard.
"What's wanted?" came from within. I knew the voice to be that of Harvey Green.
I only knocked louder. A hurried movement and the low murmur of voices was heard for some moments; then the door was unlocked and held partly open by Green, whose body so filled the narrow aperture that I could not look into the room. Seeing me, a dark scowl fell upon his countenance.
"What d'ye want?" he inquired, sharply.
"Is Mr. Hammond here? If so, he is wanted downstairs."
"No, he's not," was the quick answer. "What sent you here for him, hey?"
"The fact that I expected to find him in your room," was my firm answer.
Green was about shutting the door in my face, when some one placed a hand on his shoulder, and said something to him that I could not hear.
"Who wants to see him?" he inquired of me.
Satisfied, now, that Hammond was in the room, I said, slightly elevating my voice:
"His mother."
The words were an "open sesame" to the room. The door was suddenly jerked open, and with a blanching face, the young man confronted me.
"Who says my mother is down-stairs?" he demanded.
"I come from her in search of you," I said. "You will find her in the road, walking up and down in front of the tavern."
Almost with a bound he swept by me, and descended the stairway at two or three long strides. As the door swung open, I saw besides Green and Hammond, the landlord and Judge Lyman. It needed not the loose cards on the table near which the latter were sitting to tell me of their business in that room.
As quickly as seemed decorous, I followed Hammond. On the porch I met him, coming in from the road.
"You have deceived me, sir," said he, sternly—almost menacingly.
"No, sir!" I replied. "What I told you was but too true. Look! There she is now."
The young man sprung around, and stood before the woman, a few paces distant.
"Mother! oh, mother! what HAS brought you here?" he exclaimed, in an under tone, as he caught her arm, and moved away. He spoke—not roughly, nor angrily—but with respect—half reproachfulness—and an unmistakable tenderness.
"Oh, Willy! Willy!" I heard her answer. "Somebody said you came here at night, and I couldn't rest. Oh, dear. They'll murder you! I know they will. Don't, oh!—"
My ears took in the sense no further, though her pleading voice still reached my ears. A few moments, and they were out of sight.
Nearly two hours afterward, as I was ascending to my chamber, a man brushed quickly by me. I glanced after him, and recognized the person of young Hammond. He was going to the room of Harvey Green!
The state of affairs in Cedarville, it was plain, from the partial glimpses I had received, was rather desperate. Desperate, I mean, as regarded the various parties brought before my observation. An eating cancer was on the community, and so far as the eye could mark its destructive progress, the ravages were tearful. That its roots were striking deep, and penetrating, concealed from view, in many unsuspected directions, there could be no doubt. What appeared on the surface was but a milder form of the disease, compared with its hidden, more vital, and more dangerous advances.
I could not but feel a strong interest in some of these parties. The case of young Hammond had, from the first, awakened concern; and now a new element was added in the unlooked-for appearance of his mother on the stage, in a state that seemed one of partial derangement. The gentleman at whose office I met Mr. Harrison on the day before—the reader will remember Mr. H. as having come to the "Sickle and Sheath" in search of his son—was thoroughly conversant with the affairs of the village, and I called upon him early in the day in order to make some inquiries about Mrs. Hammond. My first question, as to whether he knew the lady, was answered by the remark:
"Oh, yes. She is one of my earliest friends."
The allusion to her did not seem to awaken agreeable states of mind. A slight shade obscured his face, and I noticed that he sighed involuntarily.
"Is Willy her only child?"
"Her only living child. She had four; another son, and two daughters; but she lost all but Willy when they were quite young. And," he added, after a pause,—"it would have been better for her, and for Willy, too, if he had gone to a better land with them."
"His course of life must be to her a terrible affliction." said I.
"It is destroying her reason," he replied, with emphasis, "He was her idol. No mother ever loved a son with more self-devotion than Mrs. Hammond loved her beautiful, fine-spirited, intelligent, affectionate boy. To say that she was proud of him, is but a tame expression. Intense love—almost idolatry—was the strong passion of her heart. How tender, how watchful was her love! Except when at school, he was scarcely ever separated from her. In order to keep him by her side, she gave up her thoughts to the suggestion and maturing of plans for keeping his mind active and interested in her society—and her success was perfect. Up to the age of sixteen or seventeen, I do not think he had a desire for other companionship than that of his mother. But this, you know, could not last. The boy's maturing thought must go beyond the home and social circle. The great world, that he was soon to enter, was before him; and through loopholes that opened here and there he obtained partial glimpses of what was beyond. To step forth into this world, where he was soon to be a busy actor and worker, and to step forth alone, next came in the natural order of progress. How his mother trembled with anxiety, as she saw him leave her side! Of the dangers that would surround his path, she knew too well; and these were magnified by her fears—at least so I often said to her. Alas! how far the sad reality has outrun her most fearful anticipations.
