Out of the Hurly-Burly Part 18

A DELAWARE LEGEND--A STORY OF THE OLD TIME--THE CHRISTMAS PLAY--A CRUEL ACCUSATION--THE FLIGHT IN THE DARKNESS ALONG THE RIVER Sh.o.r.e--THE TRIAL AND THE CONDEMNATION--ST. PILLORY'S DAY SEVENTY YEARS AGO--FLOGGING A WOMAN--THE DELIVERANCE.

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While the scenes at the whipping-post on flogging-day are fresh in my mind, I have written down the story of Mary Engle. It is a Delaware legend, and the events of which it speaks occurred, I will say, seventy-odd years ago, when they were in the habit of las.h.i.+ng women in this very town of New Castle.

It was on Christmas day that a little party had a.s.sembled in the old Newton mansion to partic.i.p.ate in the festivities for which, at this season of the year, it was famous all the country over. The house stood upon the river bank, three miles and more from New Castle, and in that day it was considered the greatest and handsomest building in the whole neighborhood. A broad lawn swept away from it down to the water's edge, and in summer-time this was covered with bright-colored flowers and bounded by green hedges. Now the gra.s.s was bleached with the cold; the hedges were brown and sere, and the huge old trees, stripped of their foliage, moaned and creaked and s.h.i.+vered in the wind, rattling their branches together as if seeking sympathy with each other in their desolation.

Inside the mansion the scene was as cheerful as life and fun and high spirits could make it.

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Old Major Newton, the lord and master of all the wide estates, was one of the race of country gentlemen who introduced to this continent the manners, habits and large hospitality of the better cla.s.s of English squires of his day. He was a mighty fox-hunter, as many a brush hung in his dining-hall could attest. A believer in the free use of the good things of life, his sideboard always contained a dozen decanters, from which the coming, the remaining and the parting guests were expected to follow the major's example in drinking deeply. His table was always profusely supplied with good fare, and dining with him was the great duty and pleasure of the day. He was a gentleman in education, and to some extent in his tastes; but his manners partook of the coa.r.s.eness of his time, for he swore fierce oaths, and his temper was quick, terrible and violent. His forty negro slaves were treated with indulgent kindness while they obeyed him implicitly, but any attempt at insubordination upon their part called down upon their heads a volley of oaths and that savage punishment which the major considered necessary to discipline.

To-day the major had been out of spirits, and had not joined heartily in the hilarity of the company, which, despite the gloom of the master, made the old house ring with the merriment and laughter due to the happiness of Christmas time.

At five o'clock dinner was done; and the ladies having withdrawn, the cloth was removed, the wine and whisky and apple-toddy, and a half dozen other beverages, were brought out, and the major, with his male guests, began the serious work of the repast. The major sat at the head of the table; Dr. Ricketts, a jolly bachelor of fifty, who neglected medicine that he might better spend his fortune in a life of ease and pleasure, presided at the lower end of the board, upon the flanks of which sat a dozen gentlemen from the neighboring estates, among them Tom Willitts, from the adjoining farm, and d.i.c.k Newton, the major's only son.

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The conversation languished somewhat. The major was as gloomy as he had been earlier in the day. d.i.c.k seemed to sympathize with his father. Tom Willitts was impatient to have the drinking bout over, that he might go to the parlor, where his thoughts already wandered, and where his _fiancee_, Mary Engle, the fair governess in the major's family, awaited him. The guests at last began to be depressed by the want of spirits in their host; and if it had not been for Doctor Ricketts, there would have been a dull time indeed. But the doctor was talkative, lively and wholly indifferent to the taciturnity of his companions. His weakness was a fondness for theorizing, and he rattled on from topic to topic, heedless of anything but the portly goblet which he replenished time and again from the decanter and the punch-bowl.

At last he exclaimed, in the hope of rousing his host from his apparent despondency, "And now let's have a song from the major. Give us the 'Tally Ho!' Newton."

"I can't sing it to-day, gentlemen," said the major; "the fact is I am a good deal out of sorts. I have met with a misfortune, and I--"

"Why, what's happened?" exclaimed the whole company.

"Why," said the major, with an oath, "I've lost my famous old diamond brooch--a jewel, gentlemen, given to my father by George II.--a jewel that I valued more than all the world beside. It was the reward given to my father for a brave and gallant deed at the battle of Dettingen, and its rare intrinsic value was trifling beside that which it possessed as the evidence of my father's valor."

"How did you lose it, major?" asked the doctor.

"I went to my desk this morning, and found that the lock had been picked, the inside drawer broken open and the brooch taken from its box."

"Who could have done it?"

"I can't imagine," replied the major; "I don't think any of those n.i.g.g.e.rs would have done such a thing. I've searched them all, but it's of no use, sir--no use; it's gone. But if I ever lay hands on the scoundrel, I'll flay him alive--I will, indeed, even if it should be d.i.c.k there;" and the old man gulped down a heavy draught of port, as if to drown his grief.

"My theory about such crimes," said the doctor, "is that the persons committing them are always more or less insane."

"Insane!" swore the major, fiercely. "If I catch the man who did this, I'll fit him for a hospital!"

"We are all a little daft at times--when we are angry, in love, in extreme want, or excited by intense pa.s.sion of any kind," said the doctor. "Extreme ignorance, being neglect of one's intellectual faculties, is a kind of insanity, and so is the perversion of the moral perceptions of those who are educated to a life of crime from their childhood. My theory is that punishment should be so inflicted as to restore reason, not merely to wreak vengeance."

