Kitabı oku: «Within the Capes», sayfa 10

“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?

CHAPTER XVI

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 breakfast time. 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 the Enterprise stage, 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.

“It is Will 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, and looking 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’s father; “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 came out 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.

CHAPTER XVII

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. He shrunk 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 that separated 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 the Crown 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 was done 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 the Union line, 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 she did 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 use violence 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 him upon 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.