Chapter 16

FACING IT.

On the table beside them lay the watch, the leathern bag, and the box which had belonged to the deceased. In the bag there were several hundred dollars in twenty, ten, and five dollar gold pieces, and in the box, which Hannah unlocked, there were some papers, and tied together with a faded ribbon was a lock of dark brown hair, a bit of purple heather, a few English violets, and some leaves of ivy; while on the paper in which they were wrapped was the date of a summer day, many, many years ago, when the dead man was young. Whatever might have been the romance of which this souvenir was the sign, it was buried forever with the past, and Hannah put it back in the box as carefully and tenderly as if it were the hand of the woman on whose head that brown tress once grew.

The next thing which met the view was a picture painted on ivory of a young girl who might have been sixteen or eighteen years of age, and whose face was so beautiful that Hannah uttered an exclamation of surprise as she held it to the light and examined it closely.

The dress was old-fashioned, and such as would indicate that the wearer belonged to the middle, rather than the wealthy class, but Hannah did not think of that, so absorbed was she in the beauty of the fresh, young face, and the expression of the large blue eyes, which seemed to look at her so intently. The dark brown tress, so carefully wrapped in paper, and bearing the scent of English violets and heather blossoms could never have grown on this girl's head, for the wavy hair which fell in such masses upon her neck was of that peculiar shade of gold, dashed with red, seldom seen in America, and which latterly has become so fashionable, that where nature fails to produce it, art has been called into requisition, and achieved most wonderful success.

"Oh, how lovely she is," Hannah said, showing the picture to her father. "This must be his sister, the Elizabeth he was so fond of. He said once she was many year's younger than himself, and very beautiful. I do not wonder he loved her."

The bundle of papers was next examined, and found to contain a few receipts for moneys paid in England and America, and the will of the deceased, executed some months before, and in which he gave everything he possessed to his beloved and only sister, Elizabeth, her heirs and assigns forever.

"Father!" Hannah said, with a trembling voice, as she finished reading aloud this will, "I am sure that this is his sister's picture, and we have a duty to do. We must find Elizabeth Rogers, and put her in possession of her own, this gold in the box, and whatever else he may have owned in Wales. He spoke of shares in some mines or quarries. These all belong to his sister, and we must not defraud her; those blue eyes would haunt me forever. What shall we do?"

She was looking earnestly at her father, over whose face there came a sudden pallor, and a hard, bitter expression, as he answered her:

"Find her! Of course! Advertise! go to Wales, if necessary, in search of her, or get a lawyer to do it! Break your vow; tell the whole truth, as you would have to, in order to establish his death; and get me hanged! That would be the result of restitution."

"Oh, father," Hannah cried in terror. "Is there no other way? If I find this woman and give her her own, must I tell her the whole truth? Will it not be enough if I say he is dead, that I saw him die, that I helped to lay him in his coffin? I would not mention you, or that I had a father. Surely she would be satisfied."

"Yes, _she_ might, but not the law. I do not understand the ins and outs myself, there are so many questions necessary to make a thing legal, but this I am sure of; the whole thing would be ripped up, and I hanged, as I told you. No, Hannah, you cannot find this woman while I live, which, please God, may not be long. When I am gone, find her, if you like, but you must shield me. Remember your vow, and--and--swear again, not to move in the matter while I live."

He was growing so excited with this new fear that his daughter shrank from him in alarm, and at last yielding to his importunities took another oath of secrecy, which doomed the blue-eyed woman in Wales to a life of poverty, if such now were her portion.

"But what shall we do with this money?" Hannah asked.

And her father replied:

"Keep it until you can restore it to its rightful owner without harm to me. Elizabeth may never get it, but her heirs, some child yet unborn, may be made rich by you, one day, who knows?"

Yes, some child then unborn might one day be richer for this crime, but that did not comfort Hannah, now, and the future held no gleam of hope or happiness for her, as she put the papers, and the watch, and the gold, and the portrait, together in the tin box, and tried to think where she could hide them.

Owing to the storm, and the depth of the snow, no one visited the lonely farm-house until the Monday following the tragedy, when a neighbor came breaking through the drifts to see how it fared with Peter, who tried to appear natural as he talked of the depth of the snow, and inquired for the news, and mentally anathematized the dog Rover, who, the moment the stranger appeared, stretched himself before the bedroom door with a keen, watchful look in his eyes, as if he were on the alert and guarding the terrible secret.

