Part 12

It was at the breakfast-table that the company were discussing the “sights” of the neighborhood, and debating whether they would take him first over to Paint Creek upon a fishing-excursion, or across the river to Mount Logan, famous for having been the rendezvous of the great Indian chief, when the colonel spoke up,—

“Why not begin at home?” he said. “Do not fatigue him to death the first day, and I am proud enough of my foundry to think it might be of interest even to Mr. Safford; at least I mean to have him shown over it before he leaves.”

The young man, of course, immediately stated that it would give him great pleasure, and the whole company, to the most of whom it would prove a novelty, gladly acquiesced in the proposition. So it was decided, and two hours later they all started on their way.

When they entered the foundry it seemed more gloomy than ever, the atmosphere more stifling, and the jar of the machinery more painfully loud and discordant. Even the gay young people who had chatted and laughed all the morning felt the sudden change that involuntarily subdued their merriment. They broke up and scattered in twos and threes over the place, following the lead of simple curiosity, but the stranger-gentleman staid beside Helen, the “young misses.”

“What a queer, unreal place!” he said. “One would never expect to find any thing like it in this beautiful valley. Does it not make you think, coming upon it suddenly out of the sunlight, of the evil genii you have read about in some fairy-tale long ago? And the workmen, at whose bidding all this gigantic power is brought into action, how small and weird they look!”

The two had been slowly approaching the great furnace, and, just as the gentleman ceased speaking, the immense door was thrown open, discovering, like a glimpse of the infernal regions, the seething flame within. Though they were not near enough to experience any inconvenience from the heat, Helen uttered a frightened exclamation and drew back; but the gentleman stood as if spellbound, for immediately in front of him from this opening streamed a broad but sharply defined streak of blood-red light, that fell full upon old Simlin, and transformed the blackened cinders on the ground beneath his feet into a mass of living embers.

As the old man straightened up, and was in the act of raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sudden illumination, they encountered the stranger, and a mingled expression of surprise and fright instantly struggled up through their weak color. For a moment, like an apparition, he stood transfixed. The red glare showed the old man’s shrunken figure; it showed his attenuated arms and death-like mouth, his tattered clothes and the few wisps of his scant hair.

Mr. Safford had stopped simply at the startling effect which the glow of the furnace had produced, falling by accident upon a single workman. But, when the man rose up, he gazed at him, utterly taken aback by his strange behavior.

For an instant, the old man stared without moving a muscle, then his lips began to work convulsively, and, raising his hand before his face, as if to screen it from view, he half uttered an unintelligible sentence and sank down. At the same time, the door of the furnace had been closed, shutting off the brilliant light that for a moment had so strangely thrown him into violent relief.

For a second, Safford almost thought the whole thing had been an optical illusion, or some hallucination of his own brain; then, stepping forward, he saw the old man lying in a heap upon the ground.

The young lady, recovering immediately from her sudden fright at the unexpected blaze, had seen the workman fall, and, coming up, asked, in a terrified voice,—

“What is the matter? Oh, he is dead!” she exclaimed, kneeling down beside him.

“No, he is not dead. Run for some brandy—quick!” Mr. Safford called to the nearest hand. Then, assisted by one of the men, he raised the prostrate figure, not a heavy burden, and carried it out into the open air.

“I allus thought old Simlin’d come to this,” said the man who had helped in carrying him. “We all knowd he was over-workin’ himself.”

“Why? Was he so feeble?” asked Mr. Safford, while he bathed the grimy forehead with his wet handkerchief.

“Feebil? He’s that feebil he’s just been of a trembil all over; and he’s getting pretty much used up here, too,” said the man, dropping his voice, and significantly touching his forehead. “It’s my idee he’s not booked for this world much longer.”

“Poor man!” said Miss Helen, leaning tenderly over the pale face that still showed no symptoms of returning consciousness; “how very thin and emaciated he is! Has he no wife or family to take care of him?”