"When Willy was eighteen—he was then reading law—I think I never saw a young man of fairer promise. As I have often heard it remarked of him, he did not appear to have a single fault. But he had a dangerous gift—rare conversational powers, united with great urbanity of manner. Every one who made his acquaintance became charmed with his society; and he soon found himself surrounded by a circle of young men, some of whom were not the best companions he might have chosen. Still, his own pure instincts and honorable principles were his safeguard; and I never have believed that any social allurements would have drawn him away from the right path, if this accursed tavern had not been opened by Slade."
"There was a tavern here before the 'Sickle and Sheaf' was opened?" said I.
"Oh, yes. But it was badly kept, and the bar-room visitors were of the lowest class. No respectable young man in Cedarville would have been seen there. It offered no temptations to one moving in Willy's circle. But the opening of the 'Sickle and Sheaf' formed a new era. Judge Hammond—himself not the purest man in the world, I'm afraid—gave his countenance to the establishment, and talked of Simon Slade as an enterprising man who ought to be encouraged. Judge Lyman and other men of position in Cedarville followed his bad example; and the bar-room of the 'Sickle and Sheaf' was at once voted respectable. At all times of the day and evening you could see the flower of our young men going in and out, sitting in front of the bar-room, or talking hand-and-glove with the landlord, who, from a worthy miller, regarded as well enough in his place, was suddenly elevated into a man of importance, whom the best in the village were delighted to honor.
"In the beginning, Willy went with the tide, and, in an incredibly short period, was acquiring a fondness for drink that startled and alarmed his friends. In going in through Slade's open door, he entered the downward way, and has been moving onward with fleet footsteps ever since. The fiery poison inflamed his mind, at the same time that it dimmed his noble perceptions. Fondness for mere pleasure followed, and this led him into various sensual indulgences, and exciting modes of passing the time. Every one liked him—he was so free, so companionable, and so generous—and almost every one encouraged, rather than repressed, his dangerous proclivities. Even his father, for a time, treated the matter lightly, as only the first flush of young life. 'I commenced sowing my wild oats at quite as early an age,' I have heard him say. 'He'll cool off, and do well enough. Never fear.' But his mother was in a state of painful alarm from the beginning. Her truer instincts, made doubly acute by her yearning love, perceived the imminent danger, and in all possible ways did she seek to lure him from the path in which he was moving at so rapid a pace. Willy was always very much attached to his mother, and her influence over him was strong; but in this case he regarded her fears as chimerical. The way in which he walked was, to him, so pleasant, and the companions of his journey so delightful, that he could not believe in the prophesied evil; and when his mother talked to him in her warning voice, and with a sad countenance, he smiled at her concern, and made light of her fears.
"And so it went on, month after month, and year after year, until the young man's sad declensions were the town talk. In order to throw his mind into a new channel—to awaken, if possible, a new and better interest in life—his father ventured upon the doubtful experiment we spoke of yesterday; that of placing capital in his hands, and making him an equal partner in the business of distilling and cotton-spinning. The disastrous—I might say disgraceful—result you know. The young man squandered his own capital and heavily embarrassed his father.
"The effect of all this upon Mrs. Hammond has been painful in the extreme. We can only dimly imagine the terrible suffering through which she has passed. Her present aberration was first visible after a long period of sleeplessness, occasioned by distress of mind. During the whole of two weeks, I am told, she did not close her eyes; the most of that time walking the floor of her chamber, and weeping. Powerful anodynes, frequently repeated, at length brought relief. But, when she awoke from a prolonged period of unconsciousness, the brightness of her reason was gone. Since then, she has never been clearly conscious of what was passing around her, and well for her, I have sometimes thought it was, for even obscurity of intellect is a blessing in her case. Ah, me! I always get the heart-ache, when I think of her."
"Did not this event startle the young man from his fatal dream, if I may so call his mad infatuation?" I asked.
"No. He loved his mother, and was deeply afflicted by the calamity; but it seemed as if he could not stop. Some terrible necessity appeared to be impelling him onward. If he formed good resolutions—and I doubt not that he did—they were blown away like threads of gossamer, the moment he came within the sphere of old associations. His way to the mill was by the 'Sickle and Sheaf'; and it was not easy for him to pass there without being drawn into the bar, either by his own desire for drink, or through the invitation of some pleasant companion, who was lounging in front of the tavern."
