And besides all this, there was in his heart a strong and long-enduring attachment for Hettie; he had been fond of her when but a girl; and his interest for her had become an absorbing feeling of his heart. During her long stay at Mr. Rutherford's, he had never lost sight of her; but having either business to attend to for his father in that region, or feigning it for his own ends, he would frequently take small parcels or trifling errands from the mother to the daughter, and many a precious bundle of good things had he brought from Hettie, through the kindness of Mrs. Rutherford, to comfort and cheer the widow. He was, therefore, by no means an unwelcome visitor at either house; his personal appearance was not unpleasant--a manly, open countenance, a kind manner, mingled indeed with some roughness, and a fearless, straightforward, animated way, calculated to make a favorable impression. Hettie seemed always glad to see him; so much so, that many of the family firmly believed that she had other feelings towards him than mere neighborly kindness. Mrs. Rutherford knew her heart in this matter, and was convinced that such was not the case.

Hettie indeed did not love him, nor did she feel that she ever could; and was careful to do nothing that might give him occasion to indulge a false hope in regard to her. David had, as I have said, sympathized with William on his sick bed; he it was who had brought Hettie home, and day and night, with Henry Tracy, had been untiring in doing every thing for their relief.

William's consciousness returned to him long before he had any ability to hold conversation, and the dilemma in which he found himself involved occupied almost constantly his waking thoughts. The desperate character of Cross; the vile plot that had been executed against the unsuspecting and n.o.ble-minded Rutherfords; the fate of the trunk for which he had fought so desperately, the least whisper of which had not reached his ear: all these subjects distracted his weak and flickering senses--a terrible secret lay in his breast, which he had not the power to reveal in any way that would be intelligible, and when revealed, must crush to ruin the hopes of the friend who was watching at his side, by bringing the father to an ignominious end. At times, in the agony of his contending thoughts, he would groan aloud, and the large drops would gather on his pale forehead. Hettie or the mother would bend over him, and say some soothing word, and wipe his clammy face, and inquire 'why he groaned? or where the pain was? or what they could do for him?' but he would shake his head, and closing his eyes, give up awhile his troubled thoughts and fall asleep. Thus day after day and week after week stole on, and still he lay in his feebleness, gaining strength, if at all, by a very slow and almost imperceptible progress.

It was at the close of a lowery day; the shadows of night were deepened by a dark canopy of clouds which hung over the barrens. The Widow Brown had lighted her lamp and placed it on the stand by the bed of her son, wis.h.i.+ng to sit as close to him as she could, while plying her busy needle. David Cross was reclining on a low cot-bed; he had taken Hettie to Mr. Rutherford's that day, and expecting to watch part of the night, was antic.i.p.ating a few hours' sleep. A gentle tap was heard, and as the widow opened the door, a woman, clad in somewhat better garments than was usual among the people of that region, stood panting for breath, and looking with great earnestness, and in much apparent agitation-- 'Are you alone, Mrs. Brown?'

'There is no one here, Margaret, but David, besides my sick son.'

'Oh, do step out here a moment--do, Mrs. Brown;' and the widow closed the door and followed the woman a few paces from the house. She knew her well--poor Margaret! and she pitied her too; for Margaret she had heard was once a pretty, happy girl; her home had been far from there. In an evil hour, she had listened to the flattering tale of the deceiver, and now she was a miserable dependant on the will of Cross--his slave to do his bidding.

'I have run all the way, Mrs. Brown, from my house, and I want you to go right back with me.'

'Not to-night, Margaret, surely; the weather looks so threatening, and I don't like to leave William, and Hettie gone too. What has happened, Margaret?'

'You must go, ma'am, this blessed minute, for poor Ned Saunders is dying, and he says he cannot die in peace until he sees you. He has been raving crazy ever since the night he was brought to my house; but this morning he had a long sleep, and when he came out of it, his reason was all straight--but such a distressed creature you never see. He says he cannot live, and that he must see you--as he has something to tell you which he dare not tell to any one else. You don't know, Mrs. Brown, what a worry I am in; for you see Cross has charged me, by the worth of my life, to let him know the moment Ned had his reason. But I am afraid there have been some evil doings, from what Ned says; and if Cross should get there before I return, there is no telling what he might do to me.'

'Well, Margaret, wait here a minute until I put my things on.'

The widow was soon in readiness; and having committed matters to the charge of David Cross, without giving any particulars further than that she had a call to a neighbor's, closed the door and went on her way, dark as was the night and gloomy the errand on which she was bound.

