by Howard Pyle
“Does thee know who I am, Isaac Naylor?” said he; then, without waiting for an answer, “I’m Tom Granger!”
Maybe the Friend’s face grew a trifle whiter than it was used to be; nevertheless, he stood his ground, though he looked around and behind him, as though to see whether any help was near to him in case that the need for it should arise. I have no doubt but that Tom’s face was white, his eyes bloodshot, and that he looked wicked and dangerous as he stood in the pathway in front of the other. For a while Isaac stood with bent head and with hands that trembled a little clasped in front of him. But presently he raised his face and looked calmly into Tom’s eyes.
“I heard in town that thee had come back, Thomas,” said he, “and I was both glad and sorry to hear it. I was glad that the Good Father had spared thy life and sorry that thee had come back just now. I see where thee’s been and I know what thee’s heard. I’m sorry — very sorry.”
Tom steadied himself for a moment before he spoke. When he replied, it was in a heavy, monotonous voice: “Yes; I’ve been to see Patty and she’s told me all. I do believe it’ll break her heart. Poor girl! poor girl!” Then he stopped for a moment. Hitherto he had spoken in a low, dull voice; but as he thought of Patty’s grief, his self-restraint gave way and he burst out passionately, “She’s mine, Isaac Naylor — she’s mine! She loves me and no other man in all the world! By the eternal, neither thee nor any other man shall take her from me! I’ll let no man take her from me; I don’t care who he may be!”
He waved his hands about furiously as he spoke, clapping his palms together and pouring the words out upon one another in a torrent. Isaac Naylor must have had some fear that Tom would do him a harm in his passion, for he stepped a pace back. “Come, come, Thomas!” said he, soothingly; “don’t be violent; I’ve done thee no harm — at least, I’ve done thee no witting harm. Every one said that thee was dead; even thy own people said so. Go thy ways, Thomas, and let me go mine in peace. Come; let me past!”
“No, by G-d! Thee’ll not go a step from this till I let thee. Thee shan’t see Patty this day! She’s mine and no other man shall have her for his wife! Will thee give her up to me, Isaac Naylor? Will thee give her up? Will thee give her up, I say?”
Every time he repeated this he came a step forward and Isaac moved a step back. Tom was more than half crazy with his fury and the Friend seemed very anxious and looked back at the road.
“Thomas! Thomas!” said he, “don’t be violent; be reasonable; how could I make thee any such promise as that? Let me past, I must see Patty; there’s reason why I must see her now.”
“Will thee give my darling back to me again?”
“I tell thee, Thomas, it can’t be done. I cannot do it!”
“Thee won’t do it?” Tom stepped forward as he spoke, waving his fist threateningly, and again Isaac stepped backward before him, until he stood against the fence at the roadside, and could go no farther; his face was very white now, and he was in deadly terror. “Let me go, Thomas,” said he, in a trembling voice; “let me go — I’ll not go to Patty; I’ll go back home again.” As he spoke he made a movement to turn, as though to escape.
Tom’s head was in a mad whirl; there was a ringing in his ears, and bright sparks danced and swam before his eyes. “By the eternal! thee’ll never leave this place, Isaac Naylor,” cried he, in a terrible voice.
Then Isaac gave a shrill cry— “Help! Help!” As the words left his lips, Tom leaped upon him, and grappled with him. He struggled furiously, and Tom heard him give another sharp and terrible cry. Tom twisted his fingers into the Friend’s neckerchief, and, after that he made no other noise but a half-choked, strangling gurgle. Tom dragged him backward, and flung him down upon his knees. There was a rough-knotted stake lying by him; it was a part of a fence rail. He picked it up and raised it to strike.
I thank the Lord that his reason came back to him when it did. Another moment, and he would have been beating the life out of the poor terrified wretch at his knee. But suddenly, as though a cloud passed from before his eyes, he saw the white horror-struck face, the parted lips, and the staring eyes that were glaring up at him. Then he gave a cry so sharp that it rang in his own ears, and flinging down the stake, loosened his hold on Isaac.
He stood for a moment staring at the Friend, who staggered to his feet, and then sank down on a great rock that lay near to them, swaying this way and that, as though he were about to faint. Then Tom turned and ran.
The next minute he was out in the highroad.
Beside the bridge was a shallow pool, through which folks drove their teams in the summer time, and where they often stopped to water their horses. There was a black horse standing in the shallow now, and a man was sitting upon its back. Tom looked up as he ran out into the road, and saw that it was Mr. Moor.
Mr. Moor’s eyes were fixed upon his own with a very singular look, and it struck Tom how white his face was. But all this he saw only in one quick glance, for he turned the corner of the road, and ran toward home without stopping. There was a long and steep hill in front of him, and before he reached the top he fell into a walk, for he was panting and laboring for breath. After a while he reached the crest of the hill, and before him lay a level stretch of road; some distance along it he could see the tall cedars that stood around the old homestead farm-house. At last he came to where the long lane ran winding down from the house amongst the maple and ailanthus trees, and opened on the turnpike road through a gate that always stood open. Then Tom broke into a run again; up the lane he went, and so came at last to the paved porch at the back of the house, noticing as he passed, that Will Gaines’ horse and gig were standing beside the horse block across the road. Then he burst into the house, and into the best room.
