It was late in June before I was able to disengage myself from the workof the judge's office. Meanwhile there had been blood shed back in thehills. One of the sheriff's posse had been severely wounded by a bulletand had failed to serve the writs. The judge had appealed to thegovernor. People were talking of "the rent war."
Purvis had returned to St. Lawrence County and hired to my uncle for thehaying. He had sent me a letter which contained the welcome informationthat the day he left the stage at Canton, he had seen Miss Dunkelberg onthe street.
"She was lookin' top-notch--stop't and spoke to me," he went on. "Youcood a nocked me down with a fether I was that scairt. She ast me howyou was an' I lookt her plum in the eye an' I says: all grissul from hishead to his heels, mam, an' able to lick Lew Latour, which I seen him doin quick time an' tolable severe. He can fight like a bob-tailed catwhen he gits a-goin', I says."
What a recommendation to the sweet, unsullied spirit of Sally! Withoutknowledge of my provocation what would she think of me? He had endowedme with all the frightfulness of his own cherished ideal, and what was Ito do about it? Well, I was going home and would try to see her.
What a joy entered my heart when I was aboard the steamboat, at last,and on my way to all most dear to me! As I entered Lake Champlain Iconsulted the map and decided to leave the boat at Chimney Point to findKate Fullerton, who had written to the schoolmaster from Canterbury. Myaunt had said in a letter that old Kate was living there and that agreat change had come over her. So I went ashore and hired a horse ofthe ferryman--one of those "Green Mountain ponies" of which my uncle hadtold me: "They'll take any gait that suits ye, except a slow one, an'keep it to the end o' the road."
I think that I never had a horse so bent on reaching that traditional"end of the road." He was what they called a "racker" those days, and arocking-chair was not easier to ride. He took me swiftly across the wideflat and over the hills and seemed to resent my effort to slow him.
I passed through Middlebury and rode into the grounds of the college,where the Senator had been educated, and on out to Weybridge to seewhere he had lived as a boy. I found the Wright homestead--acomfortable white house at the head of a beautiful valley with woodedhills behind it--and rode up to the door. A white-haired old lady in ablack lace cap was sitting on its porch looking out at the sunlitfields.
"Is this where Senator Wright lived when he was a boy?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," the old lady answered.
"I am from Canton."
She rose from her chair.
"You from Canton!" she exclaimed. "Why, of all things! That's where myboy's home is. I'm glad to see you. Go an' put your horse in the barn."
I dismounted and she came near me.
"Silas Wright is my boy," she said. "What is your name?"
"Barton Baynes," I answered as I hitched my horse.
"Barton Baynes! Why, Silas has told me all about you in his letters. Hewrites to me every week. Come and sit down."
We sat down together on the porch.
"Silas wrote in his last letter that you were going to leave your placein Cobleskill," she continued to my surprise. "He said that he was gladyou had decided not to stay."
It was joyful news to me, for the Senator's silence had worried me andI had begun to think with alarm of my future.
"I wish that he would take you to Washington to help him. The poor manhas too much to do."
"I should think it a great privilege to go," I answered.
"My boy likes you," she went on. "You have been brought up just as hewas. I used to read to him every evening when the candles were lit. Howhard he worked to make a man of himself! I have known the mother's joy.I can truly say, 'Now let thy servant depart in peace.'"
"'For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,'" I quoted.
"You see I know much about you and much about your aunt and uncle," saidMrs. Wright.
She left me for a moment and soon the whole household was gathered aboutme on the porch, the men having come up from the fields. The Senator hadtold them on his last visit of my proficiency as a sound-hand writer andI amused them by explaining the art of it. They put my horse in the barnand pressed me to stay for dinner, which I did. It was a plain boileddinner at which the Senator's cousin and his hired man sat down in theirshirt-sleeves and during which I heard many stories of the boyhood ofthe great man. As I was going the gentle old lady gave me a pair ofmittens which her distinguished son had worn during his last winter incollege. I remember well how tenderly she handled them!
