The Mystery of the Locks Part 24

If the men wearied in the search, a look at the earnest, gray-haired old man in the largest boat, who was always straining his eyes in attempting to penetrate the darkness, revived them, and they floated on, pulling to the right or to the left, as Thompson Benton directed, and crying, "Halloo! Halloo!" in tones which sounded plaintive, and sad, and hopeless. Always an earnest man, Thompson Benton had never before been as earnest as he was this night, and he had called "Halloo! Halloo!" so frequently that when he spoke it was either in a hoa.r.s.e voice, or in a soft whisper.

At the lower point of the bend in the hills which gave the town its name, a sluggish lake was found, the main current striking diagonally across the river to shorten the distance in its hurry to do mischief below, and the boats found their way into this. While floating around not far from the base of the hills, those who were in the smaller boat suddenly came upon a gravestone, the top of which was only a foot out of water.

"We are floating over Hedgepath graveyard," the man who was in front carrying the torch said to the others. The stone which had attracted his attention seemed to be taller than the others, for it was the only one appearing above the surface; the water covered everything except this rounded piece of stone, which alone remained to mark the resting-place of the dead, providing the dead had not been seized with the universal desire for floating off, and gone away to visit graveyards in the lower country.

He caught hold of the stone to steady the boat, and, throwing his light upon the other side of it, read:--

"Sacred to the memory of--"

The name in whose honor the slab had been raised was below the water, and the man put his hand down into it to read, as a blind man reads raised letters.

"The first letter is A," he said, rubbing the face of the stone with his fingers, "like the alphabet; and the next is L."

The fellow continued rubbing the face of the stone with the tips of his fingers, while his lips moved as he tried letter after letter, and gave them up.

"h.e.l.lo! Another L!" he said in surprise, at last, drawing up his hand hurriedly on making the discovery, and shaking it violently to throw off the water, but there remained on his wrist a sickening sc.u.m, which he hurriedly transferred to the side of the boat.

"I'll read no further," he said, with a frightened look. "I'm afraid it will turn out to be Allan, with a s.p.a.ce and a big 'D' following it."

The torch-bearer still held on to the stone while the rowers rested, but the other boat, in which Thompson Benton sat, was busy a short distance beyond them; from one clump of debris to another, as if he only hoped now to find the lifeless body of the one he sought.

"Strange people are buried here," the torch-bearer said, speaking softly to his panting companions, while they rested from their hard work.

"Suicides, and those who have died violent deaths; Hedgepath is devoted to them. I've heard it said that this is a rough neighborhood, but the best of their dead are put away further up the hill. If the flood has not drowned out the ghosts, we will see one to-night."

The suggestion of ghosts was not a pleasant one to the rowers, particularly to those who were farthest from the torch, for they looked timidly about as though they were likely to be approached from behind by spirits riding on headstones.

"There is a road running along the edge of Hedgepath, leading from the ferry into the hills," the torch-bearer said, who was the bravest of the lot, because he was directly under the light, "and those who have travelled it at night say that the inhabitants of this place sit on stumps beside the road and want to argue with the pa.s.sers-by. One fellow who was hanged,--_he_ has a great deal to say about the perjured witnesses; and another who was accused of poisoning himself,--he says he found it in his coffee, though he does not tell who put it there; and so many others have horrible stories to tell that travellers usually hurry by this place as fast as they can."

It was not a cheerful subject, but his companions listened with close attention, occasionally casting glances behind them.

"The unknown people who are found floating in the river; _they_ are buried here, and those who travel the Hedgepath road at night say these offer them letters, and ask that they be posted. I have forgotten who it was, but somebody told me that he received one of these letters in his own hand, and mailed it, and that soon after one of the bodies was taken up by friends from a distance, and carried away."

The grim joker was interrupted by a hail from the other boat, and the men dipped their oars into the water, and pulled toward it.

Thompson Benton and those who were with him were looking with eager eyes at a boat which was floating a short distance beyond them, within the rays of their torch, and which was rising and falling with the ripples, with both oars hanging helplessly out in the water. The men were waiting in fear for their companions to come up to keep them company before approaching it, and when the two boats were side by side, they were held together, and the outside oars of each were used to row toward the deserted craft, as a party of men who discover a suspicious object in a strange locality might move toward it together.

As they drew nearer, the form of a prostrate man was seen seen--

Dismiss thy husband into the shadows from whence he came, O pretty wife, for he is murdered.

