Kitabı oku: «The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover», sayfa 6
Story 1-Chapter XVII.
Father and Daughter
“I’ve got good news for ye, gurl,” said Jerry Rook, sliding out of his saddle, and joining her in the porch. “Darnationed good news.”
“What news, father?”
“Thet the liquor hez at last done its work, an’ ole Planter Brandon air dead.”
“O father! surely you do not call it good news?”
“And shurly I do – the best o’ news. Alf air now full master o’ the place, an’ thar’s nothin’ to hinder you from bein’ full mistress o’t. I know he intend makin’, you a offer o’ marriage, an’ I’ve reezun to b’lieve it’ll be done this very day. Brandon war buried day before yesserday.”
“If he does, father, I shall refuse him.”
“Refuse him!” cried the quondam squatter, half starting out of the chair in which he had just seated himself. “Lena, gurl! hev ye tuk leave o’ yur senses? Air ye in airnest?”
“I am, father. I mean what I’ve said.”
“Mean, darnation! ye’re eyether mad, gurl, or else talkin’ like a chile. D’ye know what refusin’ means?”
“I have not thought of it.”
“But I hev, over an’ over agin. It means beggary – preehap sturvation, for myself as well as you.”
“I’d rather starve than marry Alf Brandon.”
“Ye woud, woud ye? Then ye may hev a chance o’t, sooner’n ye think for. Ye’ve got an idea yur ole dad’s well to do; an’ so think a good many other folks. Thar’s been a house built, an’ a clarin’ made; but neyther’s been paid for. Jerry Rook don’t know the day he may hev to up sticks, an’ go back agin to some durned old crib o’ a cabin.”
“Father! I was as happy in our old cabin as I’ve ever been in this fine house. Ay, far happier.”
“Yer war, war ye? But I warn’t – not by a long chalk; and I don’t want to squat in any o’ yer shanties agin – not if I kin keep out o’ ’em. Hyar’s a plan by which yur may be rich for the rest o’ yur life; an’ thur’d be no need for me starvin’ eyther. Alf Brandon kums in for a good plantation, wi’ three score niggers on it; an’ thur’s nothin’ to hinder yur from bein’ mistress o’ the hul lot.”
“I don’t wish it.”
“But I do; an’ I mean to hev it so. Don’t git it in yur head, good-lookin’ as yur may think yurself, thet the world air a stick o’ sugar-candy an’ ye’ve got nothin’ to do but suck it. I tell yur, gurl, I’ve drifted into difeequilties. I’ve had some rasources you know nothin’ beout; but I can’t tell the day the supplies may be stopt, an’ then we’ve got to go under. Now, d’ye unnerstan’ me?”
“Indeed, father, I know nothing of your affairs. How should I? But I am sure I should never be happy as the wife of Alfred Brandon.”
“An’ why? What hev yur get agin him? He’s a good-lookin’ feller – doggoned good-lookin’.”
“It has nothing to do with his looks.”
“What then? His karracktur, I s’pose?”
“You know it is not good.”
“Dum karracktur! What signify that? Ef all the young weemen in these parts war to wait till they got a husband o’ good karracktur, they’d stay a long spell single, I reck’n. Alf Brandon ain’t no worse nor other people; an’, what’s o’ far more konsequince, he air richer than most. Ye’d be a fool, gurl, a dod-rotted eedyit, not to jump at the chance. An’ don’t you get it into yur head that I’m gwine to let it slip. Willin’ or not, ye’ve got to be the wife o’ Alf Brandon. Refuse? an’ by the Eturnal, ye shall be no longer my darter? Ye hear that?”
“I hear you, father. It is very painful to hear you; and painful, too, for me to tell you, that your threat cannot change me. I’m sure I have been obedient to you in everything else. Why should you force me to this?”
“Wal,” said the hardened man, apparently relenting, “I acknowledge ye’ve been a good gurl; but why shed yur now speil all the chances o’ our gettin’ a good livin’ by yur obstinateness in bizness? I tell ye that my affairs air jest at this time a leetle preecarious. I owe Alf Brandon money – a good grist o’t – an’ now his father’s dead he may be on me for’t. Beside, you’re o’ full age, an’ oughter be spliced to somebody. Who’s better’n Alf Brandon?”