"I hope that Silas will get you to help him"--those were the last wordsshe said to me when I bade her good-by.
The visit had set me up a good deal. The knowledge that I had been somuch in the Senator's thoughts, and that he approved my decision toleave the learned judge, gave me new heart. I had never cherished thethought that he would take me to Washington although, now and then, afaint star of hope had shone above the capitol in my dreams. As I rodealong I imagined myself in that great arena and sitting where I couldsee the flash of its swords and hear the thunder of Homeric voices. Thatis the way I thought of it. Well, those were no weak, piping times ofpeace, my brothers. They were times of battle and as I rode through thatpeaceful summer afternoon I mapped my way to the fighting line. I knewthat I should enjoy the practise of the law but I had begun to feel thateventually my client would be the people whose rights were subject toconstant aggression as open as that of the patroons or as insidious asthat of the canal ring.
The shadows were long when I got to Canterbury. At the head of its mainstreet I looked down upon a village green and some fine old elms. It wasa singularly quiet place. I stopped in front of a big white meetinghouse. An old man was mowing in its graveyard near the highway. Slowlyhe swung his scythe.
"It's a fine day," I said.
"No, it ain't, nuther-too much hard work in it," said he.
"Do you know where Kate Fullerton lives?" I asked.
"Well, it's purty likely that I do," he answered as he stood resting onhis snath. "I've lived seventy-two years on this hill come thefourteenth day o' June, an' if I didn't know where she lived I'd be'shamed of it."
He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment and added:
"I know everybody that lives here an' everybody that dies here, an' somethat orto be livin' but ain't an' some that orto be dead which yecouldn't kill `em with an ax--don't seem so--I declare it don't. Do yesee that big house down there in the trees?"
I could see the place at which he pointed far back from the villagestreet in the valley below us, the house nearly hidden by tallevergreens.
"Yes," I answered.
"No ye can't, nuther--leastways if ye can ye've got better eyes'n mos'people, ye can't see only a patch o' the roof an' one chimney--them pinetrees bein' thicker'n the hair on a dog. It's the gloomiest ol' housein all creation, I guess. Wal, that's the Squire Fullerton place--he'sKate's father."
"Does the squire live there?"
"No, sir--not eggzac'ly. He's dyin' there--been dyin' there fer two yearer more. By gosh! It's wonderful how hard 'tis fer some folks to quitbreathin'. Say, be you any o' his fam'ly?"
"No."
"Nor no friend o' his?"
"No!"
"Course not. He never had a friend in his life--too mean! He's too meanto die, mister--too mean fer hell an' I wouldn't wonder--honest, Iwouldn't--mebbe that's why God is keepin' him here--jest to meller himup a little. Say, mister, be you in a hurry?"
"No."
"Yis ye be. Everybody's in a hurry--seems to me--since we got steampower in the country. Say, hitch yer hoss an' come in here. I want toshow ye suthin'."
He seemed to enjoy contradicting me.
"Nobody seems in a hurry in this town," I said.
"Don't, hey? Wal, ye ought to 'a' seen Deacon Norton run when somepunkins on his side hill bu'st their vines an' come rollin' down an'chased him half a mile into the valley."
I dismounted and hitched my horse to the fence and followed him into theold churchyard, between weather-stained mossy headstones and gravesovergrown with wild roses. Near the far end of these thick-sown acres hestopped.
"Here's where the buryin' begun," said my guide. "The first hole in thehill was dug for a Fullerton."
There were many small monuments and slabs of marble--some spotted withlichens and all in commemoration of departed Fullertons.
"Say, look a' that," said my guide as he pulled aside the stem of aleafy brier red with roses. "Jest read that, mister."
My keen eyes slowly spelled out the time-worn words on a slab of stainedmarble:
Sacred to the memory of Katherine Fullerton 1787-1806 "Proclaim his Word in every place That they are dead who fall from grace."