“That’s just it, ma’am! That’s just what he’s allus harpin’ on! He says he ain’t got no relatives, and nobody to look after, and—”

The young lady suddenly raised her hand with a warning gesture; and, before the workman had ceased speaking, old Simlin opened his eyes. He looked around for a moment in a bewildered way; then his uncertain glance, falling upon the gentleman kneeling by his side, immediately became fixed, and grew into a wild stare. Raising himself unsteadily upon his elbow, still with his eyes fixed upon him, the old man threw out his trembling arm with a gesture as if addressing the whole company,—

“It’s a lie! Who said I had any relatives, or any body to look after? I hain’t! It’s a lie—a _lie_, I say! I never seen you before. He’s a stranger!”—still keeping his arm extended, and appealing excitedly to those around him—“you all know he is a stranger. I ain’t got no relatives, nor any body to look after!”

It was evident enough that what the workman had told them about his intellect was too true, they all thought, as they looked at each other with a quick glance.

“I tell you I don’t know you, sir! It’s all a lie. I never seen you before! I—”

“No, you never saw me before.”

Mr. Safford had spoken, hoping to soothe him; but, instead, the sentence appeared to act upon the old man like an electric battery, for he raised himself into a sitting posture, and, with his head bobbing violently about, fairly screamed, his cracked voice running into high treble,—

“That’s right!—that’s right! Do you all hear it? He says I never seen him before. It’s all a lie about my havin’ got any relatives. I hain’t! I never seen him before—You heerd him say so—you all heerd him?” he inquired, for the first time, taking his pale, watery eyes from the gentleman, and looking, in a frightened, appealing way, round the group.

Then his strength seemed to fail suddenly, and he fell back upon the grass, panting for breath.

At this moment the colonel came up, and knelt down by his side. He uttered his name several times, and even put his hand upon the wrinkled forehead; but the old man, with vacant eyes fixed on the sky, paid no heed, though his lips trembled.

“I have ordered a wagon. It will be here directly. He must be taken to the house, where he can receive every attention. Poor man! I am afraid this will be about the last. I have expected it for a long time. Here, Safford, help me to lift him,” he added, as Hendricks came back with the wagon.

“Safford! Safford! Who called me Safford?” said the old man, suddenly looking round in a terrified manner. “I—I’ve been a dreamin’,” uttering a weak laugh. “It’s not my—I mean nobody said it. I never heerd that name before. It’s darned funny, ain’t it? but I never even heerd that name before in my life! You know I didn’t”—growing wild and excited again—“you know it’s a lie! I ain’t got no relatives, nor nobody to look after.”

The gentlemen, without speaking, stooped to raise him; but he struggled violently, and, keeping his eyes still fixed on the younger one, he cried, with such an extreme distress upon his face, that they involuntarily drew back,—

“No, no! I’m not fit to be near you. Stand off! You’re a fine gentleman; it’s not for the likes of you to touch me!”

Then turning toward the colonel, he muttered some inarticulate apology, and actually staggered, unaided, to his feet,—

“I’m ’bliged to ye all,” he said, nodding his head up and down, and backing, with uncertain steps, toward the foundry, as if afraid to take his eyes from the party as long as he was within their sight. “Thar ain’t nothin’ the matter with me! I jest felt faint a spell from the heat—the heat. It ain’t nothin’, an’ it’s gone now! I’ll go back to my work agin—I’m all right—I’m ’bliged to ye! It was jest the heat as overcum me—jest the heat—” and, with a painful smile upon his thin lips, still muttering unintelligible excuses, he tottered into the building.

For a moment, taken by surprise, the group remained motionless. Then Helen said; “Poor old man! I declare, it almost made me cry only to look at him!—Father, you will have him cared for; you will not allow him to work any more?”