Margaret led the way; and excited by an impulse of some terrible kind, hurried on through the dark forest with maniac impetuosity. Their path was a difficult one to traverse, for it lay through an unfrequented region, and the opening by which they went, it was almost impossible to trace by the feeble light which yet glimmered from the close of day. Guided almost by instinct, Margaret pioneered, and the widow followed with all the speed she could make. For awhile they skirted the side of a thick and tangled swamp, and then turning a little to the right, came at once upon the feeble twinkle of a pine torch from the window of a log hut.

'Anybody been here, Ned?'

'No one. Has she come?'

'She is here.'

And the sick man raised his eyes to catch a glimpse of her he had wished so much to see, while a smile almost lighted up his wild and haggard countenance.

'Oh, Aunty!'--this was the familiar t.i.tle by which the good woman was generally addressed--'oh, Aunty! I'm so glad you're come. I'm a'most gone.'

'I hope not, Edward.'

'Yes, I am. I thought I couldn't die till I see you. You've often talked to me, you know--and I thought it was all foolish--I don't think so now.'

He had to pause, for his feelings were greatly excited, and his frame apparently near dissolution. She put her hand upon his forehead, and felt that the death-damp was gathering there. She wiped his face with a cloth, and bathed his temples with some spirit: this revived him a little, and apparently in an agony to unburden his mind, he seized the first return of a little strength.

'Oh, I have been so wicked! I shall go to h.e.l.l--I know I shall.'

'Are you truly sorry, Edward, that you have sinned against G.o.d?'

'Oh, yes! I'm sorry--but what shall I do? I know I deserve to be punished; but oh, Aunty! how can I meet G.o.d?'

'If you are truly sorry, and pray to G.o.d to have mercy on you for Christ's sake, He will forgive you, Edward; for He has said so.'

'Oh, has He said so? Where? tell me quick, Aunty; for I feel the cold creeping over my heart--tell me quick.'

'In the Bible, Edward: it is full of promises to those who repent of sin, and turn to G.o.d through Jesus Christ. He came into the world for that very purpose. He hung upon the cross for us poor sinners: and while he hung there, he pardoned a thief that was hanging beside him, and about to die. He says, "Whosoever cometh to me, I will in nowise cast out."'

'You don't think He will save such a worthless sinner as I am?'

'Oh, yes, Edward; if you throw yourself upon His mercy, and ask Him to forgive you.'

The dying man turned his eyes away from the widow, raised them towards heaven, and clasped his trembling hands together, 'G.o.d have mercy upon me, a poor sinner--a dreadful sinner! for Christ's sake; for Christ's sake, only for Christ's sake!'

And the widow wiped away the big drops that stood upon his clay-cold, forehead. Again he fixed his eye upon her-- 'But, oh! there's a dreadful load upon my heart--there are--some things--I have done--that must be told--I cannot keep them. Come, lean your head down close to me.'

The widow was by no means anxious to hear his tale of sins and misdoings, but she obeyed his request. He was greatly excited; his breath flew back and forth like a weaver's shuttle, and he could only get the words out by catches.

'You know--Rutherford's house--has been burnt--and I don't know--but some of them were burnt in it. Cross--hired me and two others. We wanted to get a trunk--a tin trunk--I fired the house. They got the trunk--and I brought it along. Your son Bill met me on the road and struck me from the horse--and tried to get the trunk. We grappled--and I thought I'd killed him--but I don't know nothing since then--that's all--oh dear! Why did I go? Cross, Cross, Cross--did it all;--but, oh G.o.d!--here it comes--'

He ceased speaking--his lips trembled, his eyes rolled back convulsively--he clutched at the clothing, a spasm shook his frame--it was death's last stroke; and as the quivering limbs settled into rest, breath and pulse were still.

The widow saw that he was dead; and clasping her hands in silent horror, she looked at poor Margaret for an explanation. Margaret shook her head.

'Don't speak; I believe it is all true, but you must not stay here a minute longer. The poor fellow is dead, you can do him no good; and Cross may be the death of me, if he finds you have been here--hark!'

The noise of approaching footsteps was distinctly heard; but before they could make the least effort at concealment, the door opened, and Cross entered.

The widow spoke to him in her mild, pleasant way. He manifested great confusion tried to speak calmly, but his voice choked and trembled greatly. He cast his eye quickly on the bed-- 'What! dead? Ned is not dead?'

'Yes,' said the widow; 'he has just breathed his last. Can I be of any service to you, Margaret, by staying here? If I can--'

'Oh no,' replied Cross, quickly; 'there is no use, we won't trouble Mrs. Brown.'

