IT seemed to Tom, now that he was fairly on the homeward road, as though the wheels of the stage were weighted with lead, and as though the horses that dragged it crawled at a snail’s pace, for his hopes and his longing for home outstripped a thousand fold the rate of his traveling.
To P., 18 M.—14 M. to E.; to P., 19 M.—13 M. to E.; to P., 20 M.—12 M. to E. So passed the milestones in succession, and Tom counted every one as they rumbled by it. But at last it was 2 M. to E., and a steep hill lay in front of them; it was the last hill between him and home.
Tom had taken theUnionline of stages, which did not, like theEnterpriseline, run on to Downeyville, but stopped at Eastcaster. The driver of “No. 3” was a stranger to Tom; old Willy Wilkes had heretofore driven the stage as long as he could remember.
“Where’s old Willy Wilkes?” said Tom, soon after they had left Philadelphia.
The strange driver let fly an amber stream of tobacco juice over the side of the coach, and answered, briefly, “Dead.”
“Dead!”
“Ya-as. Caught cold last spring and died in June;” then, with some curiosity, “Did you know him?”
“Yes, I knew him,” said Tom, briefly. Here was the first change, and it threw a cloud over him; was he to find other changes as great? He had only been gone a year and a half, but it seemed to him as though it might have been ten years. There was a pause of a few minutes, and the new driver of “No. 3” looked furtively at Tom from out the corners of his eyes. Tom had not cut off his beard, and his hair had turned iron grey in the last five months; he knew that he was greatly changed.
It was Tom’s beard that seemed to catch the driver’s eye, for folks went clean-shaven in those days.
“I allow you’re from foreign parts,” said he, at last.
“Yes; I’m from foreign parts,” said Tom, shortly. Nothing more was said between them after this. Tom sat buried in thoughts and the driver sat chewing vigorously at his quid of tobacco, looking steadfastly over the leader’s ears the whiles.
So they began the slow climbing of the last hill; they reached the top of the rise, and then the country lay spread out before them, hill and valley, field, meadow-land and wood, all brown and golden in the mellow autumn sunlight. The houses clustered more thickly about the village, and over the rusting foliage peeped the white spire ofSt. James’ Church. A lump arose in Tom’s throat at the sight of the dear old place, and his eyeballs felt hot and dry. Then a keen and sudden thrill shot through him, for, away beyond the village and over to the right, he could see the yellow sunlight shining on the white walls of a house. Close to it stood an old stone mill and back of it was an apple orchard. Then Tom felt, indeed, that his darling was near to him.
The driver gathered up his reins. “Click!” said he, and the coach dashed down the hill, and house and mill were hidden from Tom’s sight. So they reached the level road and went rumbling along it; they turned the corner and Eastcaster was before them. The scattered houses grew thicker and thicker; they turned another corner sharply and were in Market street.
Everything was the same as when Tom had last seen them: trees, houses, stores, people, everything. Shipwreck, death, loneliness and misery had been around him for a year and a half, and yet Eastcaster was the same as though he had not come back to it through the valley of the shadow of death. It seemed strange to him that it should be so; it was as though he had left everything but yesterday. Here was Pepperill’s store, there the blacksmith shop. They passed Parkinson’s tobacco store; a number of men were sitting on chairs around the door in the sunshine. They looked up at the stage with dull interest. Tom knew them all, but not one of them recognized him. A little furtheralong, on the opposite side of the street, was Mr. Moor’s office. As they rumbled by it, Tom saw that two men were standing at the window looking absently into the street; one of them was Mr. Moor, the other was Isaac Naylor. A thrill darted through him when he saw Isaac Naylor; it was strange that the sight of his former rival should seem to bring Patty so near to him. The two men looked at the stage as it passed, but they saw nothing, for their minds were evidently fixed upon other things. Mr. Moor was talking, looking anxious and worried; Isaac Naylor was listening, cold and impassive.
Tom noticed this in the moment that he was passing.
Then the stage stopped, for it was in front of theCrown and Angel, and Black Jim—the identical Black Jim that Tom had left a year and a half ago, who was standing out in the road, waiting the coming of the stage—loosened the straps at the horses’ necks. The passengers tumbled out from the inside, and Tom got down from the box, and stood looking about him. There were a group of loungers sitting along the tavern porch in the warm sunlight; their feet on the railing, and their chairs tilted back. Tom knew nearly all of them, but they did not recognize him;—he never fully realized till then, how changed he was in his appearance. Even Mrs. Bond, the landlady, who was standing at the door with her hands under her apron, did not know him.
Some one came walking along the street and stopped, for a moment, to look at the stage—it was Will Gaines. “He’ll know me, at least,” said Tom, to himself, but he did not; he looked at Tom, but there was no other light than that of curiosity in his eyes.
“Will,” said he, at last; “Will Gaines, don’t you know me?”
Then sudden recognition flashed into Will’s face. He stood for a moment as though bereft of speech; then he strode forward, and clutched Tom by the shoulder.
“My God! Tom Granger; is it—is it you? They said you were dead! I—I—” Then he stopped, and Tom felt his hands trembling as they lay on his shoulders.
“Dead!” said Tom, after a moment of silence.
“Yes, Tom; dead.”
“But I’m not dead,” said Tom, smiling, and trying to shake off the feeling that was creeping over him.
“Don’t! Don’t talk that way, Tom,” said Will; “don’t make so light of it. Your father had a letter from Lovejoy & Co., of Philadelphia. It was nearly a year ago, now; the letter said that your ship had been lost, no one knew how or where. Tom,”—here he stopped abruptly—“Come into the tavern, Tom,” said he.
As they went up the tavern steps and entered the door, the loungers stared at them with wide-opened eyes. They did not recognize him, but a strangerwas an object of interest in the town in those days. Will hurried him into the house, and Mrs. Bond showed them into the parlor. There was something so odd in Will’s manner, that the feeling of fear grew heavier and heavier on Tom’s spirit—the first words that he spoke, were:
“Will, how’s Patty?”
Will did not answer immediately, and Tom, glancing quickly up, saw that he was looking earnestly at him.
There was a moment of dead silence, through which sounded the clicking of the dishes being washed in the out kitchen of the tavern.
“Will, how’s Patty?” said Tom, again, and he himself noticed what a sharp ring there was in his voice. “Why don’t you speak? What’s the matter? How’s Patty?”