"There may have been something even more impelling than his love of drink," said I.
"What?"
I related, briefly, the occurrences of the preceding night.
"I feared—nay, I was certain—that he was in the toils of this man! And yet your confirmation of the fact startles and confounds me," said he, moving about his office in a disturbed manner. "If my mind has questioned and doubted in regard to young Hammond, it questions and doubts no longer. The word 'mystery' is not now written over the door of his habitation. Great Father! and is it thus that our young men are led into temptation? Thus that their ruin is premeditated, secured? Thus that the fowler is permitted to spread his net in the open day, and the destroyer licensed to work ruin in darkness? It is awful to contemplate!" The man was strongly excited.
"Thus it is," he continued; "and we who see the whole extent, origin, and downward rushing force of a widely sweeping desolation, lift our voices of warning almost in vain. Men who have everything at stake—sons to be corrupted, and daughters to become the wives of young men exposed to corrupting influences—stand aloof, questioning and doubting as to the expediency of protecting the innocent from the wolfish designs of bad men; who, to compass their own selfish ends, would destroy them body and soul. We are called fanatics, ultraists, designing, and all that, because we ask our law-makers to stay the fiery ruin. Oh, no! we must not touch the traffic. All the dearest and best interests of society may suffer; but the rum-seller must be protected. He must be allowed to get gain, if the jails and poorhouses are filled, and the graveyards made fat with the bodies of young men stricken down in the flower of their years, and of wives and mothers who have died of broken hearts. Reform, we are told, must commence at home. We must rear temperate children, and then we shall have temperate men. That when there are none to desire liquor, the rum-seller's traffic will cease. And all the while society's true benefactors are engaged in doing this, the weak, the unsuspecting, and the erring must be left an easy prey, even if the work requires for its accomplishment a hundred years. Sir! a human soul destroyed through the rum-seller's infernal agency, is a sacrifice priceless in value. No considerations of worldly gain can, for an instant, be placed in comparison therewith. And yet souls are destroyed by thousands every year; and they will fall by tens of thousands ere society awakens from its fatal indifference, and lays its strong hand of power on the corrupt men who are scattering disease, ruin, and death, broadcast over the land!
"I always get warm on this subject," he added, repressing his enthusiasm. "And who that observes and reflects can help growing excited? The evil is appalling; and the indifference of the community one of the strangest facts of the day."
While he was yet speaking, the elder Mr. Hammond came in. He looked wretched. The redness and humidity of his eyes showed want of sleep, and the relaxed muscles of his face exhaustion from weariness and suffering. He drew the person with whom I had been talking aside, and continued an earnest conversation with him for many minutes—often gesticulating violently. I could see his face, though I heard nothing of what he said. The play of his features was painful to look upon, for every changing muscle showed a new phase of mental suffering.
"Try and see him, will you not?" he said, as he turned, at length, to leave the office.
"I will go there immediately," was answered.
"Bring him home, if possible."
"My very best efforts shall be made."
Judge Hammond bowed and went out hurriedly.
"Do you know the number of the room occupied by the man Green?" asked the gentleman, as soon as his visitor had retired.
"Yes. It is No. 11."
"Willy has not been home since last night. His father, at this late day, suspects Green to be a gambler. The truth flashed upon him only yesterday; and this, added to his other sources of trouble, is driving him, so he says, almost mad. As a friend, he wishes me to go to the 'Sickle and Sheaf,' and try and find Willy. Have you seen any thing of him this morning?"
I answered in the negative.
"Nor of Green?"
"No."
"Was Slade about when you left the tavern?"
"I saw nothing of him."
"What Judge Hammond fears may be all too true—that, in the present condition of Willy's affairs, which have reached the point of disaster, his tempter means to secure the largest possible share of property yet in his power to pledge or transfer,—to squeeze from his victim the last drop of blood that remains, and then fling him, ruthlessly, from his hands."
"The young man must have been rendered almost desperate, or he would never have returned, as he did, last night. Did you mention this to his father?"
"No. It would have distressed him the more, without effecting any good. He is wretched enough. But time passes, and none is to be lost now. Will you go with me?"
I walked to the tavern with him; and we went into the bar together. Two or three men were at the counter, drinking.
"Is Mr. Green about this morning?" was asked by the person who had come in search of young Hammond.
"Haven't seen any thing of him."
"Is he in his room?"
"I don't know."
"Will you ascertain for me?"