Had Jerry arrived a little sooner at his house, or approached it with greater caution, he might have received a more satisfactory answer to his question. As it was, he got none, his daughter remaining silent, as if not caring to venture a reply.
She had averted her eyes, displaying some slight embarrassment. Something of this the old man must have noticed, as evinced by the remark that followed: —
“Poor white, ye ain’t a gwine to marry wi’ my consent – I don’t care what be his karracktur; an’ ef ye’ve been makin’ a fool o’ yurself wi’ sich, an’ gin any promise, ye’ve got to get out o’ it best way ye kin.”
Neither was there any rejoinder to this; he sat for a time in silence, as if reflecting on the probability of some such complication.
He had never heard of his daughter having bestowed her heart on any one; and, indeed, she had gained some celebrity for having so long kept it to herself.
For all that, it might have been secretly surrendered; and this would, perhaps, account for her aversion to the man he most wished her to marry.
“I heerd a shot as I war coming along the road. It war the crack o’ a rifle, an’ sounded as ef ’twar somewhar near the house. Hez anybody been hyar?”
The question was but a corollary to the train of thought he had been pursuing.
Fortunately for the young girl, it admitted of an evasive answer, under the circumstances excusable.
“There has been no one at the house since you left. There was a shot though; I heard it myself.”
“Whar away?”
“I think down by the creek – maybe in the woods beyond the orchard.”
“Thar ain’t nothin’ in them woods, ’ceptin’ squrrl. Who’s been squrrl shootin’ this time o’ day?”
“Some boys, perhaps?”
“Boys! Hey! what’s that dog a draggin’ out from ’mong the peach trees? Snake, by the Eturnal! – a rattler too! The hound ain’t killed that varmint himself?”
The old hunter, yielding to curiosity, or some undeclared impulse, stepped down from the porch, and out to where the hound had come to a stop, and was standing by the body of the snake.
Driving the dog aside, he stooped over the dead reptile to examine it.
“Shot through the skull!” he muttered to himself; “an’ wi’ a rifle, o’ sixty to the pound. That ere’s been a hunter’s gun. Who ked it be? It’s been done this side of the crik, too; seems as the dog hain’t wetted a hair in fetchin’ o’t.”
Turning along the trail of the snake – which, to his experienced eye, was discernible in the grass – he followed it, till he came to the spot where the snake had been killed.
“Shot hyar for sartin. Yes; thar’s the score o’ the bullet arter it had passed through the varmint’s brainpan; an’ thar’s the shoe track o’ him as fired the shot. No boy that; but a full growed man! Who the durnation hez been trespassin’ ’mong my peach trees?”
He bent down over the track, and carefully scrutinised them. Then rising erect, he followed them to the bank of the creek, where he saw the same footprints, more conspicuously outlined in the mud.
“Stranger for sartin!” muttered he; “no sich futmark as that ’beout these settlements – not as I know on. Who the durnation kin it a-been?”
It was strange he should take so much trouble about a circumstance so slight; or show such anxiety to discover who had been the intruder. He was evidently uneasy about something of more importance to him than the trespass among his peach trees.
“That gurl must a heerd the shot plainer than she’s been tellin’ me o’, an’ seed more’n she’s confessed to. Thar’s somethin’ on her mind, I hain’t been able to make out any how. She shall be put thro’ a chapter o’ kattykism.”
“Lena, gurl!” he continued, going back towards the porch, still occupied by his daughter; “d’ye mean to say ye seed nobody beout hyar to-day?”
“I see some one now,” said she; by the rarest bit of good luck enabled to evade giving an answer to the question.
“See some un now! Whar?”
“There, a friend of yours, coming along the lane.”
“Alf Brandon!” exclaimed the old hunter, hurrying forth to receive the individual then announced; and who, astride a sleek horse, was seen riding leisurely in the direction of the house.
For Lena Rook it was an opportune arrival; and, for a time at least, she was spared that threatened “chapter o’ kattykism.”
Story 1-Chapter XVIII.
An Angry Admirer
For the first time in her life, Lena Rook saw Alfred Brandon approach her father’s house without a feeling of pain or repulsion.
Though for years he had been the most solicitous of her suitors, she felt for him something more than contempt.
Despite his position in society – far superior to her own – despite his fine clothes and speeches, she saw through the character of the man, and believed him to be both a pretender and poltroon.