“No. He is dreadfully broken down, and I have heard the hands say that, latterly, he was breaking in his mind, too; but I did not know it was so bad. I will see that he does as little as possible; but he will never quit until he gives out utterly, and he can not hold on long in this condition. Strange, Safford, how the sight of you seemed to excite him! Did you notice with what a wild, terrified gaze he stared at you, as if he had been hunted down? and, when you stooped to raise him up, he almost drew himself into a knot. I did not suppose, when I saw him on the ground, that he had strength enough left to stand on his feet without help; and it seemed as if it was this fear of you that inspired him with the power.”

The younger man stood leaning against the tree from which he had not moved.

“Yes,” he replied, “it was strange; I noticed it. How long have you had him in your employ?”

“More than ten years, and he has been about the most valuable hand in the foundry.”

“Then I’m sure, father, you will take care of him, and not let him work any more?” said Helen, again.

“Yes—yes, child! don’t bother yourself so—of course I will;” but the younger gentleman turned toward her quickly, while his face lighted up, then checked himself abruptly in what would have been an eager gesture of gratitude, and looked away without saying a word.

They remained a few moments to hear that the old man had recovered, and when the messenger reported him working at his place quietly as usual, without re-entering the foundry, or waiting for their companions, the two started homeward. Helen’s reluctance to go back into the building again had been so manifest that the gentleman could hardly do otherwise. Not until the straggling little village and the smoke of the great foundry were left in the distance did she fairly draw a breath of relief, and even then they still walked on almost in silence.

The day had reached its noon. On the river flowing past the lances of the sun broke into a thousand flakes of fire that followed each other over its surface in myriad ranks; and on either side, where the twisted birch reached out its branches, the waves with a grateful murmur turned up their cool white crests.

There was no loud hum of grasshoppers. Hardly a leaf stirred upon the trees, hardly a bird fluttered its wings. Even the far-off mists had disappeared, and a hush was on the hills—a hush as of awe before the splendor of the sky. No wonder they spoke but little. Almost solemn was the glory of the day in its noon. Yet perhaps neither one felt this influence which rested upon the land, and subdued alike to silence the peewee and the bobolink. It may be that the girl was not wholly unconscious of the scene, but it was certainly some other influence that wrapped her companion in abstraction. He saw not even the checkered shade that fell in arch and groin upon their path.

They were half-way home. Rousing himself suddenly with an effort, as if but just aware of this long abstraction, he said, for lack of any thing better,—

“Miss Helen, do you like the country?”

“Dearly. I love these hills and the river. The time I spend here is the happiest part of my life.”

“And are you not always happy?” he inquired. “You should be.”

A strange gentleness in his tone as he uttered the last words made Helen look up quickly as she answered him with a smile,—

“I am. I never had a trouble in my life.”

They had reached the turn where the path led up the slope from the foot of the hill.

“Do not go back to the house,” he said; “let us sit down here a little while in the shade. I feel strangely oppressed, and the four walls of a room would suffocate me.”

Apparently, he had uttered the last sentence involuntarily, as he took off his hat, and passed his hand several times across his forehead, for, catching his breath quickly, he added, as if by way of an apology,—

“It is so much pleasanter in the open air, and I am less fortunate than you. I seldom have a chance to enjoy the country.”

He had evidently spoken truly, however, when he said he felt strangely oppressed, for his eyes wandered up the valley, far off to the remote Paint Ridge, yet he did not see the glittering Scioto, or how Summer sat enthroned in royal pomp upon the hills.

There was a thoughtful, almost anxious expression on his face. Presently he added, in a tone of voice as if they might have been discussing the subject at the moment, and which showed his mind was still occupied wholly by the incident at the foundry,—

“Miss Helen, had you ever seen that man before?”

“What man?” she inquired. “The workman, you mean?”

“Yes, the old moulder.”

“No. I have often heard them speak of him. I rarely go to the foundry; it is gloomy, and the hands are so rough father does not like to have me come in contact with them in any way, so I do not know one from another. I did not recollect at first, but I remember now hearing him say that old Simlin was queer, that he was a miser, and that he lived all alone on the Spring Hill. But I am sure father did not know he was so feeble, or how he was losing his mind. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. It must be dreadfully sad, ignorant though he is, to grow old and have not a soul on the earth to care for him.”