“Patty?”
“Yes; Patty.”
“Patty? Oh! Patty’s all right.”
Tom looked at him very keenly. His heart was crumbling within him, though he could not tell why. He felt faint and ill, and leaned heavily on the table near him. He looked out of the window, watching Black Jim watering the stage horses at the trough in the stable-yard; then, without looking back at Will, he steadied himself for the next question.
“I’m no coward, Will,” said he; “you see I’ve gone through enough this year to turn my hair grey, and I’m no coward now, if I ever was before.I want you to tell me the truth; is—is Patty dead?”
“Dead! No; of course she isn’t dead. She was very much broken down when she heard of the loss of the ship that you sailed in; but she’s all right now,—well and hearty.”
“And she’s not sick—nothing the matter with her?”
“Nothing.”
Tom put his hand to his forehead, for things were swimming around him; then he gave a short laugh, but there was a quaver in it. “You frightened me pretty badly, Will,” said he; “I don’t deny that I felt as though you were dragging my heart out by the roots.”
“See here, Tom, you don’t look well,” said Will; “let me call for a glass of brandy for you.”
“I don’t want any brandy; I wouldn’t mind having a drop of water, though.” There was a pitcher standing on the table beside him; he tilted it and looked into it and saw that there was water in it; then he raised it to his lips and took a deep draught of it. “What did you scare me so for?” he said, half angrily, turning on Will again.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Tom,” said the other; then he hesitated for a moment or two. “Look here, Tom,” said he, “you’d better go home; your mother has something to tell you. Your father was in town not half an hour ago; I saw him at Bradley’s blacksmith shop. I wish to heavens you’d been a little sooner; you might have riddenout home with him. If you’ll wait a bit, I’ll slip over and borrow uncle’s gig and drive you home.”
“I don’t want to wait; I’ll walk,” said Tom. Then, “Look here, Will; what are you so anxious for me to go straight home for?”
“What makes you think that I’m anxious?”
“You ain’t answering my question, Will Gaines.”
“I have no reason for wanting you to go straight home, except that I suppose your folks’ll want to see you.”
“Is that all?” said Tom, looking sharply at the other.
“Yes.”
Tom looked at him a little while longer, and then he turned away. He did not believe Will, but he saw that nothing more was to be gotten out of him.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Will, presently, “you walk on out home, and I’ll go over and get uncle’s gig and drive after you, and pick you up. It won’t do to run in on your people without their knowing of your coming. Your mother ought to know of it before she sees you.”
This was all very true, though Tom felt that Will’s plan was laid in order to secure his going home without stopping. He said nothing of his thoughts, however, but left the tavern, and started for home.
He walked briskly along the dusky turnpike road, but there was a dull feeling of unhappiness resting upon his heart, for Will’s words, and looks,and tones, all told him that there was something wrong. So he came at last to the foot of the hill, where the turnpike road crosses Stony-Brook by the old county bridge. On the other side of the stream is a by-road that leads off from the highway and runs through the woods. Tom knew it well, for it was the old mill road, and led to Elihu Penrose’s house. Many a time had he walked it, and well he knew every bend and turn of it. The last time he had passed along it his heart had beaten high with love, and hope, and high resolve, albeit there was the bitterness of a coming parting lurking at the bottom of it. When he came to the spot where the mill road opens on the pike he stood still, and, as he stood, all the fear that had rested upon him since his homecoming seemed to gather and intensify into a dark and nameless dread. What had happened? What could it all mean?
As his fears grew stronger his love waxed stronger with them. He looked back along the turnpike road—there was no signs of Will Gaines. Why should he go home, and not see his own dear love the first of all? “God bless her!” said he, with quivering lips, “I’ll not go home first; I’ll go and see her—my darling!”
So he left the highway, and walked down the road through the woods. The brown leaves that were beginning to fall rustled beneath his feet, and the yellow patches of sunlight slid over his head and shoulders as he walked beneath the shadow of the grey trees along the roadside.
Then he came out of the woods and into the open sunlight again. Now he was on the grass-bordered foot-path; on one side of him was the white dusty road, and on the other the mill-race, with the row of pollard willows standing along it. In front of him were the white walls of the mill-house, with the vines clustered around the end of the old well-remembered porch, just as he had seen them last. As he came closer he saw a slender girl’s figure sitting in a high-backed rocking chair, half hidden by the net-work of the vines around her.
It was Patty.
Tom’s heart gave a great leap within him; then stood still, and then began to beat furiously. He paused for a moment, gazing at her, his hand resting on the top of the picket fence in front of the garden; then he went forward again, but very slowly.
She was sitting bent over some sewing that lay spread out on her lap. He stood for a second or two at the green gate that led up to the porch, and then he laid his hand on the latch. At the click of the latch Patty raised her head, and Tom saw that she, like others that he had met, did not know him.
She arose and stood watching him as he came slowly up the path; his heart beating as though it would smother him.
He reached the porch;—one step,—two steps,—three steps,—and he stood upon it and looked at her.
Then he saw a strange frightened look come slowly into her eyes; she reached out her hand and laid it on the top of the rocking chair near to her.
“Patty!”
There was a space of dead silence, through which Tom heard and noticed the sound of rushing water and the clattering of the mill. He did not go a step forward, for, as he looked at her, there was that in her face that chilled him through and through—it was as though a gulf had opened between them.
Her face was as white as death, and Tom saw the fingers of the hand that rested on the top of the rocking chair, quivering nervously. She moistened her lips with her tongue, and at last she spoke, but in a hoarse whisper, and so low that he could hardly hear the matter of the words:
“Tom—Tom—Oh, my God, Tom! is that thee?”
“Yes, Patty; it’s me! I’ve come back to thee after a sorely long time! Why don’t thee speak—why don’t thee say something to me? What’s the matter, Patty?”
“Wait—wait—let me think!” said she, putting her finger to her forehead, “they all told me that thee was dead—they said that thee was drowned. Can dead people come back again?”
“Patty! Patty!” cried Tom, “my own darling! tell me; what does this mean?”
By this time the tears were running in streams down her pale cheeks; she made no effort to wipe them away, and did not seem to know that they were flowing.
“What is the matter?—Patty, tell me,” said Tom, again.
“Oh, Tom! I—I—am going to be married to-morrow!”