"Certainly. Frank,"—and he spoke to the landlord's son, who was lounging on a settee,—"I wish you would see if Mr. Green is in his room."
"Go and see yourself. I'm not your waiter," was growled back, in an ill-natured voice.
"In a moment I'll ascertain for you," said Matthew, politely.
After waiting on some new customers, who were just entering, Matthew went up-stairs to obtain the desired information. As he left the bar-room, Frank got up and went behind the counter, where he mixed himself a glass of liquor, and drank it off, evidently with real enjoyment.
"Rather a dangerous business for one so young as you are," remarked the gentleman with whom I had come, as Frank stepped out of the bar, and passed near where we were standing. The only answer to this was an ill-natured frown, and an expression of face which said almost as plainly as words, "It is none of your business."
"Not there," said Matthew, now coming in.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, sir."
But there was a certain involuntary hesitation in the bar-keeper's manner, which led to a suspicion that his answer was not in accordance with the truth. We walked out together, conferring on the subject, and both concluded that his word was not to be relied upon.
"What is to be done?" was asked.
"Go to Green's room," I replied, "and knock at the door. If he is there, he may answer, not suspecting your errand."
"Show me the room."
I went up with him, and pointed out No. 11. He knocked lightly, but there came no sound from within. He repeated the knock; all was silent. Again and again he knocked, but there came back only a hollow reverberation.
"There's no one there," said he, returning to where I stood, and we walked down-stairs together. On the landing, as we reached the lower passage, we met Mrs. Slade. I had not, during this visit at Cedarville, stood face to face with her before. Oh! what a wreck she presented, with her pale, shrunken countenance, hollow, lustreless eyes, and bent, feeble body. I almost shuddered as I looked at her. What a haunting and sternly rebuking spectre she must have moved, daily, before the eyes of her husband.
"Have you noticed Mr. Green about this morning?" I asked.
"He hasn't come down from his room yet," she replied.
"Are you certain?" said my companion. "I knocked several times at the door just now, but received no answer."
"What do you want with him?" asked Mrs. Slade, fixing her eyes upon us.
"We are in search of Willy Hammond; and it has been suggested that he was with Green."
"Knock twice lightly, and then three times more firmly," said Mrs. Slade; and as she spoke, she glided past us with noiseless tread.
"Shall we go up together?"
I did not object; for, although I had no delegated right of intrusion, my feelings were so much excited in the case, that I went forward, scarcely reflecting on the propriety of so doing.
The signal knock found instant answer. The door was softly opened, and the unshaven face of Simon Slade presented itself.
"Mr. Jacobs!" he said, with surprise in his tones. "Do you wish to see me?"
"No, sir; I wish to see Mr. Green," and with a quick, firm pressure against the door, he pushed it wide open. The same party was there that I had seen on the night before,—Green, young Hammond, Judge Lyman, and Slade. On the table at which the three former were sitting, were cards, slips of paper, an ink-stand and pens, and a pile of bank-notes. On a side-table, or, rather, butler's tray, were bottles, decanters, and glasses.
"Judge Lyman! Is it possible?" exclaimed Mr. Jacobs, the name of my companion. "I did not expect to find you here."
Green instantly swept his hands over the table to secure the money and bills it contained; but, ere he had accomplished his purpose, young Hammond grappled three or four narrow strips of paper, and hastily tore them into shreds.
"You're a cheating scoundrel!" cried Green, fiercely, thrusting his hand into his bosom as if to draw from thence a weapon; but the words were scarcely uttered, ere Hammond sprung upon him with the fierceness of a tiger, bearing him down upon the floor. Both hands were already about the gambler's neck, and, ere the bewildered spectators could interfere, and drag him off. Green was purple in the face, and nearly strangled.
"Call me a cheating scoundrel!" said Hammond, foaming at the mouth, as he spoke,—"Me, whom you have followed like a thirsty blood-hound. Me! whom you have robbed, and cheated, and debased from the beginning! Oh! for a pistol to rid the earth of the blackest-hearted villain that walks its surface. Let me go, gentlemen! I have nothing left in the world to care for,—there is no consequence I fear. Let me do society one good service before I die!"
And, with one vigorous effort, he swept himself clear of the hands that were pinioning him, and sprung again upon the gambler with the fierce energy of a savage beast. By this time, Green had got his knife free from its sheath, and, as Hammond was closing upon him in his blind rage, plunged it into his side. Quick almost as lightning, the knife was withdrawn, and two more stabs inflicted ere we could seize and disarm the murderer. As we did so, Willy Hammond fell over with a deep groan, the blood flowing from his side.