All of the shutters were bowed but one, which was half opened, giving a faint light into the darkened room. Tom’s father and mother, his sister Susan, and his two elder brothers and Will Gaines were all there. His mother was sitting in a rocking chair, the tears running down her pale face, and Susan was fanning her with a palm-leaf fan. Will Gaines had told them of his coming, and Tom afterward found that his mother had fainted, and had only just recovered from her swoon.
“Mother!” cried he, and he ran to her and flung himself on his knees in front of her, burying his face in her lap, while great sobs shook him through and through.
No one spoke for a long time, but Tom felt his mother’s soft touch smoothing his hair. I think that they were all weeping at that time. I know that Susan was crying on the corner of the sofa, where she had flung herself, burying her face in the cushion. It was Will Gaines who spoke first.
“I guess I’ll go now,” said he, in a broken voice; and Tom presently heard him shutting the door softly behind him.
Then another space of dead silence followed, broken only by Susan’s catching breath. At last Tom’s mother spoke.
“Where has thee been, Thomas?” said she.
“I’ve been to see Patty, mother.”
“Oh, Tom! Tom!” cried Susan; and Tom could feel his mother’s hand trembling as it rested upon his head. Presently she spoke in an unsteady voice:
“Leave us for a little while, father; it’ll be best — just for a little while.”
Then the others went out, and they were left alone. Tom told all about his meeting with Patty, in broken and disconnected words. Every now and then he would stop, for there were times when the words that he sought to say would not come. He felt that his mother was crying, though she was crying silently. It was good for him to tell all of his troubles, for there are times when our sorrows gather upon us like great waters, that will overwhelm the soul if they do not find an outlet in speech.
Tom’s mother knew of the comfort that words bring with them, so she let him talk on, without saying anything herself. When he had ended, she spoke gentle and loving words to him, though she could give him no hope.
“I wish that I’d not seen Patty,” said Tom; “I wish that I’d come straight home as
Will told me to do. Why didn’t he tell me of all this?”
“I suppose that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.”
“I wish I’d not seen her,” said Tom, again.
“It’s too late for wishing now,” said his mother.
Nothing more was said between them, and both knew that the marriage must be gone through with now. The time had been fixed for the wedding. It was for eleven o’clock the next morning. The friends had all been asked, the new house was furnished, the linen provided, and even Patty’s dresses made. It could not be stopped without great scandal to all concerned. If only he had not come back again. Then Patty would have been married quietly to a man whom she could respect, if not love, and her life would not have been without contentment. But now that she had seen him, what contentment could she have, loving him and marrying another man?
At last they quitted the room together; but the first bitterness had passed and gone. The first one whom he met was Susan. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, the tears brimming in her eyes as she did so.
“Dear, dear Tom,” said she, and Tom knew from the tone of her voice that she was thinking of Patty, though her name had not been spoken betwixt them.
“Don’t, Susan,” said he, huskily, for his heart was still very sore.
Then his father came and shook hands with him, as did William also, and presently John came over from the barnyard and joined them. This was all of the family that were at home, for Henry was in a store in Lancaster and Mary was visiting friends in Chester.
Friends, of the old times especially, were a restrained, self-repressed people, giving but little freedom to the flow of natural feeling. Tom’s father and his brothers had been moved — deeply moved; but now, when they came forward to shake him by the hand, excepting for the closeness of the grip that they gave him and the firmness of the pressure of palm to palm, no one would have thought that he had returned to them as the dead might return from the grave. It was, so far as any outward forms were concerned, as though he had but just come home after a two weeks’ absence.
After a few hesitating words of welcome, the men folks sat down and Tom began telling of those things that had befallen him in the year and a half past. He spun his yarn pretty steadily, though every now and then he would stop in his speech, for as he told of the finding of the money on the island, his words brought before him all of those hopes that had borne him up through the toil; then a rush of feeling would sweep over him as he thought how all this had been taken out of his life, and he would stop in his talking to steady himself. He said nothing of this to the others, but I think that they all felt the sorrow that was lying at the bottom of his heart. Then they sat down to supper.
Tom’s father tried to turn the talk more cheerfully.
“We haven’t told thee the great news, Thomas,” said he.
“What is it?” said Tom.
“Thee sees, thy coming upset us all, so that we didn’t think of it. Thee tell him, Susan.”
Susan looked down, and the color rose in her face.
“What is the news?” said Tom, again.
“Well,” said his father, “as Susan don’t seem inclined to tell thee, I suppose I must do it myself. How would thee like Will Gaines for a brother?”
Tom did not speak for a moment, then he said, a little unsteadily; “I — I wish thee joy, Susan; thee’s chosen a good man for thy husband, and I believe he’ll make thee happy.”
Then they were silent for a while.
“When is thee going to be married?” said Tom again, at last.
“The time’s not fixed yet; some time in the eleventh month, I guess.”
After a while Tom’s father spoke.
“What’s thee going to do now, Thomas?” said he.