I do not know how long it was that Tom stood there, staring blankly at her. His throat was dry and husky, and he felt the muscles of his face twitching every now and then. It was Patty who broke the silence.
“Tom!” she cried, in a choking voice; “dear Tom! don’t look at me in that way—thee breaks my heart! Say something kind to me, Tom—speak to me!”
“Who’s thee going to—who’s the man, Patty?” said Tom, dully.
“Isaac Naylor. Oh, Tom! I was urged to it so that I couldn’t help myself. They all told me that thee was dead. Even thy mother said thee was drowned!”
The muscles of Tom’s throat had tightened until he felt as though he was choking. He stood as though uncertain what to do, for a little while; then he said, “I—I guess I’d better go—go home, now; there’s no use my staying any—any longer.” Then he turned away and went stumbling blindly down the porch steps. He reached the gate and fumbled for a little while, hunting for the latch; then he opened it and went out into the road. There were a few chickens dusting themselves in the path; he stood looking stupidly at them for a little while, his hands hanging limp at his sides. Then he turned and walked heavily away, without looking back.
TOM GRANGER walked along, scarcely knowing where he was going. After a while he stopped and looked about him, and he saw that he was standing in the road not far from the highway. Around him was the silent woods; in front of him was the sunny highroad, about three hundred paces farther on. He felt that he could not go out into it just now. He flung himself down on the grassy roadside, burying his face in his arms, giving himself up utterly to the despair that was upon him. No sound broke the silence of the autumn woodland but the gurgle of the rocky brook across the road, the sudden rustle of the trees as the breeze rushed through them now and then, and the rattling of the dead leaves stirred by a breath of air.
Tom lay heeding nothing, thinking nothing, for his heart was too full of the bitterness of his troubles to give place to aught else. How long he lay there he cannot tell; that which aroused him was the sound of footsteps coming down the road from the highway. Then he sprang to his feet, for he could not bear that any one should find him lying there. He saw that it was Isaac Naylor who wascoming. Then Tom strode out into the road and stood directly in front of him, so that the other could not pass him.
“Does thee know who I am, Isaac Naylor?” said he; then, without waiting for an answer, “I’m Tom Granger!”
Maybe the Friend’s face grew a trifle whiter than it was used to be; nevertheless, he stood his ground, though he looked around and behind him, as though to see whether any help was near to him in case that the need for it should arise. I have no doubt but that Tom’s face was white, his eyes bloodshot, and that he looked wicked and dangerous as he stood in the pathway in front of the other. For a while Isaac stood with bent head and with hands that trembled a little clasped in front of him. But presently he raised his face and looked calmly into Tom’s eyes.
“I heard in town that thee had come back, Thomas,” said he, “and I was both glad and sorry to hear it. I was glad that the Good Father had spared thy life and sorry that thee had come back just now. I see where thee’s been and I know what thee’s heard. I’m sorry—very sorry.”
Tom steadied himself for a moment before he spoke. When he replied, it was in a heavy, monotonous voice: “Yes; I’ve been to see Patty and she’s told me all. I do believe it’ll break her heart. Poor girl! poor girl!” Then he stopped for a moment. Hitherto he had spoken in a low, dull voice; but as he thought of Patty’s grief, hisself-restraint gave way and he burst out passionately, “She’s mine, Isaac Naylor—she’s mine! She loves me and no other man in all the world! By the eternal, neither thee nor any other man shall take her from me! I’ll let no man take her from me; I don’t care who he may be!”
He waved his hands about furiously as he spoke, clapping his palms together and pouring the words out upon one another in a torrent. Isaac Naylor must have had some fear that Tom would do him a harm in his passion, for he stepped a pace back. “Come, come, Thomas!” said he, soothingly; “don’t be violent; I’ve done thee no harm—at least, I’ve done thee no witting harm. Every one said that thee was dead; even thy own people said so. Go thy ways, Thomas, and let me go mine in peace. Come; let me past!”
“No, by G-d! Thee’ll not go a step from this till I let thee. Thee shan’t see Patty this day! She’s mine and no other man shall have her for his wife! Will thee give her up to me, Isaac Naylor? Will thee give her up? Will thee give her up, I say?”
Every time he repeated this he came a step forward and Isaac moved a step back. Tom was more than half crazy with his fury and the Friend seemed very anxious and looked back at the road.
“Thomas! Thomas!” said he, “don’t be violent; be reasonable; how could I make thee any such promise as that? Let me past, I must see Patty; there’s reason why I must see her now.”
“Will thee give my darling back to me again?”
“I tell thee, Thomas, it can’t be done. I cannot do it!”
“Thee won’t do it?” Tom stepped forward as he spoke, waving his fist threateningly, and again Isaac stepped backward before him, until he stood against the fence at the roadside, and could go no farther; his face was very white now, and he was in deadly terror. “Let me go, Thomas,” said he, in a trembling voice; “let me go—I’ll not go to Patty; I’ll go back home again.” As he spoke he made a movement to turn, as though to escape.
Tom’s head was in a mad whirl; there was a ringing in his ears, and bright sparks danced and swam before his eyes. “By the eternal! thee’ll never leave this place, Isaac Naylor,” cried he, in a terrible voice.
Then Isaac gave a shrill cry—“Help! Help!” As the words left his lips, Tom leaped upon him, and grappled with him. He struggled furiously, and Tom heard him give another sharp and terrible cry. Tom twisted his fingers into the Friend’s neckerchief, and, after that he made no other noise but a half-choked, strangling gurgle. Tom dragged him backward, and flung him down upon his knees. There was a rough-knotted stake lying by him; it was a part of a fence rail. He picked it up and raised it to strike.
I thank the Lord that his reason came back to him when it did. Another moment, and he would have been beating the life out of the poor terrifiedwretch at his knee. But suddenly, as though a cloud passed from before his eyes, he saw the white horror-struck face, the parted lips, and the staring eyes that were glaring up at him. Then he gave a cry so sharp that it rang in his own ears, and flinging down the stake, loosened his hold on Isaac.
He stood for a moment staring at the Friend, who staggered to his feet, and then sank down on a great rock that lay near to them, swaying this way and that, as though he were about to faint. Then Tom turned and ran.
The next minute he was out in the highroad.