Again the gentleman turned to her, as she spoke, with a sudden emotion in his eyes that would have called the color to her cheeks had she seen it, but in another instant he had looked away, and the troubled cloud settled back once more upon his features.

“The river _is_ beautiful,” he said, after a pause; “see how the fire dances down its surface.”

He had dismissed the subject from their conversation, if not from his own thoughts. More than an hour later Helen sprang up with a conscious blush upon her face as the sound of approaching voices told her how the time had fled. Ah, for her at least it had been wafted by on silver wings! They both joined the party, and all went together to the house. There, almost immediately, Mr. Safford excused himself and went to his room.

Shut in alone, the same anxious, troubled expression he had worn when he looked unconsciously up the river came back upon him as he walked thoughtfully to and fro across the floor. The incident at the foundry had affected him singularly. He could not throw off its depressing influence. Why, he asked himself—why did the face of the old man haunt him perpetually—the thin, wrinkled face, as it had looked at him with sudden surprise and terror struggling up through its watery eyes? Why did the cracked voice, with its accent of fright, ring constantly in his ears? If it were but the wild vagary of an unsettled mind, why should he give it any heed? “I am nervous,” he muttered to himself. “They said the man was crazy, and surely I never saw him before—no, I never saw him before. Then why should the sight of me have so excited him? Probably another stranger would have done the same. I am foolish—and they said the man was crazy—”

He still paced the floor of his room up and down, while he tried to argue himself out of the unreasonable hold which the circumstance had taken on his mind. “I wish I could forget it!” he exclaimed. Then walking to the window, and looking out mechanically, he said slowly to himself, as if weighing well his words,—

“It is not possible; no, it is not possible that here I am going to find any clew. The man _was_ crazy, that is all.”

He returned again, however, not the least relieved, to his track over the carpet, and, before he went down stairs, he had determined that he would “wait and see.” He would not, as he had previously intended, leave the place within a day or two. He could not go away until he had satisfied himself about the matter wholly, and in the mean time he would find out what he could in regard to the old man.

He did not make any inquiries of the family, and the only information he could gain was simply what he had been already told.

His sleep that night was strangely disturbed. Over and over in his troubled slumber a thin, shrunken figure stood with its trembling arm stretched out toward him. It was always before him, even when sometimes there flitted through his dreams the form of one whose face was fair as the morning, whose hair was yellow as the reaper’s wheat. He rose feeling little refreshed. The night, instead of lessening, had but strengthened the hold which the incident of the previous day had taken upon him, and against which he struggled without avail.

The colonel’s prophecy did not prove incorrect when he said Simlin could not last long, for, just as the family were rising from the breakfast-table, a messenger arrived, saying the old man was lying insensible in his cabin. It seemed he did not make his appearance at the foundry at his usual time, and, after waiting an hour in vain, Hendricks, who suspected something might be wrong, sent one of the hands to the hut, where he was found in this condition.

“Tell Hendricks I will see to him immediately,” the colonel said to the messenger, as he retired; then turning to young Safford, who stood with his hat in his hand, inquired, “Are you going out?”

“I will go with you, if you have no objection. I may be of some service, and I am in need of exercise at any rate.”

He hesitated as he spoke, endeavoring to cover the unusual interest which he took in the matter, and the excitement he felt that the news had brought upon him.

“Why, my dear fellow, you are absolutely pale this morning! Our country air ought to do better for you than this. Yes, I wish you would go with me. I don’t know exactly what is to be done. If old Simlin is very ill, he can not be moved, and anyhow there is no road leading up that side of the Spring Hill, nothing but a narrow foot-path, which I guess he has worn himself, for nobody else ever goes in that direction. The cabin must have been originally put up by hunters. The place is so lonely and inaccessible, I have often tried in vain to prevail upon him to come down into the village. He is a strange man, almost a hermit in his habits.”