“I don’t know exactly,” said Tom, huskily; “I’m going to Philadelphia again on the first stage to-morrow.”
His mother looked earnestly at him, and the tears rose in her eyes, and rolled slowly down her cheeks; then she pushed back her chair, and left the table hurriedly.
Presently they all arose and went into the sitting-room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, for, though the days were warm, the evenings were cool and frosty. The four men sat down around the fire, smoking and talking together in a rambling fashion. Their words were constrained, for each felt upon his mind the parting that was to come to-morrow.
So the time passed until the old clock in the corner struck nine. Then Tom’s father arose in the way that Tom knew so well, and lit his candle with one of the paper lamplighters on the mantle shelf. Before he left the room he came to Tom and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Thy burthen’s heavy, Thomas,” said he; “bear it like a man.”
“I’ll try,” said Tom.
“I wish that we could have thee longer with us, but thee’s doing right to go; thee mustn’t stay in the neighborhood just now.” He stood for a moment as though he were about to say something more; he did not speak again, however, but presently turned and left the room.
Such was Tom’s home-coming after a year and a half of shipwreck and misery. How had he looked forward to that home-coming, and how had it, like dead sea fruit, turned to bitterness in the mouth! Truly, it is kind in the good Father that he has given us to look into the past, and not forward into that which is to come. What hope would there be left in the world, if we could know the sorrows that were to come upon us in time?
CHAPTER XVI.
IT OFTENTIMES COMES in this world that cares and troubles fall upon one, not in one deadly blow, but in stroke after stroke, as though to bear the man to the earth with their constant beating. Surely men’s souls are of tough fibre that they can so bend beneath such blows, beaten down only to rise again, bruised, wounded, but living. There is within a man a courage bred of hope that lives even in the darkest moments; a courage that lifts him up again out of the dust and supports him along his way, lame and sore, perhaps, but not broken down utterly.
So it was with Tom. Bitter troubles had come upon him during the past year and a half, and the bitterest and darkest of all had fallen upon him the day before. Still more were to come, and yet he has lived through these and others until his life has covered a span of nigh four score and ten, and at the end of them all he can still say that life is a pleasant thing.
Tom was up at the peep of day, for there were some things that he wished to take with him, and the packing of them must be done before breakfast time. He was to leave on the Enterprise stage, which passed the house about eight o’clock.
Little was said amongst the members of the family during breakfast time, and only a few words were spoken about his going. Half-past seven came and then Tom stood up and kissed his mother and Susan. Susan clung to him weeping; his mother’s eyes were full of tears, but they did not flow over.
“The Lord bless thee, my son!” said she, with trembling lips. These were all the words that she spoke.
“Come, Thomas,” said his father at last; “the stage’ll soon be along, and thee’ll miss it if thee don’t look out. I’ll walk down to the road with thee.”
“Farewell, William,” said Tom, shaking hands with his brother.
“Farewell, Thomas.”
“John—”
“I guess I’ll walk down to the road with thee, Thomas. Let me carry thy bundle,” said John.
“Never mind; it’s very light,” said Tom.
They were silent as they went down the lane, and silent for a while as they stood at the roadside waiting for the stage; each was occupied with his own thoughts. At last John broke through the painful silence. “The stage is mighty late this morning,” said he, in a constrained voice.
“Thee’ll write to us, won’t thee, Thomas?” said his father, looking away as he spoke.
“Yes,” said Tom.
“Yonder’s the stage coming down Wilkes’ Hill,” said John.
But it was destined that Tom was not to go to Philadelphia that day on the Enterprise stage, or fo
r some time to come.
“Who’s that coming up the road yonder,” said John.
“It looks like William Gaines,” said Tom’s father.
“It is Will Gaines,” said Tom.
So Will came galloping up to them, and then all three men saw from his face that he was the bearer of strange news. He leaped from his horse without a word of greeting, or without seeming to wonder why the three were standing there. His mind was too preoccupied to give attention to anything but his thoughts.
“Have you heard what’s happened?” said he.
“No.”
“What?”
Will hesitated for a moment and then said, in a solemn voice: “Isaac Naylor has been murdered!”
There was a space of dead silence.
“Isaac Naylor murdered!” said Tom’s father under his breath. Will nodded his head; he was looking straight at Tom; his face was very pale and there was a troubled, anxious look in his eyes.
“Murdered!” repeated John, mechanically, “where, when, how?”
“Ephraim Whiteley and his colored man found him at five o’clock this morning; his scull was beaten in with a piece of fence-rail!”
“My God!” cried Tom. He put his hand to his forehead, for horrible thoughts were passing through his mind. Could he — could he have killed Isaac? Was it a creation of his fancy that had left him sitting upon the rock, half strangled, but otherwise unhurt?
“Where did they find him?” said John, in a low voice.
“On the old mill road, about three hundred yards from the turnpike.”
Tom looked slowly about him; was he dreaming? Did he really hear the words that Will spoke?
The Philadelphia coach had come up to them, but no one had noticed its coming. They must have showed by their faces that something strange had happened, for the coach stopped when it came to where they were standing.