Beside the bridge was a shallow pool, through which folks drove their teams in the summer time, and where they often stopped to water their horses. There was a black horse standing in the shallow now, and a man was sitting upon its back. Tom looked up as he ran out into the road, and saw that it was Mr. Moor.
Mr. Moor’s eyes were fixed upon his own with a very singular look, and it struck Tom how white his face was. But all this he saw only in one quick glance, for he turned the corner of the road, and ran toward home without stopping. There was a long and steep hill in front of him, and before he reached the top he fell into a walk, for he was panting and laboring for breath. After a while he reached the crest of the hill, and before him lay a level stretch of road; some distance along it he could see the tall cedars that stood around the old homestead farm-house. At last he came to wherethe long lane ran winding down from the house amongst the maple and ailanthus trees, and opened on the turnpike road through a gate that always stood open. Then Tom broke into a run again; up the lane he went, and so came at last to the paved porch at the back of the house, noticing as he passed, that Will Gaines’ horse and gig were standing beside the horse block across the road. Then he burst into the house, and into the best room.
All of the shutters were bowed but one, which was half opened, giving a faint light into the darkened room. Tom’s father and mother, his sister Susan, and his two elder brothers and Will Gaines were all there. His mother was sitting in a rocking chair, the tears running down her pale face, and Susan was fanning her with a palm-leaf fan. Will Gaines had told them of his coming, and Tom afterward found that his mother had fainted, and had only just recovered from her swoon.
“Mother!” cried he, and he ran to her and flung himself on his knees in front of her, burying his face in her lap, while great sobs shook him through and through.
No one spoke for a long time, but Tom felt his mother’s soft touch smoothing his hair. I think that they were all weeping at that time. I know that Susan was crying on the corner of the sofa, where she had flung herself, burying her face in the cushion. It was Will Gaines who spoke first.
“I guess I’ll go now,” said he, in a broken voice;and Tom presently heard him shutting the door softly behind him.
Then another space of dead silence followed, broken only by Susan’s catching breath. At last Tom’s mother spoke.
“Where has thee been, Thomas?” said she.
“I’ve been to see Patty, mother.”
“Oh, Tom! Tom!” cried Susan; and Tom could feel his mother’s hand trembling as it rested upon his head. Presently she spoke in an unsteady voice:
“Leave us for a little while, father; it’ll be best—just for a little while.”
Then the others went out, and they were left alone. Tom told all about his meeting with Patty, in broken and disconnected words. Every now and then he would stop, for there were times when the words that he sought to say would not come. He felt that his mother was crying, though she was crying silently. It was good for him to tell all of his troubles, for there are times when our sorrows gather upon us like great waters, that will overwhelm the soul if they do not find an outlet in speech.
Tom’s mother knew of the comfort that words bring with them, so she let him talk on, without saying anything herself. When he had ended, she spoke gentle and loving words to him, though she could give him no hope.
“I wish that I’d not seen Patty,” said Tom; “I wish that I’d come straight home as Will told me to do. Why didn’t he tell me of all this?”
“I suppose that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.”
“I wish I’d not seen her,” said Tom, again.
“It’s too late for wishing now,” said his mother.
Nothing more was said between them, and both knew that the marriage must be gone through with now. The time had been fixed for the wedding. It was for eleven o’clock the next morning. The friends had all been asked, the new house was furnished, the linen provided, and even Patty’s dresses made. It could not be stopped without great scandal to all concerned. If only he had not come back again. Then Patty would have been married quietly to a man whom she could respect, if not love, and her life would not have been without contentment. But now that she had seen him, what contentment could she have, loving him and marrying another man?
At last they quitted the room together; but the first bitterness had passed and gone. The first one whom he met was Susan. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, the tears brimming in her eyes as she did so.
“Dear, dear Tom,” said she, and Tom knew from the tone of her voice that she was thinking of Patty, though her name had not been spoken betwixt them.
“Don’t, Susan,” said he, huskily, for his heart was still very sore.
Then his father came and shook hands with him, as did William also, and presently John came overfrom the barnyard and joined them. This was all of the family that were at home, for Henry was in a store in Lancaster and Mary was visiting friends in Chester.
Friends, of the old times especially, were a restrained, self-repressed people, giving but little freedom to the flow of natural feeling. Tom’s father and his brothers had been moved—deeply moved; but now, when they came forward to shake him by the hand, excepting for the closeness of the grip that they gave him and the firmness of the pressure of palm to palm, no one would have thought that he had returned to them as the dead might return from the grave. It was, so far as any outward forms were concerned, as though he had but just come home after a two weeks’ absence.
After a few hesitating words of welcome, the men folks sat down and Tom began telling of those things that had befallen him in the year and a half past. He spun his yarn pretty steadily, though every now and then he would stop in his speech, for as he told of the finding of the money on the island, his words brought before him all of those hopes that had borne him up through the toil; then a rush of feeling would sweep over him as he thought how all this had been taken out of his life, and he would stop in his talking to steady himself. He said nothing of this to the others, but I think that they all felt the sorrow that was lying at the bottom of his heart. Then they sat down to supper.
Tom’s father tried to turn the talk more cheerfully.
“We haven’t told thee the great news, Thomas,” said he.
“What is it?” said Tom.
“Thee sees, thy coming upset us all, so that we didn’t think of it. Thee tell him, Susan.”
Susan looked down, and the color rose in her face.
“What is the news?” said Tom, again.
“Well,” said his father, “as Susan don’t seem inclined to tell thee, I suppose I must do it myself. How would thee like Will Gaines for a brother?”
Tom did not speak for a moment, then he said, a little unsteadily; “I—I wish thee joy, Susan; thee’s chosen a good man for thy husband, and I believe he’ll make thee happy.”
Then they were silent for a while.
“When is thee going to be married?” said Tom again, at last.
“The time’s not fixed yet; some time in the eleventh month, I guess.”
After a while Tom’s father spoke.
“What’s thee going to do now, Thomas?” said he.
“I don’t know exactly,” said Tom, huskily; “I’m going to Philadelphia again on the first stage to-morrow.”
His mother looked earnestly at him, and the tears rose in her eyes, and rolled slowly down her cheeks; then she pushed back her chair, and left the table hurriedly.
Presently they all arose and went into the sitting-room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, for, though the days were warm, the evenings were cool and frosty. The four men sat down around the fire, smoking and talking together in a rambling fashion. Their words were constrained, for each felt upon his mind the parting that was to come to-morrow.