She knew that he was cruel – a tyrant to all who had the misfortune to be under him, and a hard task-master to the black-skinned slaves that lived upon his father’s plantation.
Though dissipated, he was not generous; and, with all the plenty he possessed, he was accounted among his associates the closest of screws. He spent money, and enough of it, but only upon himself, and in the indulgence of his own sensual desires.
He had obtained the reputation of being one of the meanest fellows in the neighbourhood to which he belonged; and Lena Rook knew it.
She had never liked him as a boy; and her aversion was increased by her knowledge that, as a boy, he had been the bitter enemy of Pierre Robideau.
She did not think how much of this hostility was due to herself; for, from an early period, the son of the planter had been bitterly jealous of her playmate and companion.
But she remembered the scene in the glade; she believed that Alf Brandon had been the chief instigator; and she had, all along, suspected that Pierre’s absence was in some way due to what had that day transpired.
She was very pleased to see Brandon now, only because he had rescued her from a position that promised to become embarrassing. What answer could she have made to that question her father had asked?
The opportune arrival had relieved her from an agony of apprehension.
The planter – now that his father was dead, no longer the planter’s son – seemed a little surprised at the pleased look with which she received him. She was not accustomed to give him such gracious acceptance, and little dreamt he of its cause.
“No doubt,” reasoned he, with a feeling of self-gratulation, “she’s heard I’m now my own master, and won’t much object to my becoming her’s. A planter in his own right is a very different individual from a planter expectant; and Miss Lena Rook will have the sense to see it. I don’t think there will be much difficulty about this thing. She’s been only pretending with me in the past; now that she sees all’s ready, I guess she’ll not stand shilly-shallying any longer. So here goes for the proposals.”
This string of reflections were made after Alfred Brandon had entered the gate, and was making his way towards the porch, on which the young lady was still standing. They were finished as he set foot on the step.
There was no one to interfere with the conversation that came after. Jerry Rook, suspecting the purport of the planter’s visit, had stayed behind to hitch up his horse, and afterwards found excuse to stray off to the back of the house, leaving the two alone.
“I suppose you have heard of my affliction, Miss Rook?” said Brandon, after salutations had been exchanged.
“My father has been just telling me of it.”
“Ah! yes; my old dad’s dead and gone; buried him day before yesterday. Can’t be helped, you know. It’s the way of us all. We’ve all got to die.”
To this lugubrious declaration Lena Rook yielded ready assent.
There was a pause in the conversation. Notwithstanding his plentitude of power, tending to inspire him with sufficient assurance, the suitor felt ill at ease. It was not to be wondered at, considering the errand on which he had come.
Moreover, the pleasant look had forsaken Lena’s face, and he had begun to doubt of success.
She knew what he had come for, and was seriously reflecting upon the answer she should give him.
She, of course, intended it to be negative; but she remembered her father’s words, and was thinking in what way she might reject the disagreeable suitor, without stirring up his spite. She so well understood his nature as to know he would be contemptible enough to use it.
It was no thought of herself that dictated the affability with which she was entertaining him; though she could scarce conceal her disgust for the man before her, talking in such strains of a father so recently deceased.
She, too, had a father, who was not what he ought to be; and she knew it. But still he was her father.
After remaining for some time silent – not knowing what to say – Brandon at length summoned sufficient courage to stammer out his proposal. It was done with some fear and trembling.
He was more himself after he had received the refusal, which he did, in as delicate terms as the young lady could command.
But, delicacy was thrown away upon the spiteful planter, who, stung by the thought of being refused by the daughter of a poor white – he knew the secret of Jerry Rook’s altered circumstances – began upbraiding in terms of opprobrious wrath the woman from whose feet he had just arisen!
The young girl, thus grossly outraged, would have called to her father for protection, but again remembering his words, she remained silent under the infliction, not even making answer to her cowardly insulter.
“Somebody else, I suppose,” said the rejected gentleman, spitefully pronouncing the words. “Some poor ‘trash’ of your own sort has got a hold of you! By – !” the ruffian swore a frightful oath, “if it be so, when I find out who it is, and I don’t care who it is, I’ll make these settlements too hot to hold him! Lena Rook, you’ll rue this refusal!”
Not a word said Lena Rook in reply to this coarse invective. A disdainful curl upon her lip was all the answer she vouchsafed; which stayed there as she stood watching him along the walk, and until he had remounted his horse, and galloped off from the gate.
