Читать книгу Bessie's Fortune - Mary Jane Holmes - Страница 25

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When Hannah reached home the gray November afternoon was already merging into the dark night, which was made still darker by the violence of the increasing storm, and never had Hannah's home seemed so desolate and dreary as it did when the sleigh turned from the highway into the cross-road which lead to it, and she saw through the gathering gloom the low, snow-covered roof and the windows from which no welcoming light was shining. It had been so bright, and cheerful, and warm in the drawing-room at Grey's Park, and here all was cold, and cheerless, and dark, as she went into the house with a vague presentiment of the horror awaiting her.

Entering through the wood-shed she stumbled upon Sam, who was sitting on a pile of wood, and who said to her:

"I guess your father is mighty bad. I didn't go near him till I heard him groaning and praying, and taking on so, that I opened the door and asked if he wanted anything. Then he jumped out of bed and told me to be gone, spying on him, and he locked the door on me, and I heard him as if he was under the bed trying to tear up the floor, and I ran out here, for I was afraid."

"Under the bed!" Hannah repeated, while a cold sweat oozed from every pore. "He must be crazy! But do not come with me to his room; it would make him worse. I can manage him alone; but please make a fire in the summer kitchen and stay there this evening. Father seems to know when any one is in the next room and it troubles him."

"Yes-m," the boy replied, thinking it a very strange freak that the old man would allow no one with him except his daughter.

But Sam was neither quick nor suspicious, and glad of any change from the cold wood-shed, he started to kindle a fire in the room adjoining, which in summer was used for a kitchen, while Hannah, lighting a candle, hastened to the door of her father's room, which she found locked, while from within she heard labored breathing, and a sound like tugging at a board which evidently offered resistance.

"Father," she cried, in terror, "let me in! It is I, Hannah, and Sam is in the wood-shed."

After a moment the key was turned and Hannah stepped inside, locking the door after her.

In the middle of the floor her father stood, with his long white hair falling around his corpse-like face and his eyes bright with the excitement of delirium. The bed was moved toward the center of the room and in the farthest corner a board of the floor had been partially removed.

"What are you doing?" Hannah asked, advancing quickly to her father.

"Oh, Hannah," the old man said, whimperingly; "I did so want to be sure that it was there. I dreamed it was gone, that it had never been there, and it was so real I wanted to see. I thought I'd get done before you came, but it was so hard. I cannot get the boards up. But you can do it; go down on your knees and take the floor up just this once. I'll never ask it again. It was thirty-one years ago to-night, and when it is thirty-two I shall be dead. Go down, Hannah, I want to know if it is there still, the horror I have slept over every night for thirty-one long years."

"No, father," Hannah answered, firmly. "Ask me anything but that. Be satisfied that it is there. Who should take it away, when no one knows but ourselves? Get into bed, father; you are shivering with cold."

Like a conquered child the old man obeyed her and crept into bed, while she drew the blankets around him, and then stooping down in the dark corner she drove the loosened board to its place, shuddering as she did so and experiencing a feeling of terror such as she had not felt before in years. Pushing the bed back to its usual position, she sat down by her father and tried to quiet him, for he was strangely restless, and talked of, things which made the blood curdle in her veins.

"Hark!" he exclaimed, as a gust of wind went shrieking past the window. "What was that, Hannah, that sound like a human cry?"

"It was only the wind. A wild storm is sweeping over the hills to-night," she said, as she drew a little nearer to him and took his hand in hers as if to give herself courage, for she, too, fancied there was in the wailing wind the echo of a cry she never could forget.

"Yes," the old man replied, "just such a storm as shook the house thirty-one years ago to-night, and above it all I hear Rover's howl and the awful word you shouted aloud and which the winds caught up and carried everywhere so that the world is full of it. Do you remember it, Hannah!"

Did she remember it. Ask rather could she ever forget the awful word which it seemed to her was written on the very walls and doors of the house, and on her forehead where all the world might see it!

Ask her if she remembered, when even now, after the lapse of thirty-one years, she could hear so distinctly the shriek of despair, which, as her father had said, the winds had caught up and carried over the hills and far away, where it was still repeating itself over and over again, and would go on forever until reparation were made, if that were possible now.

It was always ringing in her ears, just as the stains were on her hands, where she felt them as she clasped her long thin fingers convulsively and wondered if she were going mad.

Her father was very quiet now; he was falling asleep, and sinking on her knees beside the bed, the wretched woman moaned piteously:

"Oh, my Father in heaven, how long must I bear this burden which to-night presses so heavily? Help me, help me, for I am so weak and sad. Thou knowest I was innocent, and I have tried so hard to do right. If I have failed—if I ought to have spoken in spite of the vow, forgive me, for if my sin is great, great, too, has been my punishment.

"I cannot stay here," she thought, as she rose from her knees. "The room is full of phantoms which gibber at me from the dark corners, and shout the word in my ears as I shouted it that awful night when Rover kept me company. Poor old Rover, lying under the snow. If he were only here I should not be quite so desolate. I believe that for the first time in my life I am a coward," and shaking with cold, or fear, or both, Hannah left her father's room and went into the kitchen, where Sam was stuffing the stove with wood.