So the time passed until the old clock in the corner struck nine. Then Tom’s father arose in the way that Tom knew so well, and lit his candle with one of the paper lamplighters on the mantle shelf. Before he left the room he came to Tom and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Thy burthen’s heavy, Thomas,” said he; “bear it like a man.”
“I’ll try,” said Tom.
“I wish that we could have thee longer with us, but thee’s doing right to go; thee mustn’t stay in the neighborhood just now.” He stood for a moment as though he were about to say something more; he did not speak again, however, but presently turned and left the room.
Such was Tom’s home-coming after a year and a half of shipwreck and misery. How had he looked forward to that home-coming, and how had it, like dead sea fruit, turned to bitterness in the mouth! Truly, it is kind in the good Father that he has given us to look into the past, and not forward into that which is to come. What hope would there be left in the world, if we could know the sorrows that were to come upon us in time?
IT oftentimes comes in this world that cares and troubles fall upon one, not in one deadly blow, but in stroke after stroke, as though to bear the man to the earth with their constant beating. Surely men’s souls are of tough fibre that they can so bend beneath such blows, beaten down only to rise again, bruised, wounded, but living. There is within a man a courage bred of hope that lives even in the darkest moments; a courage that lifts him up again out of the dust and supports him along his way, lame and sore, perhaps, but not broken down utterly.
So it was with Tom. Bitter troubles had come upon him during the past year and a half, and the bitterest and darkest of all had fallen upon him the day before. Still more were to come, and yet he has lived through these and others until his life has covered a span of nigh four score and ten, and at the end of them all he can still say that life is a pleasant thing.
Tom was up at the peep of day, for there were some things that he wished to take with him, and the packing of them must be done before breakfasttime. He was to leave on the Enterprise stage, which passed the house about eight o’clock.
Little was said amongst the members of the family during breakfast time, and only a few words were spoken about his going. Half-past seven came and then Tom stood up and kissed his mother and Susan. Susan clung to him weeping; his mother’s eyes were full of tears, but they did not flow over.
“The Lord bless thee, my son!” said she, with trembling lips. These were all the words that she spoke.
“Come, Thomas,” said his father at last; “the stage’ll soon be along, and thee’ll miss it if thee don’t look out. I’ll walk down to the road with thee.”
“Farewell, William,” said Tom, shaking hands with his brother.
“Farewell, Thomas.”
“John—”
“I guess I’ll walk down to the road with thee, Thomas. Let me carry thy bundle,” said John.
“Never mind; it’s very light,” said Tom.
They were silent as they went down the lane, and silent for a while as they stood at the roadside waiting for the stage; each was occupied with his own thoughts. At last John broke through the painful silence. “The stage is mighty late this morning,” said he, in a constrained voice.
“Thee’ll write to us, won’t thee, Thomas?” said his father, looking away as he spoke.
“Yes,” said Tom.
“Yonder’s the stage coming down Wilkes’ Hill,” said John.
But it was destined that Tom was not to go to Philadelphia that day on theEnterprisestage, or for some time to come.
“Who’s that coming up the road yonder,” said John.
“It looks like William Gaines,” said Tom’s father.
“ItisWill Gaines,” said Tom.
So Will came galloping up to them, and then all three men saw from his face that he was the bearer of strange news. He leaped from his horse without a word of greeting, or without seeming to wonder why the three were standing there. His mind was too preoccupied to give attention to anything but his thoughts.
“Have you heard what’s happened?” said he.
“No.”
“What?”
Will hesitated for a moment and then said, in a solemn voice: “Isaac Naylor has been murdered!”
There was a space of dead silence.
“Isaac Naylor murdered!” said Tom’s father under his breath. Will nodded his head; he was looking straight at Tom; his face was very pale and there was a troubled, anxious look in his eyes.
“Murdered!” repeated John, mechanically, “where, when, how?”
“Ephraim Whiteley and his colored man found him at five o’clock this morning; his scull was beaten in with a piece of fence-rail!”
“My God!” cried Tom. He put his hand to his forehead, for horrible thoughts were passing through his mind. Could he—could he have killed Isaac? Was it a creation of his fancy that had left him sitting upon the rock, half strangled, but otherwise unhurt?
“Where did they find him?” said John, in a low voice.
“On the old mill road, about three hundred yards from the turnpike.”
Tom looked slowly about him; was he dreaming? Did he really hear the words that Will spoke?
The Philadelphia coach had come up to them, but no one had noticed its coming. They must have showed by their faces that something strange had happened, for the coach stopped when it came to where they were standing.
“What’s the matter?” cried old John Grundy, from the box.
“Isaac Naylor’s been murdered,” said John, in a low voice.
“My Lord! Isaac Naylor murdered!” Then, after a moment’s pause—“Where?—How?—When?” A half a dozen heads were thrust out of the coach windows by this time—they all listened in silence while John repeated that which Will had just told them. The coach went on down the road, but it did not take Tom with it.
Then Will turned to Tom—“Tom, I want to speak to you for a minute,” said he.
Tom stepped aside with him, without answering.
Will was holding his horse by the reins; he did not speak for a moment or two, but stood as though thinking what to say.
“Tom, have you seen Isaac Naylor since you’ve come back?” said he, at last.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Tom hesitated before he spoke.
“Where?” said Will, again.
“At—at the place where they found him this morning,” said Tom. He looked straight at Will as he spoke, but Will turned his eyes away.
“Tom,” said he, “there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
“Mine!”
“Yes; yours, Tom. I expect the constable’s on his way from Eastcaster now. Anyway, there’s no time to lose. Here’s a horse ready for you; jump on her and leave the country!”
“Will.”
“Well; what is it?”
“Do you believe that I killed Isaac Naylor?”
Will did not answer, but stood looking fixedly on the ground.
“Never mind; I don’t ask you to answer me, Will. I’ll tell you, however, that I did not do it. I’ll stay and face the music.”
Then Tom turned and called his father and John. “Father—John—did you hear what Will said?”
“No.”
“He said that there’s a warrant out against me for this thing.”
“A warrant out against thee?”
“Yes.”
“But thee hasn’t seen Isaac Naylor since thee came home, Thomas,” said his father.
“Yes, I did, father.”
“Where?”
“At the very place where he was murdered.”