In the terror and excitement that followed, Green rushed from the room. The doctor, who was instantly summoned, after carefully examining the wound, and the condition of the unhappy young man, gave it as his opinion that he was fatally injured.
Oh! the anguish of the father, who had quickly heard of the dreadful occurrence, when this announcement was made. I never saw such fearful agony in any human countenance. The calmest of all the anxious group was Willy himself. On his father's face his eyes were fixed as if by a kind of fascination.
"Are you in much pain, my poor boy!" sobbed the old man, stooping over him, until his long white hair mingled with the damp locks of the sufferer.
"Not much, father," was the whispered reply. "Don't speak of this to mother, yet. I'm afraid it will kill her."
What could the father answer? Nothing! And he was silent.
"Does she know of it?" A shadow went over his face.
Mr. Hammond shook his head.
Yet, even as he spoke, a wild cry of distress was heard below. Some indiscreet person had borne to the ears of the mother the fearful news about her son, and she had come wildly flying toward the tavern, and was just entering.
"It is my poor mother," said Willy, a flush coming into his pale face. "Who could have told her of this?"
Mr. Hammond started for the door, but ere he had reached it, the distracted mother entered.
"Oh! Willy, my boy! my boy!" she exclaimed, in tones of anguish that made the heart shudder. And she crouched down on the floor, the moment she reached the bed whereon he lay, and pressed her lips—oh, so tenderly and lovingly!—to his.
"Dear mother! Sweet mother! Best of mothers!" He even smiled as he said this; and, into the face now bent over him, looked up with glances of unutterable fondness.
"Oh, Willy! Willy! Willy! my son, my son!" And again her lips were laid closely to his.
Mr. Hammond now interfered, and endeavored to remove his wife, fearing for the consequence upon his son.
"Don't, father!" said Willy; "let her remain. I am not excited nor disturbed. I am glad that she is here, now. It will be best for us both."
"You must not excite him, dear," said Mr. Hammond—"he is very weak."
"I'll not excite him," answered the mother. "I'll not speak a word. There, love"—and she laid her fingers softly upon the lips of her son—"don't speak a single word."
For only a few moments did she sit with the quiet formality of a nurse, who feels how much depends on the repose of her patient. Then she began weeping, moaning, and wringing her hands.
"Mother!" The feeble voice of Willy stilled, instantly, the tempest of feeling. "Mother, kiss me!"
She bent down and kissed him.
"Are you there, mother?" His eyes moved about, with a straining motion.
"Yes, love, here I am."
"I don't see you, mother. It's getting so dark. Oh, mother! mother!" he shouted suddenly, starting up and throwing himself forward upon her bosom—"save me! save me!"
How quickly did the mother clasp her arms around him—how eagerly did she strain him to her bosom! The doctor, fearing the worst consequences, now came forward, and endeavored to release the arms of Mrs. Hammond, but she resisted every attempt to do so.
"I will save you, my son," she murmured in the ear of the young man. "Your mother will protect you. Oh! if you had never left her side, nothing on earth could have done you harm."
"He is dead!" I heard the doctor whisper; and a thrill of horror went through me. The words reached the ears of Mr. Hammond, and his groan was one of almost mortal agony.
"Who says he is dead?" came sharply from the lips of the mother, as she pressed the form of her child back upon the bed from which he had sprung to her arms, and looked wildly upon his face. One long scream of horror told of her convictions, and she fell, lifeless, across the body of her dead son!
All in the room believed that Mrs. Hammond had only fainted. But the doctor's perplexed, troubled countenance, as he ordered her carried into another apartment, and the ghastliness of her face when it was upturned to the light, suggested to every one what proved to be true. Even to her obscured perceptions, the consciousness that her son was dead came with a terrible vividness—so terrible, that it extinguished her life.
Like fire among dry stubble ran the news of this fearful event through Cedarville. The whole town was wild with excitement. The prominent fact, that Willy Hammond had been murdered by Green, whose real profession was known by many, and now declared to all, was on every tongue; but a hundred different and exaggerated stories as to the cause and the particulars of the event were in circulation. By the time preparations to remove the dead bodies of mother and son from the "Sickle and Sheaf" to the residence of Mr. Hammond were completed, hundreds of people, men, women, and children, were assembled around the tavern and many voices were clamorous for Green; while some called out for Judge Lyman, whose name, it thus appeared, had become associated in the minds of the people with the murderous affair. The appearance, in the midst of this excitement, of the two dead bodies, borne forth on settees, did not tend to allay the feverish state of indignation that prevailed. From more than one voice, I heard the words, "Lynch the scoundrel!"