'Well, then, I will be going, as it is getting late in the evening.' So wis.h.i.+ng them good-night, she quietly stepped from the door, walked slowly a few paces, and then hurried along with as much speed as the darkness would permit.

No sooner did Cross perceive that the widow was gone, than his countenance a.s.sumed an aspect of the fiercest rage.

'How is this?'--clenching his fist, and shaking it near to the head of the trembling, wretched female--'how is this? How came that old canting hypocrite here?'

'Ned begged me to go for her: he said he could not die in peace until he saw her.'

'Die in peace!' and he stamped his foot with rage--'die in peace! and did not I charge you, by your life, to let no human being see him in his reason, but myself?' And saying this, he caught her by the hair, and dashed her with his utmost power to the floor. She arose, without uttering a word or groan, upon her knees; she caught him by the arm; he endeavoured to thrust her from him, but her hold was the grasp of despair; at once he drew a poniard, that he always carried in a concealed case at his side; she saw it glitter as he held it up in the act of plunging it to her heart.

'Oh mercy, mercy! for G.o.d's sake--for the sake of him who calls you father, don't kill me! Remember all I have suffered for you--the mother of your only child, though you have never owned me. Have not I always done your bidding? lost my soul and body for you?'

Pity, or some other motive, unnerved his arm--he could not just then do the deed; but hurling her from him, threw her to the other side of the cabin, like a reptile that he hated.

In an instant she was on her feet--a rifle was in her hand, and it was pointed in deadly aim at her vile oppressor. The gun Cross had not noticed--it always stood loaded; for Margaret (or Meg as she was called) lived alone, and in that wild place had learned how to use it. He had no idea that the poor worm he had so long trodden upon could ever turn against him; but when he beheld her eyes glaring with fury, and the deadly weapon levelled at his breast, his blood curdled at his heart. He made a step towards her.

'One step more, and you are dead!'

'Put that down, Meg; I don't want to hurt you.' The poor craven now began to cower, and thought that a few soft words would obliterate a life of abuse, carried to a point where woman's love turns to the direst hate.

'No, never! Stir but one foot--move but a single limb--and you will lie beside that wretched victim of your h.e.l.lish arts. Hear me now, David Cross; I am no longer your slave. You have ruined my name; you have defrauded me of the t.i.tle of wife; you have made me disown my child; you have kept me in poverty, and made me a companion of outcasts; and now you have thrust me from you, like a hideous reptile--but your hour has come; that miserable being, whom you sent here a raving maniac, has let out your secret--it is already on the wings of the wind.'

Cross trembled in every joint; a fiend, with demoniac power, seemed glaring at him in the being whom but a moment before he had so shamefully abused.

'Meg, forgive me. I have wronged you; I know I have. Don't take my life, and I will make it all right. I will say you are my wife; I will do anything you want.'

'Forgive you? Yes, I will forgive you, when you bring back my poor parents who went down to the grave mourning for her you ruined; when you can tear from my mind the memory of wrongs none but a woman's heart could ever have borne so long. Forgive you? no, never. Your life you may have! but go--before the dreadful feelings which have been burning in my heart blaze up again. Go! go quick--'

He waited not, but moved to the door, stepped trembling from the threshold, and hurried away through the dark forest.

The moment Cross had gone Margaret opened a small trunk, hastily gathered together a few articles of dress, and slipping a little roll of paper containing her stock of money into her pocket, tied up her clothing in a bundle, cast one look upon the dead body, and then quitted the wretched tenement she had so long called her home, firmly resolved never to enter it again.

She hastened at once towards the cottage of the Widow Brown, and so rapidly did she thread her way through the intricate path, that before the widow had pa.s.sed over half the distance to her home, Margaret had overtaken her.

'Don't be frightened, Mrs. Brown; I did not think to reach you so soon--but stop and listen to me.'

The widow had indeed stopped, for Margaret came upon her so unexpectedly, that she was much alarmed, and deprived of the ability, even if she had the will, to escape.

'I will listen to you, Margaret, but I have heard dreadful things enough to-night. I am almost distracted now.'

'I would not add a straw to your burdens, my dear good Mrs. Brown, but I am a poor distressed creature. The whole of my life for these many years has been one scene of misery; but I can bear it no longer, and this very night will find me many miles from hence.'

'Oh, do, don't talk so, Margaret. Come go with me, and rest you for the night at least; it is so dark, and beginning to storm already.'