Then he told all that had passed between him and Isaac Naylor, and of how near he had come to doing that of which he was accused. His father listened without a word, looking deeply and fixedly into Tom’s eyes the while. John was looking intently at him, too. Will was standing, turned half away. When Tom had ended, his father spoke to him in a low voice:
“Thomas.”
“Well?”
“Is—is that all? Has thee told us all?”
“Yes, father.”
“Why didn’t thee speak of it before?”
“I couldn’t bear to do it. I was afraid to tell how I had treated him—an overseer in the meeting.”
Tom’s heart crumbled within him at the silence that followed his words.
“Father,” he said, “so help me God, my hands are clean of this thing. Does thee suppose I’d have come home if I’d done it?”
“Wait a minute, Thomas; I’m thinking,” said his father. He stood picking at his finger-tips, andlooking earnestly at them. At last he raised his head. “I don’t believe that thee did do it, Thomas. I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I!” burst out John. “My brother couldn’t do a thing like that. My mother’s son couldn’t kill a man. I don’t believe it, and I can’t believe it!”
The tears sprang into Tom’s eyes at these words. He looked at Will, but Will’s head was still turned away. “Here comes the constable,” said he, at last, in a low voice.
A horse and gig had come up from behind Stony-Brook Hill. When it reached the level road between them and the crest of the rise the nag broke into a trot.
“Yes, that’s Johnson’s team,” said John, and then he turned his head away.
They all stood silently until at last the gig came up to where they were. The constable and his deputy were both in it. The constable drew up the horse, and threw the reins to the deputy. Then he stepped out and came over to where the others were standing, drawing a paper out of his breast-pocket as he did so. He had not said a word up to this time.
“I know what you’re coming for,” said Tom; “I’m ready to go with you, Johnson.”
“The Lord knows—I’d rather lose a hundred dollars, than have to do this,” said the constable.
“I believe you would,” said Tom.
“Can thee wait a little while, Eben?” said Tom’sfather; “I’d like to drive over to Squire Morrow’s along with you. I’ll slip up to the house and gear Nelly to the wagon; it won’t take me a minute.”
The constable drew a watch out of his fob, and looked at it. “I guess I can wait a little bit, Mr. Granger,” said he; “the witnesses weren’t all at the squire’s when I left. You’ll have to step into the gig though, Tom, and I’ll—I’ll have to put cuffs on you.”
“Will you have to do that?”
“I’m afraid I will;”—he drew the hand-cuffs out of his pocket as he spoke; there was a sharp “click! click!” and Tom felt the cold iron circling his wrists.
His father groaned, and when Tom looked at him, he saw that his face was as white as wax. He turned, and he and John walked slowly up the lane toward the house.
Then Tom stepped to the gig, and climbed in beside the deputy constable. Johnson went to the roadside, and sat down on the bank. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands hanging clasped together between them. Will stood leaning against the pailing fence, and nothing was said, excepting once when the constable spoke to his deputy.
“Better turn the hoss, Jos; you won’t have to do it then when Mr. Granger and John come back.”
After a while they saw John drive the farm-wagon over from the stable to the house. William was sitting beside him and presently Tom’s father cameout of the house and climbed slowly into it. Then they drove down the road to where the others were waiting.
“Father, how did mother take the news?” said Tom.
“Very well! Very well! Better than I expected,” said his father, briefly; then he turned to Will: “Thee’d better go up to the house, William; I’d like thee to stay with mother and Susan while we’re gone.”
Will mounted his horse without a word, and, turning into the lane, galloped up to the house beneath the shadows of the trees.
“Are you all ready?” said the constable, standing with one foot on the step of the gig.
“All ready.”
Then he climbed in and they all drove away toward Eastcaster.
AS the gig rattled down the hill and past the end of Penrose’s road, Tom leaned forward and looked up toward the spot where he had met Isaac Naylor the day before. A knot of people had gathered about the place where the body had been found, collected there by the morbid curiosity that stirs men at such a time; they were talking earnestly together, some sitting on the fence, some leaning against it.
At last they reached the level road that led into Eastcaster, and the nag broke into a trot. The houses were clustered more thickly together around the outskirts of the town. Of course, the news had spread everywhere, and knots of people were gathered here and there talking the matter over. As the gig with the three men in it rattled along the stony street, the talk would be hushed in these groups, and the people would turn and gaze at the constables and their prisoner. Tom had not realized all that he would have to pass through till now; he had not known what it would be to have his neighbors and old acquaintances staring at him with that look of mixed curiosity and horror. Heshrunk together in the gig back of the constables, striving to hide himself behind them. Johnson must have known how he felt, for he laid the whip to the horse and drove on as fast as possible.
At last they reached Squire Morrow’s office, at the corner of Market and Andover streets. It was a small, dark two-storied building, with an old-fashioned hipped roof;—it has since been torn down to make way for Prettyman’s new store. A great crowd had gathered around the corner about the squire’s office, and they could see through the windows that the room was packed with the people inside. The gig drew up to the sidewalk and the constable stepped down out of it.
“You’ll have to get down, now, Tom,” whispered Jos Giddings, the deputy, in Tom’s ear. Then Tom stepped out and the deputy followed him. The constable had a great deal of trouble in pushing his way through the people, for they crowded up very closely to get a look at Tom. He walked with his eyes fixed straight ahead of him; he saw nothing but the crown of the constable’s hat, but he knew, as well as though he had looked about him, that a mass of faces were gazing at him with eager and intense curiosity. He also knew that his father and his brothers, John and William, had gotten out of the farm wagon and were following close behind him.
“Stand out of the way there!” said the constable, in a loud voice, as he pushed into the office, and then Tom found himself standing beside a railing thatseparated the squire’s desk from the mass of people packed into the body of the office. The light came through a little window in the end of the room, so that Tom could see things only duskily after coming in from the dazzling glare of the sunlight outside. Mr. Morrow was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, with a very troubled look in his eyes. He was playing absently with a pen that lay on the table in front of him.
“Won’t the prisoner sit down, constable?” said he; “he looks pretty badly.”
“I don’t care to sit down,” said Tom, “I’d rather stand.” He was resting with his handcuffed hands on the railing in front of him; after a while he collected his courage, and then he looked slowly around him.