Her’s were not the only eyes bent upon the disappointed suitor. Jerry Rook, engaged among the pigs and poultry, saw him ride away; and from the spiteful spurring of his horse, and the reckless air with which he rode, the old hunter conjectured the sort of answer that had been given him.
“Durn the girl!” muttered he, as a black shadow swept across his wrinkled brow; “she’s played fool, an’ refused him! Looks as ef she’d sassed him! Never mind, Alf Brandon, I’ll make it all right for you. This chile ain’t a gwine to let that fine plantashin o’ your’s slip through his fingers – not ef he know it. You shall hev the gurl, and she you, ef I hev myself to drag her up to the haltar. So, then, my Lena, lass, when I’ve done here I’m a gwine to read you a lecture.”
If the abrupt departure of Brandon had brought anger into the eyes of Lena Rook, there was yet another pair watching it, that became suffused with joy.
They were the eyes of Pierre Robideau.
After parting from that sweetheart so long separated from him, the young man had recrossed the creek; and, as he had intended, kept on through the woods towards the stand where he had left his horse.
Before going far, the thought occurred to him that he might as well have a look at the quondam squatter, and see if he, too, was changed like everything else.
It was only to place himself in the ambush that had already proved so serviceable to his purposes, and stay there till Jerry should show himself!
Knowing that the porches of a backwood’s dwelling usually supplies the place of sitting-room, he did not anticipate any severe trial of patience.
It was not the gratification of mere curiosity that tempted him to return. He had other reasons that rendered him desirous to look upon his host of former days; at the same time that he was equally desirous not to let that host see him.
Nor was it exactly a desire that counselled him to this act; but a sort of involuntary impulse, such as the bird feels to approach the serpent that would destroy it.
Pierre Robideau had returned from California, better informed about the doings of Jerry Rook than he had been on going out there. It was the old hunter who had induced him to take that distant journey. He had counselled, almost compelled, him to it, by a false story that his father had gone there before him, and had entrusted Jerry to send him after in all haste. For this purpose, his former host had furnished the outfit and directions, and had even seen him some distance on his way.
As already stated the unsuspicious youth, before starting, knew nothing of what had occurred that night in the glade – not even that while he was himself hanging there, his father had been so near him!
The story of the lynching had been kept from him previous to his departure, Jerry Rook alone having access to him, and carefully guarding against all other approach.
It was only after his arrival in California, and failing to find his father at the appointed place, that he had heard of the tragedy on Caney Creek, and who had been its victim.
The tale had got among the gold diggers, brought out by some new arrivals from Little Rock.
Why Jerry Rook had been so anxious to get him away, Pierre Robideau could never tell, though he had some terrible suspicions about it – almost pointing out the old squatter as one of his father’s murderers.
It was this sort of curiosity that caused him to turn among the trees, and steal back to the concealment he had so recently forsaken. Perhaps, too, he may have wished once more to gratify his eyes by gazing on that loved form so unceremoniously hurried out of his sight.
Whether or not, he was soon in his old position, and gazing intently through the curtain of leaves.
So far as Jerry Rook was concerned, he obtained the satisfaction he had sought for. His quondam host was in front of the house, in conversation with his daughter, who stood in the porch above him.
Pierre had arrived at the moment when that question was put, so nearly concerning himself.
He did not hear it, but he noticed the embarrassed air of the young lady, and the quick change that came over her countenance as she adroitly evaded the answer.
From that moment Jerry Rook was no longer regarded. A third personage had appeared upon the scene, and the pleasing look with which Jerry Rook’s daughter appeared to receive him sent a pang through the heart of Pierre Robideau.
The exclamation had told him who the new comer was. But he did not heed that.
No time could efface from his memory the image of one who had so cruelly outraged him, and six years had produced but little change in Alf Brandon.
Pierre knew him on sight.
With heart beating wildly, he remained a silent witness of the scene that ensued.
At first it beat bitterly, as he marked and misinterpreted the complaisant look with which Lena regarded his rival.
Ere long came a delightful change, as he listened to the dialogue – plainly overheard where he stood – and, when he heard the final speech, and saw the discomfited lover stride off towards the gate, he could scarce restrain himself from a shout of joy.