A dark shadow fell upon the house of my soul and I heard a loud rappingat its door which confused me until, looking out, I saw the strangetruth of the matter. Rose leaves and blossoms seemed to be trying tohide it with their beauty, but in vain.
"I understand," I said.
"No ye don't. Leastways I don't believe ye do--not correct. SquireFullerton dug a grave here an' had an empty coffin put into it away backin 1806. It means that he wanted everybody to understan' that his girlwas jest the same as dead to him an' to God. Say, he knew all aboutGod's wishes--that man. Gosh! He has sent more folks to hell than thereare in it, I guess. Say, mister, do ye know why he sent her there?"
I shook my head.
"Yis ye do, too. It's the same ol' thing that's been sendin' women tohell ever since the world begun. Ye know hell must 'a' been theinvention of a man--that's sartin--an' it was mostly fer women an'children--that's sartiner--an' fer all the men that didn't agree withhim. Set down here an' I'll tell ye the hull story. My day's work isdone."
We sat down together and he went on as follows:
"Did ye ever see Kate Fullerton?"
"Yes."
"No ye didn't, nuther. Yer too young. Mebbe ye seen her when she was oldan' broke down but that wa'n't Kate--no more'n I'm Bill Tweedy, which Iain't. Kate was as handsome as a golden robin. Hair yeller as his breastan' feet as spry as his wings an' a voice as sweet as his song, an' eyesas bright as his'n--yis, sir--ye couldn't beat her fer looks. That wasyears and years ago. Her mother died when Kate was ten year old--there'sher grave in there with the sickle an' the sheaf an' the portry on it.That was unfort'nit an' no mistake. Course the squire married ag'in butthe new wife wa'n't no kind of a mother to the girl an' you know,mister, there was a young scoundrel here by the name o' Grimshaw. Hisfather was a rich man--owned the cooper shop an' the saw-mill an' thetannery an' a lot o' cleared land down in the valley. He kep' comp'nywith her fer two or three year. Then all of a sudden folks began totalk--the women in partic'lar. Ye know men invented hell an' women keepup the fire. Kate didn't look right to 'em. Fust we knew, young Grimshawhad dropped her an' was keepin' comp'ny with another gal--yis, sir. Doye know why?"
Before I could answer he went on:
"No ye don't--leastways I don't believe ye do. It was 'cause her fatherwas richer'n the squire an' had promised his gal ten thousan' dollarsthe day she was married. All of a sudden Kate disappeared. We didn'tknow what had happened fer a long time."
"One day the ol' squire got me to dig this grave an' put up the headstunan' then he tol' me the story. He'd turned the poor gal out o' doors.God o' Israel! It was in the night--yis, sir--it was in the night thathe sent her away. Goldarn him! He didn't have no more heart than agrasshopper--no sir--not a bit. I could 'a' brained him with my shovel,but I didn't.
"I found out where the gal had gone an' I follered her--yis I did--foundher in the poorhouse way over on Pussley Hill--uh huh! She jes' put herarms 'round my neck an' cried an' cried. I guess 'twas 'cause I lookedkind o' friendly--uh huh! I tol' her she should come right over to ourhouse an' stay jest as long as she wanted to as soon as she gotwell--yis, sir, I did.
"She was sick all summer long--kind o' out o' her head, ye know, an' Iused to go over hossback an' take things fer her to eat. An' one daywhen I was over there they was wonderin' what they was goin' to do withher little baby. I took it in my arms an' I'll be gol dummed if itdidn't grab hold o' my nose an' hang on like a puppy to a root. Whenthey tried to take it away it grabbed its fingers into my whiskers an'hollered like a panther--yis, sir. Wal, ye know I jes' fetched thatlittle baby boy home in my arms, ay uh! My wife scolded me like SamHill--yis, sir--she had five of her own. I tol' her I was goin' to takeit back in a day er two but after it had been in the house three days yecouldn't 'a' pulled it away from her with a windlass.