A number of people were sitting inside of the railing; the first one that he saw was Patty Penrose, and on her his eyes lingered long and painfully. She was very white, and dark rings encircled her eyes. She sat with her handkerchief in her hand, and she wiped the slow tears from her cheeks with it every now and then. Her father sat beside her, looking very hard and stern. He did not glance at Tom until later in the examination that followed. Just behind Elihu Penrose sat Mr. Moor. He, too, was very pale, and every now and then he wiped his face with a bandana handkerchief. Beside these three were Ephraim Whiteley and his colored man, Mrs. Bond, the landlady of theCrown and Angel, and Dr. Winterapple.
Then Tom looked up and saw that his father and his two brothers stood beside him.
The first witness called was Ephraim Whiteley. He was tall, ungainly, round shouldered and loose jointed. He was an elderly man; a very plain Friend, and, like Isaac Naylor, was one of the overseers of the meeting.
Of course, he affirmed, for Friends are not allowed, by the Society, to take oath as to the truth of evidence. He testified that he and his colored man “Jim” were going to Downeyville with a load of potatoes. They had started early in the morning—about five o’clock, he should think. Had found deceased lying in front of the “big stone” beside the roadside, about two or three hundred yards from the turnpike. Had thought that it was some one who had been drinking—remembers that Jim said something to that effect. Had not thought differently from this, until he had come close to where deceased was lying. He noticed then a dark stain on the collar, and also deceased’s plain coat—he knew that something was wrong. He stopped the wagon, and he and Jim went over to where the body was lying. Found a heavy knotted piece of wood lying close to the deceased, and noticed that there was blood upon it. He had turned deceased over; did not know who it was until he heard Jim say, “Good Lord! it’s Mr. Naylor!” He and Jim lifted the body into the wagon, and drove over to Elijah Hunt’s, thinking it best to take it to deceased’s cousin.Had summoned the coroner at Elijah Hunt’s request.
The next witness called was James Madison Trusty (colored).
He was in Mr. Whiteley’s employ. He had gone with Mr. Whiteley to take a load of potatoes to Downeyville. He had called Mr. Whiteley’s attention to the body of the deceased. It was lying on it’s face in the grass, close to the “big stone.” He had thought at first that it was some one drunk. He had said to Mr. Whiteley that “there was a happy man,” or, “that man ought to be happy,” or some such speech—could not remember the exact words. He did not think much about it till Mr. Whiteley stopped the cart and jumped out. Mr. Whiteley had turned the body over, and he had recognized the face as that of Mr. Naylor—called Mr. Whiteley’s attention to the same. Mr. Whiteley called on him to lift deceased into the cart. He was very sick, and it was some time before he could bring himself to touch the body.
(Doctor) Justin S. Winterapple was the next witness called.
He had made the post-mortem examination before the coroner’s jury. There was the mark of only one contusion—it was at the base of the cranium, immediately behind and under the right ear. The bone was fractured as though with some heavy weapon. It might have been done with the club or knotted piece of wood found lying beside the deceased—thought altogether likely that it wasdone by it. He did not think that the deceased died immediately upon receiving the blow.
All this was terrible to Tom; so terrible that he grasped the railing in front of him, until his finger nails were livid with the force of the grip. But what must it have been to Patty? Tom looked at her, and the expression of her face made him forget his own troubles. “Oh, God!” muttered he to himself, “that I should have come home to bring all this upon her!”
The next witness called was Mrs. Bond.
She testified that the prisoner had come by theUnionline, in stage No. 3, the day before. He and Mr. Gaines had met, and had gone into the parlor; they had talked there a long time, and at last the prisoner had come out, and had gone up Market street in the direction of his home. She had not known the prisoner until Mr. Gaines had told her. She remembered to have remarked how changed he was, and that she would never have known him with his long beard and his grey hair.
Mr. Morrow looked vexed. “Why hasn’t Mr. Gaines been called?” said he; “how is it he hasn’t been called? Where is he now?”
“He’s out at Mr. Milton Granger’s,” said the constable.
The magistrate “pished” and “pshawed,” but at last he said that they might as well go on with the examination of the other witnesses, and that they could send for Mr. Gaines if his evidence should be found to be necessary.
The next witness called was Edmund R. Moor. The Bible was passed to him to swear upon, but he pushed it hurriedly away from him and said that he would affirm, and not swear to the truth of his statement. Mr. Morrow seemed somewhat surprised, but he said nothing, and took Mr. Moor’s affirmation as he desired. He then testified that he had been with Isaac Naylor the afternoon before, at about four o’clock. The deceased had come to consult him upon a matter of business concerning some money that he, the witness, had invested for the other. He had left him, saying that he was going down to White’s store for his letters. He had seen deceased about half an hour later, walking up Market Street. He, the witness, had been feeling ill all day, and had quitted his office to step around to the stable for his horse, thinking a ride might be of benefit to him. He had seen deceased turn into Penrose’s road, and remembered to have heard him say, a little while before, that he was going to see Elihu Penrose’s daughter, whom he was engaged to marry.
Tom looked at Patty as Mr. Moor said these words, and saw her hide her face with her trembling hands. He groaned when he saw the agony that it caused her.
The witness then went on to say that he had thought no more of it, but was watering his horse at the shallow, when he saw the prisoner run out of the road and turn up the turnpike, in the direction of Granger’s farmhouse.
The magistrate asked Mr. Moor several questions, in answer to which he said that he had not known the prisoner, because of the beard and the whiteness of his hair; he did not think of its being Mr. Thomas Granger. He also said that he had gone on up the turnpike after he had watered his horse; that he had not thought of anything having happened to Isaac Naylor, and that he did not hear any cry or call for help, to make him think that anything had gone wrong.
Mr. Moor was so white that the magistrate asked him if he was ill.
“I do feel sick,” said he. “I haven’t felt well since yesterday morning. Maybe it’s the closeness of the room that makes me feel sick now.”
He wiped his face with his bandana handkerchief as he spoke, for it was wet with the sweat that ran trickling down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry you feel so sick, Mr. Moor,” said the magistrate.
“If you have no more use for me, I’d like to go,” said Mr. Moor.
Mr. Morrow said that he might leave now, if he wished, so he worked his way through the crowd in the office, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and so went into the street.