And this habit, commenced that morning, was continued by the faithful creature up to the day of his death, which happened several years later. No matter where he was, whether chasing a rabbit through the woods or sleeping by the stable door, he seemed by some instinct to know when a visitor arrived, and hastened at once to his post, from which neither threats nor persuasions could dislodge him. For Hannah tried both, but when she coaxed he whined and whisked his big tail on the floor, and when she threatened he growled and showed his teeth, but staid there just the same.

The Monday night following the tragedy, Hannah was stricken down with a low, nervous fever, which lasted for weeks, and from which she arose the mere shadow of her former self. All life and vivacity had left her, and instead of a girl of fifteen she seemed like a woman of twenty-five, so quiet and reserved she became, with no color in her cheeks, no elasticity in her step, no joy in her voice, no brightness anywhere except in her large dark eyes, which shone with unusual brilliancy, and had in them always a look which puzzled and fascinated her friends, who little dreamed of what those strangely bright, beautiful eyes saw constantly before them.

Whether sleeping or waking the picture was always there, of the dead man on the floor with the blood-stains on his face, and she felt the touch of the clammy hands which she had folded upon his breast. She could not go to school again, for in her morbid state of mind to study was impossible, and so she staid at home, brooding over the past and shrinking from the future, with no companionship except that of Rover, who seemed so fully to understand and sympathize with her. Oftentimes when her work for the day was done, and she sat down listlessly upon a little seat beneath the apple tree which grew in the yard, the dog would go to her, and putting his head in her lap, gaze into her face with such a human look of pity in his eyes that her tears would fall like rain, as she wound her arms around his neck and sobbed:

"Oh, dear old Rover, you know, and you are sorry for me. What should I do without you! What shall I do when you are gone?" and the white lips would frame a prayer that Rover might be spared to her long, for without him life would be intolerable.

And yet Hannah had no foolish fancies, filled though the house was, with the image of the dead man. She did not believe in ghosts, and had no fear that the occupant of the hidden grave beneath the floor would come back to trouble her; it was rather the horror of the crime, the sin, which so oppressed her, filling her with the wildest fancies, and making her see always the dreadful word murder written everywhere upon the walls, and the blood-stains on the floor, where no trace was visible to other eyes than hers. Sometimes in the dark night, in her lonely bed beneath the roof, with the stars looking in upon her, she felt as if her brain were on fire and that she was going mad with the load of anguish and guilt, for she accused herself as equally guilty with her father, inasmuch as she had witnessed the deed and was helping him to conceal it.

"But God knows I cannot help it. I am bound with bonds I cannot break," she would cry, as she stretched her hands toward heaven in dumb supplication for pardon and peace, which came at last to the troubled spirit.

And though she never knew again the joy of youth which had left her forever, there came to her long intervals of rest and quiet and comparative peace, if not happiness; and when, three years after the tragedy which had blighted her young life, she, with others of her companions, ratified her baptismal vows and openly confessed Christ, He who sees and knows the secrets of all hearts, knew that among those who knelt to receive the rite of confirmation there was not one purer or more sincere than she who thought herself the vilest of the vile.

Naturally, as time rolled on, and the peddler Rogers came no more to Allington, inquiries were made for him, the people wondering if he intended remaining in Wales the remainder of his life, or would he appear in their midst again some day, with his balbriggans and Irish linens. But as he had never been more to the citizens than a peddler of dry-goods, he was soon forgotten, and Peter Jerrold's secret was safe under the floor, and the tin box, with the gold and the will, was safe in the niche of the huge chimney, where Hannah had hidden it, until such time as it could be given into the hands of the rightful owner. For this Hannah fully intended doing. How, or when, or by what agency, she could not tell, but sometime in the future, restitution would be made, either to Elizabeth or her heirs. She had calculated the interest on the money, and resolved yearly to lay by that amount for the benefit of the Rogers heirs. Everything pertaining to Carnarvon she read up, knowing perfectly its history, where it was situated, how to reach it, and almost fancying that she knew the very house where the peddler had lived, and where possibly Elizabeth was still living. And some day she would find the place and give up the money and will, and tell as much of the past as was necessary to tell, but no more.

And with this end in view she lived her dreary, monotonous life, which knew no change, except on the rare intervals when her young brother Burton, came up from Boston to spend a few days with the father and sister from whom he was growing estranged so fast; for between them and himself there was nothing common, and he was always glad when his short visit was over, and he was free to return to the life more in accordance with his taste than that at the farm-house.