He was fain to have sprung across the creek, and once more enfolded that fair form in his passionate embrace. But he saw that mischief might spring from such imprudence; and, turning from the spot, he walked silently away – his heart now swelling with triumph, now subsiding into sweet contentment.
Story 1-Chapter XIX.
A Conclave of Scoundrels
There was a time when “Slaughter’s Hotel” was the first and only house of its kind in the town of Helena. That was when Slaughter, senior, presided over its destinies. Now that he was no more, and his son walked rather slipshod in his shoes, it had sunk into a second-rate place of entertainment – an establishment more respectable, or, at all events, more pretentious, having swung out its sign.
In Slaughter’s hostelry bonâ fide travellers had become scarce. Still it was not without guests and patrons in plenty. There were enough “sportsmen” in the place, with adventurers of other kinds, to give the house a custom, and these principally patronised it. From a family hotel, it had changed into a drinking and gambling saloon, and in this respect was prosperous enough. It was the resort of all the dissipated young men of the neighbourhood – and the old ones too. It had public and private parlours, and one of the latter, the landlord’s own, was only accessible to the select of his acquaintances – his cronies of a special type.
On the evening of that day in which Alfred Brandon had received his dismissal from the daughter of Jerry Rook, this apartment was occupied by six persons, including the landlord himself. They were the same who had figured in the hanging frolic, of which young Robideau had been so near being the victim. On this account, it is not necessary to give their names nor any description of them, farther than to say that all six were as wild and wicked as ever, or, to speak with greater exactitude, wilder and more wicked.
It might seem strange that chance had brought these young men together without any other company, but the closed door, and the order for no one to be admitted, showed that their meeting was not by mere accident. Their conversation, already commenced, told that they had met by appointment, as also the purpose of their assembling.
It was Alfred Brandon who had summoned them to the secret conclave, and he who made the opening speech, declaring his object in having done so.
After “drinks all round,” Brandon had said: —
“Well, boys, I’ve sent for you to meet me here, and here we are, guests; you know why?”
“I guess we don’t,” bluntly responded Buck.
“Choc?” suggested Slaughter.
“Well, we know it’s about Choc,” assented the son of the horse dealer; “any fool might guess that. But what about him? Let’s hear what you’ve got to say, Alf.”
“Well, not much, after all. Only that I think it’s high time we took some steps to get rid of this infernal tax we’ve been paying.”
“Oh! you’re come to that, are you? I thought you would, sometime. But for you, Alf Brandon, we might have done somethin’ long ago. I’m out o’ pocket clear five hundred dols, and damn me if I intend to pay another cent, come what will or may.”
“Ditto with you, Bill Buck,” endorsed Slaughter.
Grubbs, Randall, and Spence were silent, though evidently inclined to the same way of thinking.
“I’ve sworn every year I’d stop it,” continued Buck, “an’ I’d have done so but for Alf there. It’s all very well for him. He’s rich, and can stand it. With some of the rest of us it’s dog-gone different.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Brandon. “My being rich had nothing to do with it. I was as anxious as any of you to get the load off my shoulders, only I could never see how it was to be done.”
“Do you see now?” asked Spence.
“Not very clearly, I confess.”
“It’s clear as mud to me – one way is – ” said Slaughter.
“And to me,” chimed in Buck. “What way? Tell us?” demanded the store-keeper. “I’m ready for most anything that’ll clear us of that tax.”
“You can get clear, then, by making a clear of the collector.”
The suggestion was Slaughter’s, the last part of it made in a significant whisper.
“Them’s just my sentiments,” said Buck, speaking louder and with more determination. “I’d have put ’em in practice before this, if Alf Brandon had showed the pluck to agree to it. Durned if I wouldn’t!”
“What!” said the young planter, affecting ignorance of the suggested scheme, “carry the collector off? Is that what you mean?”
“Oh! you’re very innocent, Alf Brandon, you are, my sucking dove!”
It was Slaughter who spoke.
“Yes,” said Buck, who answered to the interrogatory, “carry him off, and so far that there’ll be no danger o’ his coming back again. That’s what we mean. Have you got anything better to propose? If you have, let’s hear it. If not, what’s the use of all this palaverin’?”
“Well,” said Brandon, “I’ve been thinking we might carry something else off that might answer our purpose as well, and without getting us into any scrape worth talking about.”