"We brought him up an' he was alwuss a good boy. We called himEnoch--Enoch Rone--did ye ever hear the name?"
"'No.'
"I didn't think 'twas likely but I'm alwuss hopin'.
"Early that fall Kate got better an' left the poorhouse afoot. Went awaysomewheres--nobody knew where. Some said she'd crossed the lake an' goneaway over into York State, some said she'd drowned herself. By'm by weheard that she'd gone way over into St. Lawrence County where SilasWright lives an' where young Grimshaw had settled down after he gotmarried.
"Wal, 'bout five year ago the squire buried his second wife--there 'tisover in there back o' Kate's with the little speckled angel on it.Nobody had seen the squire outside o' his house for years until thefuneral--he was crippled so with rheumatiz. After that he lived all'lone in the big house with ol' Tom Linney an' his wife, who've workedthere fer 'bout forty year, I guess.
"Wal, sir, fust we knew Kate was there in the house livin' with herfather. We wouldn't 'a' knowed it, then, if it hadn't been that TomLinney come over one day an' said he guessed the ol' squire wanted tosee me--no, sir, we wouldn't--fer the squire ain't sociable an' theneighbors never darken his door. She must 'a' come in the night, jest asshe went--nobody see her go an' nobody see her come, an' that's a fact.Wal, one day las' fall after the leaves was off an' they could see acorner o' my house through the bushes, Tom was walkin' the ol' man'round the room. All to once he stopped an' p'inted at my house throughthe winder an' kep' p'intin'. Tom come over an' said he ca'llated thesquire wanted to see me. So I went there. Kate met me at the door. Gosh!How old an' kind o' broke down she looked! But I knew her the minute Iset my eyes on her--uh huh--an' she knew me--yis, sir--she smiled an'tears come to her eyes an' she patted my hand like she wanted to tell methat she hadn't forgot, but she never said a word--not a word. The ol'squire had the palsy, so 't he couldn't use his hands an' his throat wasparalyzed--couldn't speak ner nothin'. Where do ye suppose he was when Ifound him?"
"In bed?" I asked.
"No, sir--no, siree! He was in hell--that's where he was--reg'lar ol'fashioned, down-east hell, burnin' with fire an' brimstun, that he'd hadthe agency for an' had recommended to every sinner in the neighborhood.He was settin' in his room. God o' Isr'el! You orto 'a' seen the motionshe made with his hands an' the way he tried to speak when I went inthere, but all I could hear was jest a long yell an' a kind of a rattlein his throat. Heavens an' airth! how desperit he tried to spit out thething that was gnawin' his vitals. Ag'in an' ag'in he'd try to tell me.Lord God! how he did work!
"All to once it come acrost me what he wanted--quick as ye could sayscat. He wanted to have Kate's headstun took down an' put away--that'swhat he wanted. That stun was kind o' layin' on his stummick an' painin'of him day an' night. He couldn't stan' it. He knew that he was goin' todie purty soon an' that Kate would come here an' see it an' thateverybody would see her standin' here by her own grave, an' it worriedhim. It was kind o' like a fire in his belly.
"I guess, too, he couldn't bear the idee o' layin' down fer his las'sleep beside that hell hole he'd dug fer Kate--no, sir!
"Wal, ye know, mister, I jes' shook my head an' never let on that I knewwhat he meant an' let him wiggle an' twist like a worm on a hot griddle,an' beller like a cut bull 'til he fell back in a swoon.
"Damn him! it don't give him no rest. He tries to tell everybody hesees--that's what they say. He bellers day an' night an' if you go downthere he'll beller to you an' you'll know what it's about, but theothers don't.
"You an' me are the only ones that knows the secret, I guess. Some day,'fore he dies, I'm goin' to take up that headstun an' hide it, but he'llnever know it's done--no, sir--not 'til he gits to the judgment seat,anyway."