In the bottom of the boat, lying easily on his back, the rowers found Allan Dorris, dead; his eyes closed as if in disturbed sleep, and his face upturned to the heavens. His right hand was gripped on the side of the boat, as if his last wish had been to pull himself into a sitting posture, and look toward the town where his faithful wife was watching for his return. The flash of the torches made the face look ghastly and white, and there was a stain of blood on his lips. Those who looked upon the face saw in it an expression of regret to die, which remained with them as long as they lived; they spoke of it tenderly to their children, who grew up and gave their own children descriptions of Allan Dorris's pitiful face as he lay dead in his boat on the night when the waters of the great flood began to recede. It is said that the face of a sorrowing man looks peaceful in death; it may be equally true that death stamps unmistakable regret on the face of its victim who is not ready.

O, pitiless Death, you might have spared this man, who was just beginning, and taken one of the mourning thousands who watch for you through the night, and are sad because of your long delay. This man desired so much to live that his white face seems to say now: "I cannot die; I dread it--Oh, how terrible it would be to die now!" And his eyes are wet with tears; a touching monument of his dread of thee!

The rough men reverently uncovered their heads as Thompson Benton looked at the dead man in stupefaction, but when he had recovered, he lifted the body gently up, and made a hasty examination. Laying it down again, he looked at the men, and said in a tone which indicated that he had long expected it,--

"Shot in the back."

Las.h.i.+ng their boats together, the rowers gulled back to town without speaking a word; that containing the body of Allan Dorris towing behind, the pathetic face looking up to heaven, as if asking forgiveness. The stars came out as the rowers pursued their journey back to the town, and the storm was over.

Peace to the pathetic dust! In the town on the hill, where the twinkling lights mingle with the stars, waits a weeping woman who knew Allan Dorris well; let her opinion of the dead prevail, and not that of the gossiping winds which have been whispering into the ears of the people.

CHAPTER XXI.

LITTLE BEN.

In answer to a note requesting his presence at The Locks, Silas Davy hurried towards that part of the town as soon as he found relief from his duties at the hotel, regretting as he went along that Mr. Whittle was not ahead of him with his gun, for late events had not been of a cheerful nature, and he felt the need of better company than little Ben, who dragged his weary frame into the hotel kitchen a few minutes before Silas started.

Not that Silas did not love the boy; nor had he any objection to his company on this errand, but with cries of murder in the air, and the reports of guns, he thought he would have preferred a stouter companion in his walk; but as they hurried along, little Ben keeping up with difficulty, Silas thought that perhaps the boy's mild goodness would keep away evil, and protect them both. It occurred to him for the first time that in a storm of thunder and lighting he should like to keep close to little Ben, for though mankind might be unjust to him, the monsters of strength would pity his weakness, and strike elsewhere, therefore Silas came to feel quite content in his company.

Of the shot in the bottoms which had created so much excitement in Davy's Bend, and of the drifting boat which had been found in the flood by Thompson Benton and his men, Silas knew nothing except as he heard these matters discussed about the hotel. Although the people went to The Locks in crowds the day after the body was found, and remained there from early in the morning until late at night, every new arrival being taken into one of the darkened lower rooms to look at the dead man, Silas was not of the number. He was afraid to look at his friend's face, fearing he could see in it an accusation of his neglect to give warning of the shadow, so he remained away, and went about his duties in a dreamy way, starting at every sound, as though he feared that the people had at last found out his guilt, and had come to accuse him for not notifying them of the danger of which he had been aware. The receipt of the note had frightened him, too, and he felt sure that when he entered the presence of Annie Dorris, she would break down, and inquire why he had robbed her of a husband in his usual thoughtless way. Perhaps the sight of little Ben, in his weakness and goodness, would plead for him, so he picked the child up, and carried him on the way as far as his own weak arms would permit.

Mrs. Wedge soon appeared in answer to his ring at The Locks gate, and admitted him into the hall where he had heard the step on the stair on the night when there was alarm because of Dorris's absence in the bottoms. It was dark in the hall now, as it was then, and while Silas waited for Mrs. Wedge to fasten the door at which they had entered, he listened eagerly for the footsteps, and when he did not hear them, he trembled at the sound of his own as he finally went up the stairs behind Mrs. Wedge, followed by little Ben.

