Chapter 10

Even now, as he sat at his own table, one might have detected a kind of alertness in his eyes, as of a man ever on his guard, and what seemed almost a studied avoidance of his wife's soft, persistent gaze, as she sat opposite him.

"Sh! What was that?" she suddenly exclaimed. There had been a faint sound outside the window. It had ceased now.

"It was nothing, Bab!" said her husband. "How nervous you are!"

Even as he spoke the sound was repeated, and he himself started now.

"I'm catching your nervousness, Bab," he said, with a short laugh. "The wind is the very deuce to-night."

At that moment a little girl in her nightgown ran out from the adjoining room, and with a gleeful cry sprang into his arms, her long yellow hair spreading itself over his shoulder.

"You see, dear old papa, Bab _wasn't_ asleep!" she cried, covering his face with kisses.

"And why _isn't_ Bab asleep?" her father said, with an assumption of sternness.

"Because she _can't_ sleep. The wind makes such a noise in the pines, and the icicles keep falling off the eaves, and make such a pretty tinkling on the snow. Do you hear it? Hark!"

"The wind increases fearfully," said the wife, going to the window and drawing the shade. "It is a bitter night."

"Bad enough for anybody to be out in," said Dixon, with the comfortable air of one safely housed. He moved his chair to the fire, and began fondling and playing with the pretty child on his knee. Her little face, however, had grown suddenly grave.

"What is it, pussy?" asked her father; "it looks so serious all at once."

"I was thinking," said the child, slowly; "I was wondering where the poor old man I saw up on the hill to-day would sleep to-night. Such a poor, poor man, so old and sick and ragged."

"Bless the chick! What is she talking about now?"

"Some man she saw to-day when she was on the hill coasting with the others," the mother said. "Some tramp, I suppose."

"I have not heard of any in town," said Dixon, with sudden thoughtfulness. "It isn't the season for tramps. Oh!" he added, carelessly, as the child continued to look in his face, "some worthless old vagabond, I suppose, dearie. Don't fret your little heart about him. He'll find a warm nest in somebody's hay-mow, no doubt." But little Bab shook her head.

"I don't think he was bad," she said, softly, "only very sick and sorry. He asked me my name, and when I told him he laughed out so queer! And then I showed him our house, and told him maybe you'd give him some money, and then he laughed again, and then I--I got scared because the other girls had all run away, and I ran away, too."

Her father had listened with strange intentness. His playfulness was extinguished, and his face looked all at once careworn and troubled.

"You're a silly little lass," he said, after a moment's silence, "and you must not talk to strange men who ask questions. They might carry you off, you know."

He held the child silently a little while longer, and then carried her back to her bed; after which he returned to his seat near the fire. His wife had already seated herself in her low chair, her face bent above the knitting in her hands. Outside the wind howled and roared, but in the room where these two sat all was, to the eye, calm, and sweet, and cosey. The fire glowed, and emitted cheerful little snaps and sparks, the clock ticked, and the knitting-needles clicked, and through the open door the child's soft, regular breathing was distinctly audible. Suddenly the woman stirred and looked up, to find her husband's eyes fixed upon her. Strangely enough they faltered, and turned away, but presently came back to hers again.

"You are very silent to-night, lassie," he said, putting out his hand to stroke her fair girlish head. "Are you ill, or over-tired?"

She shook her head, and dropping the knitting from her hands, clasped them over her husband's knee, and laid her cheek upon them.

"No," she said, softly, "not ill, nor tired. Only somehow I have been thinking all day of old times and--_of him!_"

She dropped her voice to a whisper as she spoke the last words, and her husband felt the hands on his knee tremble. He said nothing, though his face grew dark, and his teeth shut over his lip tightly. "I have been wondering," she went on, "what became of him, Jamie!--if he is still alive, and--" with a break in the soft voice--"if he has forgiven me _my_ part in his suffering. Oh, Jamie!" she broke out passionately, throwing her arms about her husband, and raising her lovely, tearful face to his, "Oh, Jamie! I was so young and foolish when I promised to be his wife, and I had not even seen you then! Tell me, Jamie, was I so very, very wicked that I loved you best? Could I help it, Jamie?" She rose and threw herself upon his breast, sobbing like a child. She could not, through her tears, see the working of his face, nor the effort it caused him to speak. He tried to quiet her with caresses and all manner of fond epithets, and at last she lay still, with closed eyes, upon his shoulder.

A tremendous blast swept through the valley, shaking the cottage to its foundation, and shrieking down the chimney like a cry of despair.

"Great heavens!" Dixon muttered; "what a night!" Then, rousing himself, he added, "Come, lassie. Come rest, and promise me not to give way to such excitement again. You are not strong, and such moods are dangerous for you."