The old man stopped and rubbed his hands together as if he were washingthem of the whole matter. The dusk of evening had fallen and crocked thewhite marble and blurred the lettered legends around us. The mossystones now reminded me only of the innumerable host of the dead. Softlythe notes of a song sparrow scattered down into the silence thatfollowed the strange story.
The old man rose and straightened himself and blew out his breath andbrushed his hands upon his trousers by way of stepping down into thisworld again out of the close and dusty loft of his memory. But I calledhim back.
"What has become of Enoch?" I asked.
"Wal, sir, Enoch started off west 'bout three year ago an' we ain'theard a word from him since that day--nary a word, mister. I suppose wewill some time. He grew into a good man, but there was a kind of a queerstreak in the blood, as ye might say, on both sides kind o'. We've wroteletters out to Wisconsin, where he was p'intin' for, an' to places onthe way, but we can't git no news 'bout him. Mebbe he was killed by theInjuns."
We walked out of the graveyard together in silence. Dimly above adistant ridge I could see stark, dead timber looming on a scarlet cloudin the twilight. It is curious how carefully one notes the setting ofthe scene in which his spirit has been deeply stirred.
I could see a glimmer of a light in the thicket of pines down thevalley. I unhitched and mounted my horse.
"Take the first turn to the right," said the old man as he picked up hisscythe.
"I'm very much obliged to you," I said.
"No ye ain't, nuther," he answered. "Leastways there ain't no reason whyye should be."
My horse, impatient as ever to find the end of the road, hurried mealong and in a moment or two we were down under the pine grove thatsurrounded the house of old Squire Fullerton--a big, stone house with agraveled road around it. A great black dog came barking and growling atme from the front porch. I rode around the house and he followed. Beyondthe windows I could see the gleam of candle-light and moving figures. Aman came out of the back door as I neared it.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"My name is Barton Baynes from St. Lawrence County. Kate Fullerton is myfriend and I wish to see her."
"Come up to the steps, sor. Don't git off yer horse--'til I've chainedthe dog. Kate'll be out in a minute."
He chained the dog to the hitching post and as he did so a loud, long,wailing cry broke the silence of the house. It put me in mind of thecomplaint of the damned which I remembered hearing the ministerdescribe years before at the little schoolhouse in Lickitysplit. How itharrowed me!
The man went into the house. Soon he came out of the door with a lightedcandle in his hand, a woman following. How vividly I remember the littlemurmur of delight that came from her lips when he held the candle sothat its light fell upon my face! I jumped off my horse and gave thereins to the man and put my arms around the poor woman, whom I loved forher sorrows and for my debt to her, and rained kisses upon her witheredcheek. Oh God! what a moment it was for both of us!
The way she held me to her breast and patted my shoulder and said "myboy!"--in a low, faint, treble voice so like that of a child--it is oneof the best memories that I take with me into the new life now so near,from which there is no returning.
"My boy!'" Did it mean that she had appointed me to be a kind of proxyfor the one she had lost and that she had given to me the affectionwhich God had stored in her heart for him? Of that, I know only what maybe conveyed by strong but unspoken assurance.
She led me into the house. She looked very neat now--in a black gownover which was a spotless white apron and collar of lace--and much moreslender than when I had seen her last. She took me into a large room inthe front of the house with a carpet and furniture, handsome once butnow worn and decrepit. Old, time-stained engravings of scenes from theBible, framed in wood, hung on the walls.
She gave me a chair by the candle-stand and sat near me and looked intomy face with a smile of satisfaction. In a moment she pointed toward thewest with that forefinger, which in my presence had cut down her enemy,and whispered the one word:
"News?"
I told all that I had heard from home and of my life in Cobleskill butobserved, presently, a faraway look in her eyes and judged that she wasnot hearing me. Again she whispered:
"Sally?"
"She has been at school in Albany for a year," I said. "She is at homenow and I am going to see her."
"You love Sally?" she whispered.