A part of the crowd followed the sad procession, while the greater portion, consisting of men, remained about the tavern. All bodies, no matter for what purpose assembled, quickly find leading spirits who, feeling the great moving impulse, give it voice and direction. It was so in this case. Intense indignation against Green was firing every bosom; and when a man elevated himself a few feet above the agitated mass of humanity, and cried out:
"The murderer must not escape!"
A wild responding shout, terrible in its fierceness, made the air quiver.
"Let ten men be chosen to search the house and premises," said the leading spirit.
"Ay! ay! Choose them! Name them!" was quickly answered.
Ten men were called by name, who instantly stepped in front of the crowd.
"Search everywhere; from garret to cellar; from hayloft to dog-kennel. Everywhere! everywhere!" cried the man.
And instantly the ten men entered the house. For nearly a quarter of an hour, the crowd waited with increasing signs of impatience. These delegates at length appeared, with the announcement that Green was nowhere about the premises. It was received with a groan.
"Let no man in Cedarville do a stroke of work until the murderer is found," now shouted the individual who still occupied his elevated position.
"Agreed! agreed! No work in Cedarville until the murderer is found," rang out fiercely.
"Let all who have horses saddle and bridle them as quickly as possible, and assemble, mounted, at the Court House."
About fifty men left the crowd hastily.
"Let the crowd part in the centre, up and down the road, starting from a line in front of me."
This order was obeyed.
"Separate again, taking the centre of the road for a line."
Four distinct bodies of men stood now in front of the tavern.
"Now search for the murderer in every nook and corner, for a distance of three miles from this spot; each party keeping to its own section; the road being one dividing line, and a line through the centre of this tavern the other. The horsemen will pursue the wretch to a greater distance."
More than a hundred acquiescing voices responded to this, as the man sprung down from his elevation and mingled with the crowd, which began instantly to move away on its appointed mission.
As the hours went by, one, and another, and another, of the searching party returned to the village, wearied with their efforts, or confident that the murderer had made good his escape. The horsemen, too, began to come in, during the afternoon, and by sundown, the last of them, worn out and disappointed, made their appearance.
For hours after the exciting events of the forenoon, there were but few visitors at the "Sickle and Sheaf." Slade, who did not show himself among the crowd, came down soon after its dispersion. He had shaved and put on clean linen; but still bore many evidences of a night spent without sleep. His eyes were red and heavy and the eyelids swollen; while his skin was relaxed and colorless. As he descended the stairs, I was walking in the passage. He looked shy at me, and merely nodded. Guilt was written plainly on his countenance; and with it was blended anxiety and alarm. That he might be involved in trouble, he had reason to fear; for he was one of the party engaged in gambling in Green's room, as both Mr. Jacobs and I had witnessed.
"This is dreadful business," said he, as we met, face to face, half an hour afterward. He did not look me steadily in the eyes.
"It is horrible!" I answered. "To corrupt and ruin a young man, and then murder him! There are few deeds in the catalogue of crime blacker than this!"
"It was done in the heat of passion," said the landlord, with something of an apology in his manner. "Green never meant to kill him."
"In peaceful intercourse with his fellow-men, why did he carry a deadly weapon? There was murder in his heart, sir."
"That is speaking very strongly."
"Not stronger than the facts will warrant," I replied. "That Green is a murderer in heart, it needed not this awful consummation to show. With a cool, deliberate purpose, he has sought, from the beginning, to destroy young Hammond."
"It is hardly fair," answered Slade, "in the present feverish excitement against Green, to assume such a questionable position. It may do him a great wrong."
"Did Willy Hammond speak only idle words, when he accused Green of having followed him like a thirsty bloodhound?—of having robbed, and cheated, and debased him from the beginning?"
"He was terribly excited at the moment."
"Yes," said I, "no ear that heard his words could for an instant doubt that they were truthful utterances, wrung from a maddened heart."
My earnest, positive manner had its effect upon Slade. He knew that what I asserted, the whole history of Green's intercourse with young Hammond would prove; and he had, moreover, the guilty consciousness of being a party to the young man's ruin. His eyes cowered beneath the steady gaze I fixed upon him. I thought of him as one implicated in the murder, and my thoughts must have been visible in my face.
"One murder will not justify another," said he.
"There is no justification for murder on any plea," was my response.
"And yet, if these infuriated men find Green, they will murder him."