They rose, and stood facing each other before the dying fire.

"One thing," he said, seizing her hands, with a swift change of manner--"one thing, Barbara. Have you ever been sorry that you came with me--that you trusted me?"

She looked at him wonderingly, but with perfect love and trustfulness.

"Never, Jamie!" she said. "Never for one moment."

"And whatever happens," he went on, drawing her closer, "whatever happens, you are sure you never _will_ be sorry?"

"Quite sure, Jamie!"

He kissed her again and again, until she laughed at his lover-like vehemence.

"Any one would suppose we were about to be separated for years," she said, playfully.

He laughed, too, but his face and voice were serious, as he said, firmly:

"Nothing shall separate us but death, lassie!"

* * * * *

... When Dixon left his house the next morning it was still intensely cold, but the wind had gone down, and the clumps of evergreens and shrubbery on the lawn were motionless as if painted there.

He stood a moment on the lower step drawing on his fur mittens, and, nodding at the child-face smiling at him from the window, then started to go. But at the first step his foot struck against some object which gave out a metallic sound, and stooping quickly, he raised from the snow a small pistol. One glance showed him that it was in perfect order, and every barrel loaded.

He remained for some time turning this object over and over in his hand, his nether lip drawn between his teeth. At last he glanced toward the window. The child was no longer there, but he saw now, what had before escaped his notice, that the snow beneath the window was broken and trodden by a man's footprints. With a smothered exclamation Dixon bent an instant above these tracks, and then began tracing them carefully. He found where they led from the group of pines to the window; he found where they had first approached the house across the open fields from the hill beyond, direct and even, as of one with a fixed purpose; he found also where they had turned from the window in long, regular strides as of one in flight. These he followed to the foot of the hill, and across to the other side, where they seemed to lose themselves in the trackless forest. He stood here again for some moments, an ashy ring forming itself about his lips. Then, with a deep breath, he set his teeth together, thrust the pistol into his pocket, and turned toward the town. It was scarcely awake as yet. Smoke curled lazily upward from the chimneys, but hardly any one was stirring. Even about the door of that great commercial emporium known far and near as "Buckey's," the regular loafers had as yet no representative; and here, as elsewhere, the snow, which had drifted across the steps, was undisturbed.

A little beyond "Buckey's" stood a neat frame structure, across whose entrance stretched a sign bearing the inscription:

"James Dixon, Justice of the Peace."

This building Dixon entered. A boy who was steaming himself at the great stove in the centre of the room looked up with a duck of the head as the proprietor of the office entered, paying no further attention as he proceeded to divest himself of his outer garments and seat himself at his desk.

Apparently business at this time of the year was not pressing, for, beyond arranging some papers with legal headings, and glancing over a newspaper or two, Dixon did no work. The most of the time he sat industriously smoking, his eyes set upon the uncheerful winter landscape without. Once, when the boy was absent he took from his breast-pocket the pistol, and examined it again with a knitted brow; after which he locked it in a drawer of the desk, and resumed his pipe.

At noon he sent the boy away, and, locking the office-door, turned his face homeward. The town was awake now, or as much so as it was likely to be. A few sleighs and sleds were standing before the doors of the saloons, and it appeared to Dixon that an unwonted excitement prevailed in and about "Buckey's," all the men visible being gathered before the familiar red door, and all talking at once in even louder tones than usual.

As Dixon came nearer, two of the men started forward and approached him.

"We was jest a-comin' fur ye, Square," said the foremost. "Thar's a stranger in thar as won't give no account of himself, an' we was thinkin'----"

"Oh, quit foolin'," said the other, roughly. "It's nothing but a dead tramp. That's all, Square," and he shifted his quid to the other side of his mouth, composedly.

Dixon changed countenance. A little tremor ran through his frame.

"A tramp?" he repeated. "Dead?"

"Dead as a door-nail!" the man answered. "Froze brittle. Small an' his boy found him this mornin' in Crosse's timber."

They started on, giving Dixon precedence. It appeared to the men that he showed very small interest, and unaccountable deliberation. Even when they had reached Buckey's, he mounted the steps slowly, standing an instant with his hands on the latch, as if indifferent, or reluctant. At last, with another impatient movement of the shoulders, he opened the door and went in. The crowd of rough, bearded men who filled the space between the counters and the stove, nodded respectfully and fell back.

That which they had surrounded lay stretched stark and stiff upon the bare floor. It was the body of a man which had been at some time sturdy and strong. Now it was pinched and wasted, and clad in thin, worn garments, and shoes that seemed ready to drop from the naked, frost-bitten feet. The unkempt iron-gray hair and beard gave the face, at first glance, a look of wildness, but, observing more closely, one saw that the features, though heavy, were not uncomely, and wore a look of extreme suffering, which even death had not been able to efface.