Going up to the door leading into the room which had been occupied by his friend, Silas was ushered into the presence of Annie Dorris, who was seated near the window where the shadow had twice appeared. There was a great change in her manner, he noticed at once; the pretty face, which had formerly always carried the suspicion of a laugh, was now distinguished by a settled grief, and it was pale and haggard.

Her pale face was in sharp contrast to the dress of mournful black, and the good fellow who was always trying to do right, but who was always in doubt as to which was right and which was wrong, would have given his life cheerfully to have been a month younger.

While Silas stood near the doorway, changing his hat from one hand to the other in confusion, he noticed that tears started to her eyes.

"Please don't cry," Silas said, walking towards her. "I want to tell you the guilty part I have taken in this dreadful affair, but I cannot muster up the courage when there are tears in your eyes. Please don't cry."

Annie Dorris bravely wiped her tears away at this request, and looked at Silas with a face indicating that if his presence had opened her wounds afresh, she would try and conceal it.

"I am oppressed with the fear that I am to blame for this," he continued, in desperate haste, "and I must tell you, and get it off my mind, even though you send for the sheriff and have me arrested; I cannot contain the secret any longer, now that I am in your presence."

Little Ben had crawled into a chair on entering the room, and was already fast asleep, with his head hanging on his breast, dreaming, let us hope, of kind treatment, and of a pleasant home.

"Within a month after Allan Dorris came to Davy's Bend," Silas said, seating himself near Mrs. Dorris, "Tug and I discovered that he was shadowed by some one, who came and went at night. For more than a year,--until the day before it happened--we saw the strange man at intervals, but Tug said it would unnecessarily alarm you both to know it, so we kept it to ourselves. I am sorry we did it, but we thought then it was for the best. I always wanted to tell you, but Tug, who wors.h.i.+pped you both, would never consent to it until the morning your husband went into the bottoms alone. When he came here, and found that he had gone, he followed him, and has not been seen since. The day before, while rowing in the bottoms, I met the shadow, and when Tug heard this, he came at once to warn your husband not to venture out alone."

Annie Dorris made no reply. Perhaps this was no more than she expected from Silas, whom she had sent for to question.

"The shot which once came in at that window was fired by Tug," Davy continued, pointing to the pane which had been broken on the night of Allan Dorris's marriage to Annie Benton, "and he fired at the shadow as it was looking in at your husband. For more than a year Tug has carried a gun, and has tried to protect you; but he made a mistake in not giving warning of this stealthy enemy. Of late months he has spent his nights in walking around this place, trying to get a shot at the shadow; and though some people accuse him of a horrible crime, because of his absence from town, he is really on the track of the guilty man, and will return to prove it. I cannot tell you how sorry I am to see you in mourning, but I hope you believe I did what I thought was for the best."

When Silas had concluded, they were both silent and thoughtful, and the heavy breathing of little Ben was all the sound that could be heard.

This attracted the attention of Silas, and he said, respectfully,--

"Would you mind kissing the boy, ma'am? The poor little fellow is so friendless, and has such a hard time of it, that he makes my heart ache.

If you will be good enough, I will tell him of it, and he will always remember it gratefully. Poor chap! I don't suppose he was ever kissed in his life."

Annie Dorris went over to the sleeping boy, and, after kissing him, as had been requested, picked him up, and laid him down on a lounge which stood in the room.

"There was always something fierce and mysterious about my husband,"

Mrs. Dorris said, after a time; "but both attracted me to him. I could not help it. A hundred times he has offered to tell me his story, but I did not care to hear it; so that now I know nothing about him except that he was the most worthy gentleman I ever knew, and combined all those qualities which my heart craved. I knew when we were first married that some such result as this was probable, but I could not resist him; and I do not regret it now. Three months of such happiness as I have known will repay me for future years of loneliness, and his kindness and consideration are sweet memories, which console me even now while my grief is so fresh. He was manly and honorable with me in every way; and the fault, if there has been a fault, was my own. I am sure that he was a better man because of his misfortune. I believe now that trouble purifies men, and makes them better; and the more I studied him the more I was convinced that there were few like him; that a trifling thing had ruined his life, and that there were hundreds of men, less honorable, who were more fortunate. Even now I do not care to know more of him than I already know. I fear that this is a fault; but I knew him better than anyone else in the world, and his manner was so pathetic at times, and his love for me always so p.r.o.nounced, that, though I am now a young woman, I expect to spend my life in doing honor to a n.o.ble memory."