"I hope not. Indignation at a horrible crime has fearfully excited the people. But I think their sense of justice is strong enough to prevent the consequences you apprehend."
"I would not like to be in Green's shoes," said the landlord, with an uneasy movement.
I looked him closely in the face. It was the punishment of the man's crime that seemed so fearful in his eyes; not the crime itself. Alas! how the corrupting traffic had debased him.
My words were so little relished by Slade, that he found some ready excuse to leave me. I saw little more of him during the day.
As evening began to fall, the gambler's unsuccessful pursuers, one after another, found their way to the tavern, and by the time night had fairly closed in, the bar-room was crowded with excited and angry men, chafing over their disappointment, and loud in their threats of vengeance. That Green had made good his escape, was now the general belief; and the stronger this conviction became, the more steadily did the current of passion begin to set in a new direction. It had become known to every one that, besides Green and young Hammond, Judge Lyman and Slade were in the room engaged in playing cards. The merest suggestion as to the complicity of these two men with Green in ruining Hammond, and thus driving him mad, was enough to excite strong feelings against them; and now that the mob had been cheated out of its victim, its pent-up indignation sought eagerly some new channel.
"Where's Slade?" some one asked, in a loud voice, from the centre of the crowded bar-room. "Why does he keep himself out of sight?"
"Yes; where's the landlord?" half a dozen voices responded.
"Did he go on the hunt?" some one inquired.
"No!" "No!" "No!" ran around the room. "Not he."
"And yet, the murder was committed in his own house, and before his own eyes!"
"Yes, before his own eyes!" repeated one and another, indignantly.
"Where's Slade? Where's the landlord? Has anybody seen him tonight? Matthew, where's Simon Slade?"
From lip to lip passed these interrogations; while the crowd of men became agitated, and swayed to and fro.
"I don't think he's home," answered the bar-keeper, in a hesitating manner, and with visible alarm.
"How long since he was here?"
"I haven't seen him for a couple of hours."
"That's a lie!" was sharply said.
"Who says it's a lie?" Matthew affected to be strongly indignant.
"I do!" And a rough, fierce-looking man confronted him.
"What right have you to say so?" asked Matthew, cooling off considerably.
"Because you lie!" said the man, boldly. "You've seen him within a less time than half an hour, and well you know it. Now, if you wish to keep yourself out of this trouble, answer truly. We are in no mood to deal with liars or equivocators. Where is Simon Slade?"
"I do not know," replied Matthew, firmly.
"Is he in the house?"
"He may be, or he may not be. I am just as ignorant of his exact whereabouts as you are."
"Will you look for him?"
Matthew stepped to the door, opening from behind the bar, and called the name of Frank.
"What's wanted?" growled the boy.
"Is your father in the house?"
"I don't know, nor don't care," was responded in the same ungracious manner.
"Someone bring him into the bar-room, and we'll see if we can't make him care a little."
The suggestion was no sooner made, than two men glided behind the bar, and passed into the room from whence the voice of Frank had issued. A moment after they reappeared, each grasping an arm of the boy, and bearing him like a weak child between them. He looked thoroughly frightened at this unlooked-for invasion of his liberty.
"See here, young man." One of the leading spirits of the crowd addressed him, as soon as he was brought in front of the counter. "If you wish to keep out of trouble, answer our questions at once, and to the point. We are in no mood for trifling. Where's your father?"
"Somewhere about the house, I believe," Frank replied, in an humble tone. He was no little scared at the summary manner with which he had been treated.
"How long since you saw him?"
"Not long ago."
"Ten minutes."
"No; nearly half an hour."
"Where was he then?"
"He was going up-stairs."
"Very well, we want him. See him, and tell him so."
Frank went into the house, but came back into the bar-room after an absence of nearly five minutes, and said that he could not find his father anywhere.
"Where is he then?" was angrily demanded.
"Indeed, gentlemen, I don't know." Frank's anxious look and frightened manner showed that he spoke truly.
"There's something wrong about this—something wrong—wrong," said one of the men. "Why should he be absent now? Why has he taken no steps to secure the man who committed a murder in his own house, and before his own eyes?
"I shouldn't wonder if he aided him to escape," said another, making this serious charge with a restlessness and want of evidence that illustrated the reckless and unjust spirit by which the mob is ever governed.
"No doubt of it in the least!" was the quick and positive response. And at once this erroneous conviction seized upon every one. Not a single fact was presented. The simple, bold assertion, that no doubt existed in the mind of one man as to Slade's having aided Green to escape, was sufficient for the unreflecting mob.