“Father, can not I go along with you? Maybe I can do something for him, too, if he is sick.”

“You, Helen?” said her father, smiling. “What can you do for such a person? No, no, child, it is no place for you. I do not like to have you go among any of these wretched people.”

He stooped and kissed the fair countenance raised so entreatingly to his. A swift expression of pain had come across the younger gentleman’s face as the colonel spoke, but the girl persisted, and her father reluctantly gave his consent.

“Well, well, as you will! Tell Margaret to put a few things into a basket with some wine and brandy, and tell Jake to follow us with it immediately. We may need him anyhow, and he has no work to do about the house this morning. I can not spare Hendricks from the foundry, and very likely, if we can not move Simlin, the hut will have to be fixed up a little.”

Losing no time, they started on their errand of mercy. The walk was long, but well shaded. Down the hill, along the valley, up the hill, all Nature seemed reveling in an excess of joy. The little song-sparrows, wild with delight, united in a jubilant choir; the blackbirds called, and called, and called; the orioles, in myriad numbers, fluttered their golden wings; and sometimes a chaffinch loitered for a moment in her flight to the far-off wheat fields.

It seemed strange that there should be any misery, any suffering. The girl could not realize it until they came out on top of the Spring Hill to the little clearing where the cabin stood, which, in its utter desolation, appeared to overwhelm her. There was no sign of a human presence any where. A silent robin sat idly on the chimney-top, while its mate flitted wistfully over the sunburnt grass. The place was so lonely that the gentle wind seemed to smother a sob. Below, the wide valley stretched away to the remote sky. And in this wretched hovel, on this solitary site, old Simlin lived, like one ostracized from society.

“Wait here a moment,” said the colonel, “while I go in first, and I will come and tell you.”

He left them in the shade of the tall beech trees, and they saw him go into the cabin. Though neither had spoken, they knew that upon each heart rested the same burden of dread. In the moment that followed there came over the young man an almost sickening anxiety, but the girl stood, awed only by the thought that perhaps even then the black wings of Death might be settling unknown within their very presence. Then she saw her father come to the door and beckon—the old man at least was not dead—and they went in together.

The place was far more bare and desolate than even its exterior had appeared. The rough boards of the floor were shrunken apart. Through the windows, unshielded by even a plank, the glaring light poured in a pitiless flood. A broken chair or two were propped against the wall, and in the corner an old pine table stood in a precarious condition upon its uneven legs.

There, stretched across the wretched bed dressed in his grimy clothes, just as they had seen him at the foundry twenty-four hours ago, the old man lay insensible. All their restoratives were powerless to rouse him from this heavy stupor. Not even a muscle responded to their efforts. The half-closed eyes were glazed. There was no quiver now about the bloodless lips. The thin, emaciated face seemed thinner, more emaciated, for over all the features rested that sunk expression which those who look upon it behold with despair at their hearts. But for the slow rise and fall of his chest, they might have thought the last glimmer of life had died out of that frail form forever.

It was plain that they could not dare to move him, and the colonel carefully shaded the window with a few pieces of plank, still leaving free access to the air. Helen had quietly taken all the things from the basket, and set them ready for use, though there was little chance now that they could be of any avail. Safford stood at the foot of the bed, utterly unconscious of every thing at the moment but the prostrate figure before him. Since he entered the room he had hardly changed his position, only that he folded his arms across his breast, and drooped his head a little, as if in that attitude he might the more intently watch the sleeper.

When the colonel came and spoke to him he started up as if frightened, like one out of a dream, so that the elder man looked at him in surprise; but Safford, with a strong effort controlling himself, said quickly, in a husky voice,— “I beg your pardon. You startled me!”

“I only wanted to know how long you thought he could last?”

“I can not tell. It may be until evening, hardly longer.”