“Carry what off? The girl – Rook’s daughter?”
“No, no; Brandon don’t mean that, and don’t need it. He is going to take her to church, and there’s no danger about his getting consent.”
It was Buck who made the remark, and with some bitterness, being himself one of Lena Rook’s unsuccessful admirers.
Brandon felt the sting all the more keenly from what had that day occurred. Moreover, he knew that Buck was upon the list of his rivals, and saw that the speech was meant for a slur.
The lurid light in his eye, and the pallor suddenly overspreading his lips, showed the depth of his chagrin. But he said nothing, fearful of defeating the scheme he had traced out for himself in relation to Lena Rook.
“Come, gentlemen,” said Randall, for the first time entering into the conversation, “this talk only wastes time, and the subject is too serious for that. Let us hear Brandon out. I’m as anxious as any of you to settle this unpleasant matter, and if there be any safe plan we can all agree about, the sooner it’s carried out the better. I needn’t remind you the time’s close at hand when the old Shylock will call for another pound of flesh. If any one can suggest a way to escape paying it, I think the most of us would be but too willing to stand the best champagne supper Jim Slaughter can get up for us, and a ‘jury’ into the bargain.”
“Certain we’ll all go snacks for that.”
“Speak out, Brandon!”
“The fact is,” said Brandon, thus appealed to, “we’ve been all a lot of fools to stand this thing so long. Supposing we have the old scoundrel, and dare him to do his worst, what evidence has he got against us only his own oath?”
“An’ the girl’s.”
“No; the girl saw nothing, at least, only what was circumstantial. She couldn’t swear to the deed; nor he neither, as far as that goes, though he makes pretence that he can. Suppose he does swear, what then? There are six of us – six oaths to one. I needn’t ask whether you are all willing?”
“No, you needn’t,” was the unanimous rejoinder.
“Good, so far. I think you all know that Jerry Rook’s oath wouldn’t go far about these parts, and if we stick together and deny the thing in toto, I’d like to know how a jury could give against us. We’ve been fools not to try it. I’d have proposed it long ago, only that, like some of the rest, I’ve been thin-skinned about it, and didn’t like to stir up stinking waters.”
“Yes,” cried Buck; “you’ve been thin-skinned ’bout it – no mistake o’ that. Your damned thin-skinnedness, as you call it, has cost me five hundred silver dollars.”
“Me the same,” said Slaughter.
“Well, for that matter, we all had to pay alike; and now let us all agree to share alike in any law expenses, in case it should come to that; for my part, I don’t think it will.”
“And why won’t it?” asked Randall, whose law experience, himself being a practitioner, guided him to a different conclusion. “You don’t suppose that the old Shylock will yield without a trial? Trust me, fellows, he’ll fight hard to stick to that six hundred dollars per annum he’s been so long pulling out of us.”
“Damn him! let him fight! What can he do? Let him tell his story, and what evidence can he bring to support it? As I’ve said, his oath won’t count for anything against all six of ours.”
“But, Alf; you forget the body?”
This reminiscence called up by Randall, caused all the others to start; for all had forgotten it – Brandon alone excepted.
“No, I don’t,” replied the latter, with an air of triumph at his own astuteness.
“Well, he’d bring that up, wouldn’t he?”
“No doubt he would, if we’re fools enough to let him.”
“Ah! I see what you’re driving at.”
“So do we all.”
“We know where it lies; we’ve had good reason to. We’ve been soft to let it lie there so long, and we’d be softer still to let it lie there any longer.”
“Darn it, there’s something in what he says.”
“What do you propose, Alf?”
“That we go in for a good bit of quiet exhumation, and transfer that body, or bones, or whatever relics be left of it, to a safer place. After that’s done let Jerry Rook do his worst.”
“A good idea!”
“Jest the thing, by God!”
“Let’s carry it out, then!”
“When?”
“To-morrow night; we’re not prepared now, or it might be to-night. Let us provide the tools for to-morrow night, and meet about midnight. We can come together in the glade, and go from there. You must all of you come, and all have a hand in it.”
“Agreed! We’ll do the grave-digging!”
“Enough, boys! Let’s fill up and drink to our success!”
Amidst the clinking of glasses was sealed the singular compact; and the body-stealers, that were to be, soon after separated, to come together again upon the morrow.