When Rover died, several years after the tragedy of which he was a witness, Hannah felt that she had lost all that made life endurable, and mourned for him as for a human friend. With all the faithful sagacity of his race the noble brute had clung to her, seldom quitting her side, and frequently, when her heart was saddest, and she was weeping by herself, licking her face and hair, and uttering a kind of low cry, as if he understood her perfectly; and when at last he died, it was with his head in her lap, and her tears falling upon his shaggy face. Even to the last he was faithful to the charge he had so long assumed. A neighbor had come into the kitchen, and dragging himself from the mat on which he was lying, Rover crawled to the door of the bedroom, and stretched himself in front of it, while in the dying eyes lifted to Hannah's face, there was an expression of unutterable love and regret for the mistress he was leaving forever. When the visitor left the house, Hannah tried to coax the dog back to his mat near the stove, but he was too weak to move, and so she placed a blanket under him and kneeling by his side, put his head in her lap, and held it there until he ceased to breathe.

After his death there was nothing to relieve the tedium of Hannah's life, and but for her trust in God her reason must have given way under the strain, for it was not only her own sorrow, but her father's as well, which she had to bear. With him there was no rest, day or night, and every breath was a prayer for mercy and forgiveness.

At first he was continually haunted with a fear of detection, and frequently in the night he would steal noiselessly to Hannah's room, and awakening her with a whisper, tell her there were men about the house, come to arrest him, and charge her with having broken her oath and betrayed him into the hands of the law. Every possible precaution against a surprise was taken. Iron bolts were put on the doors, the windows were nailed down, and the house was never for an hour left alone. The people said the man was deranged, and pitied the young girl who, from daily association with him, was becoming almost as peculiar as himself.

After a few years the aged pastor, who had so long officiated in the stone church on the common, died, and the Rev. Charles Sanford, fresh from the Theological Seminary, was called to take his place. Full of energy and zeal in his work, the young rector soon made himself acquainted with all his parishioners, and seemed to find a peculiar attraction in the inmates of the farm-house, where he spent a great deal of time, arguing with the father on the nature of the unpardonable sin, and answering the many questions his host propounded to him upon the subject of genuine repentance and its fruits, and how far confession to man was necessary that one might be saved.

To these discourses Hannah was always an attentive listener, and there came gradually a new light into her dark eyes, and a faint color to her white cheeks, when she saw the rector coming up the walk, and met his winning smile. But all this was ended at last; for, after a night in June, when she walked with the young clergyman through the pasture land under the row of chestnut trees which grew upon the hill-side, he came less frequently to the farm-house, and when he did come his discourse was mostly with her father, whom he was laboring to convince that it was his duty to be confirmed. But Peter always answered him:

"No, you don't know what you ask. I am too vile, too great a sinner for that. The very stones would cry out against me."

The clergyman thought him crazy, and after a time abandoned the effort, and went but seldom to the farm-house, where Hannah had again entered the dark cloud in which his coming had made a rift, and which now seemed darker than ever, because of the momentary brightness which had been thrown upon it. She, too, had labored with her father as Mr. Sanford had done, telling him of the peace which was sure to follow a duty performed, but he answered her:

"Never, child, never; for, don't you see, I must first confess, and that is to put the halter around my own neck. They would hang me now, sure, for the concealment, if for nothing more. It might have been better if I had told at first, as you advised. I believe now they would have been lenient toward me. A few years in prison, perhaps, and then freedom the rest of my life. Oh, if I had done it. But now it is forever too late. God may forgive me. I think he will, but I can never join his church with this crime on my soul."

After this Hannah said no more to him upon the subject, but bent all her energies to soothe and rid him of the morbid, half-crazy fancies which had taken possession of him.

And so the wretched years went on, until Peter Jerrold had numbered more than three score years and ten, and suffered enough to atone many times for crimes far more heinous than his had been. But nature at last could endure no more, and on the Thanksgiving night, thirty-one years after the event which had blighted his life, he felt that he was dying, and insisted upon confessing his sin not only to his son, but also to his clergyman, who has been his friend and spiritual adviser for so many years.

"I shall die so much easier," he said to Hannah, who sent for them both, and then with her arm around her father, held him against her bosom, while he told in substance, and with frequent pauses for breath, the story we have narrated.