"Better than I love my life."
Again she whispered: "Get married!"
"We hope to in 1844. I have agreed to meet her by the big pine tree onthe river bank at eleven o'clock the third of June, 1844. We are lookingforward to that day."
A kind of shadow seemed to come out of her spirit and rest upon her faceand for a moment she looked very solemn. I suppose that she divined themeaning of all that. She shook her head and whispered:
"Money thirst!"
A tall, slim woman entered the room then and said that supper was ready.Kate rose with a smile and I followed her into the dining-room where twotables were spread. One had certain dishes on it and a white cover,frayed and worn. She led me to the other table which was neatly coveredwith snowy linen. The tall woman served a supper on deep, blue china,cooked as only they could cook in old New England. Meanwhile I couldhear the voice of the aged squire--a weird, empty, inhuman voice it was,utterly cut off from his intelligence. It came out of the troubleddepths of his misery.
So that house--the scene of his great sin which would presently lie downwith him in the dust--was flooded, a hundred times a day, by the unhappyspirit of its master. In the dead of the night I heard its despairechoing through the silent chambers.
Kate said little as we ate, or as we sat together in the shabby, greatroom after supper, but she seemed to enjoy my talk and I went into thedetails of my personal history. How those years of suffering and silencehad warped her soul and body in a way of speaking! They were a poor fitin any company now. Her tongue had lost its taste for speech I doubtnot; her voice was gone, although I had heard a low plaintive murmur inthe words "my boy."
The look of her face, even while I was speaking, indicated that herthoughts wandered restlessly, in the gloomy desert of her past. Ithought of that gay bird--like youth of hers of which the old man withthe scythe had told me and wondered. As I was thinking of this therecame a cry from the aged squire so loud and doleful that it startled meand I turned and looked toward the open door.
Kate rose and came to my side and leaning toward my ear whispered:
"It is my father. He is always thinking of when I was a girl. He wantsme."
She bade me good night and left the room. Doubtless it was the outraged,departed spirit of that golden time which was haunting the old squire. ABible lay on the table near me and I sat reading it for an hour or so. Atall clock in a corner solemnly tolled the hour of nine. In came thetall woman and asked in the brogue of the Irish:
"Would ye like to go to bed?"
"Yes, I am tired."
She took a candle and led me up a broad oaken stairway and into a roomof the most generous proportions. A big four-post bedstead, draped inwhite, stood against a wall. The bed, sheeted in old linen, had quiltedcovers. The room was noticeably clean; its furniture of old mahoganyand its carpet comparatively unworn.
When I was undressed I dreaded to put out the candle. For the first timein years I had a kind of child-fear of the night. But I went to bed atlast and slept rather fitfully, waking often when the cries of the oldsquire came flooding through the walls. How I longed for the light ofmorning! It came at last and I rose and dressed and seeing the hired manin the yard, went out-of-doors. He was a good-natured Irishman.
"I'm glad o' the sight o' ye this fine mornin'," said he. "It's apleasure to see any one that has all their senses--sure it is."
I went with him to the stable yard where he did his milking and talkedof his long service with the squire.
"We was glad when he wrote for Kate to come," he said. "But, sure, Idon't think it's done him any good. He's gone wild since she got here.He was always fond o' his family spite o' all they say. Did ye see thesecond table in the dinin'-room? Sure, that's stood there ever since hisfirst wife et her last meal on it, just as it was then, sor--the samecloth, the same dishes, the same sugar in the bowl, the same pickles inthe jar. He was like one o' them big rocks in the field there--yecouldn't move him when he put his foot down."
Kate met me at the door when I went back into the house and kissed mycheek and again I heard those half-spoken words, "My boy." I ate mybreakfast with her and when I was about to get into my saddle at thedoor I gave her a hug and, as she tenderly patted my cheek, a smilelighted her countenance so that it seemed to shine upon me. I have neverforgotten its serenity and sweetness.