"Looks like a Inglishman, eh, Square?" said one of the men present.

Dixon did not seem to have heard him. He stood looking down upon the dead man without moving or speaking. The ashy ring had again shown itself about his lips, and was creeping slowly over his face.

"It's the first as I've seen in these parts for many a year," said another. "Our county ain't pop'lar with that kind," he added, grimly.

"He took a mighty oncomfortable time o' year fur trampin'," said a blear-eyed vagabond near the stove. "I've ben meditatin' somethin' o' the kind myself, but reckon I'll wait fur warm weather. My constitution is delikit."

"_Don't_ wait for warm weather, Shanks," said Buckey himself, leaning comfortably across the counter. "They'll make it warm enough for _you_, whenever ye go!"

At the laugh which followed this sally, Dixon started and looked around him, in a dazed sort of way. The laugh died out suddenly, and the men sank into a shame-faced silence, but even now he did not speak.

"They's somethin' in his breast pocket, Square," said one of them, bending over the body. "Somethin' like a book, or a----"

"Take it out, Slater," said Dixon, in a voice at which all present started, and looked at him curiously.

The man did as ordered, producing from the tattered pocket a small, soiled blank-book, whose pages appeared to be closely written. He handed it to Dixon, who took it mechanically, and, opening it, appeared to glance at the contents at random.

Those nearest him saw his fingers close suddenly upon the book, and heard the sharp indrawn breath which he shut back between his teeth. He put his hand to his head again, and held it there while his eyes swept over the group of respectful but inquisitive faces.

"There is something here," he said, holding the book before him, and speaking in the voice which had once before made them start--"there is something here I would like to look into. Let the--the body lie here until I come back."

There was a murmur of assent, and he turned and left the store. They saw him stand a moment on the step outside, his face toward home. Then he turned in the opposite direction and disappeared.

Dixon entered his office, locked the door, and flung himself into his chair, the little book open before him. The ashen ring had widened until his whole face was like that of the dead. Not a muscle of his rigid face stirred as with desperate eyes he read on and on. Only the faint rustle of the leaves as he turned the pages, and his heavy breathing broke the silence. And this is what he read:

THE DEAD MAN'S STORY.

_W----, 187-._

My wanderings are almost over. Exposure and misery have nearly finished their work. I feel my strength ebbing from day to day, and I know that I must soon die, and die, it may be, with the purpose which has sustained me all these years unattained. Knowing this, I have determined to write in this book the story of my life, hoping that when I am dead--"found dead," it may be, like a tramp or vagabond--some pitying eye may fall upon these words and give me decent burial, for something in me rebels at being thrown like a dog into an outcast's grave. Here is the story as I have repeated it over and over to myself hundreds of times during the weary years that have passed:

I was accounted a quiet, good-natured fellow in the little town in England where I was born and lived before I came to this country. I was slow of speech, but I had received a fair education, and had a turn for reading, and for scribbling down my thoughts. I was a printer by trade, like my father before me. He died when I was a lad of sixteen, leaving me to care for the mother, and for Barbara. She was the daughter of our nearest neighbor, and from the time she could walk we were always together. When she was still very young her parents died, and their children were scattered, and Barbara came to us. I was the only child left of many, and my mother gladly welcomed her as a daughter. We lived together for years as brother and sister, but I was not long in finding out that my love for Barbara passed that of any brother, and when she was fifteen we became engaged.

From that day I had but one ambition in life--to put myself into circumstances where I could make her my wife, for I had vowed in my heart not to do so until I could offer her something more than the hard lot of a common mechanic's wife. It seemed to me she was born for something better. She was a real English beauty, with chestnut hair falling far below her waist, and a skin like milk and roses. A gay, bright creature she was, fond of music and dancing and company; fond of me too, as I believe still, though I _was_ slow and silent and awkward; trusting in me, leaning upon me, and confiding in me every thought of her innocent heart.

I did not care for gay scenes myself, but I often went with Barbara to such entertainments as the place afforded, and enjoyed seeing her happy, and admired, and courted.

When Barbara was about eighteen years old a young man came to our place. I will not write his name here--there is no need. He was London-born and bred, and, though a printer like myself, far cleverer, and full of ambitious schemes of which I never dreamed. He was a handsome, dashing fellow, with finer ways than we were used to. He could do a little of everything, and very well too. He sang, and played the guitar, and danced like a Frenchman, and in no time had won his way with every one. The women folks, of course, were carried away with him.

The first time he saw Barbara was at a dance where I had taken her. He pointed her out to me, and asked her name. I may have betrayed something of my love and pride as I answered, for he gave me a quick, curious look, and a moment later asked for an introduction to her. After that they danced together a good deal, and every one was saying what a handsome couple they made.