"Where is he? Where is he? Let us find him. He knows where Green is, and he shall reveal the secret."
This was enough. The passions of the crowd were at fever heat again. Two or three men were chosen to search the house and premises, while others dispersed to take a wider range. One of the men who volunteered to go over the house was a person named Lyon, with whom I had formed some acquaintance, and several times conversed with on the state of affairs in Cedarville. He still remained too good a customer at the bar. I left the bar at the same time that he did, and went up to my room. We walked side by side, and parted at my door, I going in, and he continuing on to make his searches. I felt, of course, anxious and much excited, as well in consequence of the events of the day, as the present aspect of things. My head was aching violently, and in the hope of getting relief, I laid myself down. I had already lighted a candle, and turned the key in my door to prevent intrusion. Only for a short time did I lie, listening to the hum of voices that came with a hoarse murmur from below, to the sound of feet moving along the passages, and to the continual opening and shutting of doors, when something like suppressed breathing reached my ears, I started up instantly, and listened; but my quickened pulses were now audible to my own sense, and obscured what was external.
"It is only imagination," I said to myself. Still, I sat upright, listening.
Satisfied, at length, that all was mere fancy, I laid myself back on the pillow, and tried to turn my thoughts away from the suggested idea that some one was in the room. Scarcely had I succeeded in this, when my heart gave a new impulse, as a sound like a movement fell upon my ears.
"Mere fancy!" I said to myself, as some one went past the door at the moment. "My mind is overexcited."
Still I raised my head, supporting it with my hand, and listened, directing my attention inside, and not outside of the room. I was about letting my head fall back upon the pillow, when a slight cough, so distinct as not to be mistaken, caused me to spring to the floor, and look under the bed. The mystery was explained. A pair of eyes glittered in the candlelight. The fugitive, Green, was under my bed. For some moments I stood looking at him, so astonished that I had neither utterance nor decision; while he glared at me with a fierce defiance. I saw that he was clutching a revolver.
"Understand!" he said, in a grating whisper, "that I am not to be taken alive."
I let the blanket, which had concealed him from view, fall from my hand, and then tried to collect my thoughts.
"Escape is impossible," said I, again lifting the temporary curtain by which he was hid. "The whole town is armed, and on the search; and should you fall into the hands of the mob, in its present state of exasperation, your life would not be safe an instant. Remain, then, quiet, where you are, until I can see the sheriff, to whom you had better resign yourself, for there's little chance for you except under his protection."
After a brief parley he consented that things should take this course, and I went out, locking the room door after me, and started in search of the sheriff. On the information I gave, the sheriff acted promptly. With five officers, fully armed for defence, in case an effort were made to get the prisoner out of their hands, he repaired immediately to the "Sickle and Sheaf." I had given the key of my room into his possession.
The appearance of the sheriff, with his posse, was sufficient to start the suggestion that Green was somewhere concealed in the house; and a suggestion was only needed to cause the fact to be assumed, and unhesitatingly declared. Intelligence went through the reassembling crowd like an electric current, and ere the sheriff could manacle and lead forth his prisoner, the stairway down which he had to come was packed with bodies, and echoing with oaths and maledictions.
"Gentlemen, clear the way!" cried the sheriff, as he appeared with the white and trembling culprit at the head of the stairs. "The murderer is now in the hands of the law, and will meet the sure consequences of his crime."
A shout of execration rent the air; but not a single individual stirred.
"Give way, there! Give way!" And the sheriff took a step or two forward, but the prisoner held back.
"Oh, the murdering villain! The cursed blackleg! Where's Willy Hammond?" was heard distinctly above the confused mingling of voices.
"Gentlemen! the law must have its course; and no good citizen will oppose the law. It is made for your protection—for mine—and for that of the prisoner."
"Lynch law is good enough for him," shouted a savage voice. "Hand him over to us, sheriff, and we'll save you the trouble of hanging him, and the county the cost of the gallows. We'll do the business right."
Five men, each armed with a revolver, now ranged themselves around the sheriff, and the latter said firmly:
"It is my duty to see this man safely conveyed to prison; and I'm going to do my duty. If there is any more blood shed here, the blame will rest with you." And the body of officers pressed forward, the mob slowly retreating before them.
Green, overwhelmed with terror, held back. I was standing where I could see his face. It was ghastly with mortal fear. Grasping his pinioned arms, the sheriff forced him onward. After contending with the crowd for nearly ten minutes, the officers gained the passage below; but the mob was denser here, and blocking up the door, resolutely maintained their position.