The moment she appeared, however, he withdrew the stick he was crowding in, and began to close some of the draughts. But she said to him:

"Don't do that, Sam. Let it burn; put on more. I am very cold. And light a candle, Sam; three candles! It is so dark here, and the wind howls so. Does it say anything to you, Sam? Any word, I mean?"

Sam had no idea what she meant, nor, indeed, did he think if she meant any thing, for his wits came slowly. People called him stupid, and this was his greatest recommendation to Hannah, who could not have had a bright, quick-seeing boy in her household.

Sam suited her, and his answer to her question was characteristic of him.

"No, I don't hear nothin' it says, only it screams like a panther in a fit," and Sam deliberately lighted the three candles, and placed them on the table, while Hannah drew a hard wooden chair to the stove, and putting her feet upon the hearth, clasped her hands around her knees, and sat there till she was thoroughly warm, and her nerves were quieted.

She was not afraid now, and taking one of the candles she went to her father's room and found him sleeping, with a calm, peaceful expression on his face, and another look, too, which made her heart stand still a moment, for she felt intuitively that the black shadow of death had crept into the room.

Suddenly he awoke, and seeing her standing by him smiled lovingly upon her, and said:

"Is that you, Hannah? faithful always, but your work is almost done, I am going home very soon to the dear Saviour. I am sure of it. I know it. My sins are washed away in His blood; even the stains upon my hands, which are clean and white now as were Grey's the day he caught and held me so fast. May God bless the boy and make him a good man, and a comfort to you, my child, who have been so much to me, the best, most unselfish of daughters. And something tells me you will be happy when I am gone. I hope so, I pray so; and now, Hannah, send for Burton. I shall not be here in the morning, and I must see him once more, and send for Mr. Sanford, too. I must see him before I die. Burton and the minister, no one else; not even the boy Grey; he must not come, for, Hannah, I am going to tell!"

"What, father?" Hannah gasped, and he replied:

"I am going at last to confess the whole to my son and the clergyman. I must do it. I shall die easier."

"But, father," Hannah cried, in alarm, "reflect a moment. What possible good can it do to tell Mr. Sanford, or even Burton? It would only give him unnecessary pain. You have kept it so long, why not let the grave bury your secret?"

"Because I cannot," the old man answered, "I must tell Burton. I have always intended to do it at the last, so that he might know what you have borne. Perhaps he may be kinder, gentler with you. Burton stands well with men; high in the world, but he is not like you; he would never have done what you have, and I want him to know that there is a sacrifice which ennobles one more than all the honors of the world, and I want Mr. Sanford to know why I could not go forward and ratify my baptismal vows, as he has so often urged me to do, thinking me obstinate in my refusal; and I wish to hear him say that he believes I am forgiven; that Christ will receive me, even me, a—Oh, Hannah, I can not say that word. I cannot give myself that name. I never have, you know. It was so sudden, so without forethought, and, could I live my life over again, I think I should tell at once, and not bury the secret as I did. But hurry, Hannah. Send Sam. I have but a few hours to live. Tell them to come quickly, Burton and the minister, not Grey."

So Hannah wrote the note to her brother, and gave it to Sam, who, in a most unwilling frame of mind, harnessed the horse, and started in the storm for Grey's Park.

Meanwhile, in anticipation of the coming of the guests, Hannah put her father's room a little more to rights, lighted another candle, put more wood in the stove, and then sat down to wait the result, with a heart which it seemed to her had ceased to beat, so pulseless and dead it lay in her bosom. She had no fear of anything personally adverse to herself or her father arising from the telling of the secret kept so many years. It would be safe with Mr. Sanford, while her proud brother would die a thousand deaths sooner than reveal it; but, oh, how cruelly he would be hurt, and how he would shrink from the story, and blame her that she allowed it to be told, especially to the clergyman—and she might perhaps prevent that yet. So she made another effort, but her father was determined.

"I must, I must; I shall die easier, and he will never tell. We have known him so long. Twenty-five years he has been here, and he took to us from the first. Do you remember how often he used to come and read to you on the bench under the apple tree?"

"Yes, father," Hannah answered, with a gasp, and he went on:

"Seeing you two together so much, I used to think he had a liking for you, and you for him. Did you, Hannah? Were you and the minister ever engaged?"

"No, father, never," Hannah replied, as she pressed her hands tightly together, while two great burning tears rolled down her cheeks.

"And yet you were a comely enough lass then," her father rejoined, as if bent on tormenting her. "You had lost your bright color to be sure, but there was something very winsome in your face and eyes, and manner; and he might better have married you than the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, fussy Martha Craig, who, like the Martha of old, is troubled about many things, and leads the minister a stirred up kind of life."

"Mrs. Sanford is a model housekeeper, and takes good care of her husband," Hannah said, softly; and then, as she heard the sound of voices outside, she arose quickly, and went to meet her brother, and the man who, her father had said, would better have married her than the "sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Martha."