Soon after this the mother became ailing and fretted at being left alone of evenings, so I often stayed with her while Barbara danced at some neighbor's house or public assembly with the new-comer.

I never had a thought of jealousy, not even when the fellows in the shop began chaffing me for letting my sweetheart run about with another man, for I trusted Barbara, and was not he my friend? Unlike as we were, had he not singled me out from all the others, and made me his confidant and companion on all occasions?

Even after I had left the shop, having at last secured the position as book-keeper at the ---- Mills which I had for years been working for, he kept up the former intimacy, and often I found him waiting for me when I returned late from my work, and I liked nothing so well as to sit and smoke, and listen to him and Barbara, their singing, and laughter, and foolish talk.

It went on so for a good while. I was beginning to lay by money, and the time for our marriage was not far off. But a strike broke out just then among the spinners. I had known it was coming, and done what I could to prevent it, knowing what the result would be, but it was all in vain. Their wrongs were too real and of too long standing. The crisis came; the mills were closed; for a few days the strikers believed they would win the day.

At the end of a week the mills opened with a new set of operatives hired from a neighboring town. Riots and bloodshed followed. Those were troublous times. I could not keep my hand from giving aid to the suffering wives and children of men I had lived among all my life. I took no thought for consequences. One day I received my discharge. I was dazed by the cruel blow; I went about like a man walking in his sleep.

One night as I walked the streets, some one I met told me that my friend, the man I am writing of, was ill. I went at once to his room, which was in the building over the printing office where he had now gotten to be foreman. I found him restless and feverish, and at his request I stayed with him until the small hours of the night. Then I went home. No one saw me going in or out of his room, but I met two or three stragglers on my way home. I had been half an hour in bed when an alarm of fire was sounded, and I rose and joined the crowd in the streets. The ---- Mills were burning, and in a short time were burned to the ground. The same day I was arrested on a charge of having set the fire. I laughed at the charge. My friend, who was now delirious with fever, would soon put me right. My trial was deferred until he was able to appear. When the day came at last, he stood up, white and haggard, in that crowded court-room, and swore he had not seen me at all on the night I had spent with him--the night of the fire. There were other things against me: my known friendship for the leaders of the strike, my discharge, my absence from home at the time the fire must have been started, and other small but damning evidence. I was convicted, and sentenced to transportation. I saw my old mother fall as if dead! I saw Barbara's white face bending over her; plainer than all, I saw that man who had been my friend, and the look he gave the woman who was to have been my wife! Something leaped into life within me then--something which has never died. If I could have reached him then and there!

I do not suppose twenty people in the town believed me guilty. I do not believe the jury which convicted me, nor the judge who sentenced me, believed me guilty; but everything was against me, except my past life, and that had no weight with the law. My sentence was commuted to a term of years in the penitentiary. I will not write of my prison-life. Three months after it began I received a letter from Barbara, telling me of my mother's death, bidding me keep up courage, and pray, but saying nothing of herself, or of _him_.

At the end of five years came freedom. The real criminals had been discovered, and I was discharged. The man who went out of that prison door was not the man who had entered it. The law, conscious of the fact that no human power can make amends to an innocent man for a punishment unjustly inflicted, takes no notice of it. It is dumb before a wrong so monstrous. I went back to my native town. Every hand was stretched out to me. My old employers at the mill would have put me in my old place, but I refused. I inquired for Barbara and for him. They had married after my mother's death and gone, it was said, to America. I took measures to prove this; then I went to work at my old trade. I worked day and night, and lived on next to nothing. At the end of a year I had what I wanted. A fortnight later I was in New York.

My plan was to work my way over the country--to work and watch. I felt sure that the man I was looking for would work at his trade, too, and I believed in time I should get on his track. I stayed several months in New York, and found plenty to do. The only fault found with me was my love of change. "You know what is said of 'rolling stones,' Jordan," my employers would say, as I was about to leave. "It isn't moss-gathering I am after," I would answer.

I took no man into my confidence, but I lost no chance of getting acquainted with men of our craft. I frequented places where they congregated, set them to talking, asking them as to Englishmen they had known, etc.

"You are looking for some one, Jordan," was said more than once.

"Maybe I am," I would answer.

Once a man who had been looking on and listening, said, with a laugh, "I'm devilish glad it ain't me you're looking for, Jordan!" And I knew well enough what he meant.

I have wandered south and west, I have thought many a time I was on the right trail, but it has come to naught so far. About a year ago I fell ill, and was a long time in a hospital. When I was discharged I was a mere wreck. Something was the matter with my heart, they said. I have not been able to work long at a time since. Such work as I get is given me out of compassion.