"And my theory is that every vagabond who breaks the laws ought to be flogged and imprisoned, so that he may know that society will not tolerate crime. Hang your fine-spun theories about the beggars who prey upon the community!" said the major, rising and kicking back his chair ill-naturedly.

The doctor had nothing more to say, and the company withdrew to the parlor.

There, gathered around the great fireplace, sat Mrs. Newton, her daughters--both children--Mary Engle, their tutor, Mrs. Willitts and the wives of the gentlemen who had come from the dinner-table.

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They rose as the men entered the room, and greeted them cordially. Tom Willitts went quickly to Mary's side, and while the others engaged in lively conversation he took her hand gently and, as was their privilege, they walked slowly up the room and sat by the window alone, Mary's face brightening as she thanked Tom heartily for the beautiful present he had sent her the day before.

"Why don't you wear it now, Mary?" asked Tom.

"Do you want me to? I will get it and put it on, then, when I go to my room," said Mary.

Mary Engle was the daughter of a widow in humble circ.u.mstances who lived in the village. Talented and well-educated, she had determined no longer to be a burden upon her mother, but to support herself. She had chosen to become a governess in Major Newton's family. Young, beautiful and of good social position, she was a valuable acquisition to that household, and was a universal favorite, although the major could never quite rid himself of the notion that, as she was a dependant and an employe, he was conferring a favor upon her by permitting such intimate relations to exist between her and his family. But he treated her kindly, as all men must a pretty woman. She was a girl with whom any man might have fallen in love upon first acquaintance. d.i.c.k Newton loved her pa.s.sionately before she had been in his father's house a month. But she had chosen rather to favor Tom Willitts, a constant visitor at the Newton mansion, and as fine a fellow as ever galloped across the country with the hounds. d.i.c.k had not had time to propose before the game was up and Tom called the prize his own. But d.i.c.k nursed his pa.s.sion and smothered his disappointment, while he swore that he would possess the girl or involve her and her lover in common ruin with himself. Tom had been engaged for three months before this Christmas day. He was to be married in the coming spring.

There was to be a theatrical exhibition in the Newton mansion this Christmas evening, in which the young people were to partic.i.p.ate. A temporary stage had been erected at one end of the long room, and at an early hour seats were placed in front of the curtain, and the guests took their places, conversing with much merriment and laughter until the bell gave the signal for the performance to begin.

It was a little play--a brief comedy of only tolerable merit, and it devolved upon Mary Engle to enter first.

She tripped in smiling, and began the recitation with a vivacity and spirit that promised well for the excellence of her performance throughout. Upon her throat she wore a diamond brooch which blazed and flashed in the glare of the foot-lights.

There was an exclamation of surprise on the part of the gentlemen present, and the sound startled Mary. She paused and looked around her inquiringly. Just then Major Newton caught sight of the brooch. With an ugly word upon his lips, he sprang from his seat and jumped upon the stage.

"Where did you get that?" he demanded, fiercely, pointing at the diamonds, his hand trembling violently.

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There was absolute silence in the room as Mary, pale and calm, replied:

"Why do you ask, sir?"

"Where did you get that, I say? It was stolen from me. You are a thief!"

In an instant she tore it from her dress and flung it upon the floor.

The major leaped toward it and picked it up quickly.

Mary covered her face with her hands, and the crimson of her cheeks shone through her fingers.

"Where did you get it?" again demanded the major.

"I will not tell you, sir," said she, dragging down her hands with an effort and clasping them in front of her.

"Then leave this house this instant, and leave it for ever!" said the major, wild with pa.s.sion.

Tom Willitts entered just as the last words were uttered. Mary seemed fainting. He flew to her side as if to defend her against her enemy. He did not know the cause of her trouble, but he glared at the major as if he could slay him. But as he tried to place his arm around Mary, she shrank away from him; and giving him one look of scorn and contempt and hatred, she ran from the room.

From the room to the great door in the hall, which, with frantic eagerness, she flung open, and then, without any covering upon her fair head, hot with shame and disgrace, and maddened with insult, she fled out into the cold and dark and desolate winter's night.

Scarcely heeding the direction, she reached the river's sh.o.r.e; and choosing the hard sand for a pathway, she hurried along it. The tide swept up in ceaseless ripples at her feet, the waves breaking upon the icy fringe of the sh.o.r.e, each with a whisper that seemed to tell of her dishonor. The wind rustled the sedges upon the banks and filled them with voices that mocked her. The stars that lighted her upon her mad journey twinkled through the frosty air with an intelligence they had never before possessed. The lights, far out upon the river and in the distant town, danced up and down in the darkness as if beckoning her to come on to them and to destruction.

Her brain was in a whirl. At first she felt an impulse to end her misery in the river. One plunge, and all this anguish and pain would be buried beneath those restless waters. Then the hope of vindication flashed upon her mind, and the awful sin and the cowardice of self-destruction rose vividly before her. She would seek her home and the mother from whom she should never have gone out. She would give up happiness and humanity, and hide herself from the cold, heartless world for ever. She would have no more to do with false friends and false lovers, but would shut herself away from all this deceit and treachery and unkindness, and nevermore trust any human being but her own dear mother.

And so, over the sandy beach, through mire and mud, through the high gra.s.s and the reeds of the water's edge, tangled and dead, and full of peril in the darkness, with her hair disheveled and tossed about by the riotous wind, but with not a tear upon her white face, she struggled onward through the night, until, exhausted with her journey, her wild pa.s.sion and her misery, she reached her mother's house, and entering, clasped her arms about her mother's neck, and with a sob fell fainting at her feet.