The next witness called was Patty Penrose, and she stood up, resting her hand on the top of her chair as she did so. There was not a particle of color in her face as she stood before the magistrate. A strand of hair had fallen across her brow, but shedid not brush it back, or seem to notice it. Tom’s heart bled for her as he stood looking at her.
“Will you swear or affirm?” said the magistrate.
“I affirm,” she answered, in a low voice. Then she repeated after him the words of affirmation: “I do most solemnly affirm—that what I tell—is the truth—the whole truth—and nothing but the truth.”
“When did you see the prisoner last?”
“Yesterday.”
“At what time was it?”
“In the afternoon.”
“But what time was it—at what time in the afternoon was it that you saw him?”
She did not answer immediately, and Tom, as he looked at her, saw that she was swaying, as though she was about to fall.
“Perhaps the witness had better sit down while she gives her evidence,” said Mr. Morrow.
Patty did not seem to understand him, and her father spoke to her in a low voice. Then she sat down mechanically, as though she did not know what she was doing.
“Take courage, Patty!” burst out Tom. “God knows I am innocent of this! God knows I am!”
“The prisoner must be silent!” said the magistrate, rapping on the desk before him with his knuckles. Then, speaking to Patty again: “At what hour in the afternoon was it that you saw him?”
Patty looked up and her eyes met Tom’s. He tried to smile. “Speak out, Patty, and tell everything,” said he.
“About five o’clock,” said she, faintly.
“What was said between you?” said the magistrate.
There was a pause of dead silence, every one listening to catch the answer. At last the magistrate, after waiting a while for her to speak, repeated:
“Can you tell me what was said between you?”
There was another pause, and still Patty made no answer. Suddenly she burst forth: “Oh, I can’t!—I can’t!—I can’t!” She covered her face with her hands as she spoke, rocking her body back and forth, while convulsive sobs shook her through and through.
I think that few eyes were dry in the magistrate’s office. Tom stood looking at his darling with trembling lips, the tears trickling unnoticed down his cheeks. Old Elihu Penrose sat gazing stonily ahead of him, his hands clasped tightly together upon his lap.
Nothing was said for some time, and Mr. Morrow sat wiping his spectacles. After a while he spoke in a gentle and soothing manner: “You must answer me—you must, indeed. It is sad, very sad. I wouldn’t ask you these things if I didn’t have to. But you must answer me. Can’t you tell me what was said between you when you saw him last?”
“I—I—I told-him—that I was to—to be married—to-day.”
There was a moment of hesitation before the magistrate asked the next question. Then it came;
“Was there a promise of marriage between you and the prisoner before he left Eastcaster a year and a half ago?”
Again there was no answer given to Mr. Morrow’s question, and, after a little pause, the magistrate repeated it.
Still Patty said nothing; her face sank lower, lower, lower upon her breast and her hands slid helplessly to her lap; then she swayed slowly from one side to the other. Tom was looking intently at her, and suddenly he gave a sharp and bitter cry:—
“Catch her; she’s falling! My God, you’ve killed her!”
As he spoke she sank forward, and would have fallen if her father had not caught her in his arms and so saved her. Then he looked at Tom for the first time since he had come into the magistrate’s office.
“If she’s killed, it’s thy doings, Thomas Granger,” said he, in a low, constrained voice. He stood grimly holding her, but all around him was confusion and tumult. Mr. Morrow pushed his chair back hastily and arose and Dr. Winterapple ran to her.
“Let her lie on the floor!” he cried, “she’s fainted! Some water, quick!”
Her father laid her down upon the floor and Dr. Winterapple, snatching up a pitcher of water that sat upon the table, began sprinkling her face and bathing her temples. Mrs. Bond kneeled beside her, chafing and slapping her hands.
Elihu Penrose sat down in his chair again, staring at Patty with the same expressionless look that he had worn all along. After a while her bosom rose with a deep, convulsive sigh and she partially unclosed her eyes, moving her head from side to side. They lifted her up and sat her in a chair, and Mrs. Bond fanned her. Then Tom turned to the magistrate.
“Mr. Morrow,” said he, “for the love of heaven, don’t torture her any more; I’ll tell everything!”
“Take care,” said Mr. Morrow, warningly; “I tell you plainly that what you say will be taken in evidence against you. Your case is dark enough—don’t make it any blacker.”
“I don’t care how black the case is against me! I’d rather have anything happen to me than have you make that poor girl convict me out of her own mouth! I’ve kept my lips shut too long already.”
“I have only to say, take care what you say!” said the magistrate again.
“I’ll take care! You asked her if there was any promise of marriage between us before I sailed away on this last cruise. There was a promise of marriage! I’ll tell you farther—”
“I’ll have to commit you from your own lips, if there’s more such evidence to come.”
“I don’t care!” said Tom, in a ringing voice, “I’ll tell you that I was half crazy after I left her, for I didn’t know that she was going to be married till she told me herself. I met Isaac Naylor at the very place where he was killed, and I did useviolence to him; but I neither struck him nor killed him.”
“That’ll do,” said Mr. Morrow, “I’ll have to commit you for trial. I’d have had to commit you, anyhow, even if you hadn’t spoken a word, for there was evidence enough for it. I’m sorry for you; very sorry.”
He dipped his pen in the ink as he spoke, and began writing.
Tom’s father laid his horny palm on Tom’s hand as he stood clutching the railing in front of him. “Thee’s done right to speak, even if it weighs against thee, Thomas,” said he. The tears arose in Tom’s eyes at his father’s words. All the time he had been speaking, he was looking at Patty. She was leaning back in her chair with her lips apart, and her eyes just showing through the half-closed lids. He saw that she had heard nothing of what he had said, and he was glad of it.
The magistrate reached across the railing, and handed the commitment to the constable.
“Farewell, father,” said Tom, “thee believes that I’m innocent; don’t thee?”
“Yes; I do,” said his father, in a husky voice. Then he gave way to his feelings, as no one had ever seen him do before—he laid both hands on his son’s shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Farewell, John; farewell, William,” said he, reaching out his hands to his brothers.
“Farewell, Thomas,” said John, clapping himupon the shoulder, and trying to speak cheerfully; “thee’ll come out all right; I know thee will!”
“I hope so,” said Tom.
“You’ll have to come along, now,” said the constable. Then they went out again through the curious crowd, Johnson pushing a way through the people for himself and his prisoner. They stepped into the gig, and drove away to the gaol.