'This darkness and the rain are no troubles to me; but just listen one moment. You know that I have told you what I have no other human being. One secret more I must commit to you--that young man who is now at your house is my son.'

'David Cross your son, Margaret?'

'It is G.o.d's truth, and all I want of you is, whenever you think it best, to let him know what I have told you. I am now on my way to the city. I shall seek a place of service, and when I find a resting-place, if there is any such spot for me on earth, I shall let you know. But one thing I must beg of you--Cross has treated me like a brute, and I came very near taking his life to-night; but for David's sake, spare him--don't reveal the terrible tale you heard to-night. Promise me, now, won't you'--and Margaret fell upon her knees and clasped the arms of the widow--'promise me, you will not reveal it without in some way you are obliged to do it?'

'Why, Margaret, my mind is so disturbed by all these scenes, that I cannot think of things as I should like to before making any promise; but you know I love David, and would be as careful of injuring him, as my own child.'

'That is enough; but oh, do just put your hand upon my head, and say one prayer over me. I shall go lighter on my way, for I have but a heavy heart, and a weary road lies before me.'

'May G.o.d bless you, my child, for Jesus Christ's sake, and make a way for you to some place where you will be in peace; and may you yet have some comfort before you die.'

'Amen!' said Margaret; and seizing the hand of the widow, which had rested on her shoulder, she kissed it again and again, and then departed.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Mr. Cross was in no enviable state of mind as he hastened along in the darkness, after leaving the hut of Margaret. The disappointment he had suffered in finding that Ned Saunders was dead; the terrible fright he had endured while standing with the rifle at his breast; the mortification of begging his life at the hand of one he had so long triumphed over; and above all, the knowledge that his secret was abroad--all operated with maddening power, and worked up a tempest within, that raged and tossed until he was bewildered by its fury. He pa.s.sed his own dwelling without stopping, but hurried on, directing his steps to the north, through a by-path amidst the towering pines.

After some miles of rapid walking, he reached the edge of the barrens, or rather that part of them that had been cleared and in some measure cultivated. He here descried the twinkle of lights from a small settlement. To one of these, a little separated from the rest, he soon came, and knocked with some violence at the door.

'Come in.'

Cross tried the latch, but finding it fastened, repeated the knocks in a way that showed he was in earnest to be let in.

'Come in, I say--but stop, may be the door is fastened. Who are you?'

'Open the door, will you? it's me.'

'Aha--that I will;' and the bolt was withdrawn quickly.

'Why, neighbor, is this you? how are you? come in. Well, you are the last man I should have thought of seeing here this dark night--take a chair, neighbor--what's the news?' And as Squire Foster (for he was the gentleman whom Mr. Cross had honored with a visit) said this, he threw away the smile, or rather grin, that had played over his sallow and flabby face, and a.s.sumed his naturally sly and mouserly look. 'Any thing good abroad?'

Cross was in no talking humor: so let the gentleman run on, and in the mean time helping himself to a chair, sat down, and leaning back against the wall, fixed his eye, dark and lowry, full upon the little light that stood flaring and smoking on the middle of the table.

'Well, there's the devil to pay now!'

'Where? what, what, neighbor--any news?'

'None that you will want to hear. Ned Saunders is dead.'

'One rogue less, then, neighbor, ha, ha! he won't tell any tales then about here.'

'But suppose he has told the tale already?'

'That would be bad, neighbor; but you don't mean to say that he has?'

'Yes, I do mean to say so; and the question is, what you mean to do about it?'

'What I mean to do about it?' and he looked at Cross with a vacant stare.

'Why you know we are both implicated.'

'Why, neighbor, that is all between you and me. You know I have been but a mere counsellor.'

'Yes, and a pretty sc.r.a.pe your counsel has got me into. Here is one man dead, the two others gone out of reach, and the thing itself nowhere to be found. Like as not Rutherford has got it back again, and we have had our labor for our pains, and may be something beside not so agreeable.'

'Well, now suppose, neighbor, I should tell you that Rutherford has not got it?'

'Do you know that? and how?'

'What would you give if I should tell you that I have got it, safe and snug in my own hands?'

'Give! I have given enough already; but where is it? let's see it.'

And Cross arose from his leaning posture, sat his chair square on the floor, and himself very erect in it, and looked fixedly at the Squire.

Foster noticed the movement and the look of Cross, and without speaking, arose and stepped into a small adjoining room, took something from a case that stood upon an old dressing-table, and thrusting it hastily into his bosom, came back and resumed his 'Have you got it?'

'Got what, neighbor?'