The Rebels/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII.
On a damp and chilly evening, at the commencement of November, the peaceful family circle at Mr. Osborne's was disturbed by a loud and hasty knock at the outer door. It proved to be John Dudley, evidently agitated, and out of breath with exertion.
"You will excuse me, sir, for coming upon you in this way," said he, bowing to the elder Mr. Osborne;—"but where there is good to be done, I know you are always fond of going,"
"Very true, John; and of what service can I be now?"
"Why, Miss Grace remembers that my good woman told her about Wilson's daughter, that was coming to board with us. Well, sure enough, she came, with a young man, who, they say, is her new-married husband; and as comely a couple they are as ever I looked on. She has a noble way with her, that makes her seem like a duchess; and he is as rosy and fresh as seventeen. Howsomever, that's neither here nor there. They are as unhappy now as the oldest and the ugliest. Her father is dying,—and oh, such a hard death! The doctor says he is pisoned; and my Rebecca looks hard at old Townsend."
To their brief inquiries, Dudley rapidly answered, that about half an hour before, Mr. Percival had come in, as pale as ashes, and begged him and his wife to go to Mr. Townsend's; and that, when they arrived there, they found Mr. Wilson in dreadful fits, crying out for a priest, to whom he might confess." And so, "continued he, "I ran off for you, thinking you might speak a word of comfort to his poor soul."
Mrs. Dudley was right in her conjecture. The shaft of death had been winged by the hand of Townsend. Two or three unsuccessful expeditions to Castle William had given rise to a suspicion that Wilson had himself secreted the treasure supposed to be concealed there: this, together with a daily increasing fear of detection, induced the old man to remove his guilty associate by means of poison; but no sooner had the deadly potion commenced its work, than the poor wretch, rendered cowardly by wickedness, sought to drown the voice of conscience in a copious draught of laudanum.
When Mr. Osborne arrived, he was met at the door by Doctor Willard. "You have come to a terrible scene, my dear sir," said he. "Being at my father's, I was sent for, as the nearest physician; but, I assure you, I would gladly have avoided the task."
It was, indeed, a melancholy sight, to see two who had long been supposed companions in guilt lying on miserable pallets in the same room of death.
The miser, gasping for breath, seemed insensible to all around him; yet his right hand clutched a bag of gold with all his remaining energy, as if he thought the filthy lucre would assist him beyond the grave. His nephew stood rubbing his stiffened hand, with a look of mingled distress and compassion.
The sufferings of Wilson were more severe than those of his murderer. He would shriek and struggle till his strength was quite exhausted, and then his weak limbs would quiver with the acuteness of bodily pain, and his features become convulsed with the violence of internal emotion. His daughter knelt by his bed-side, in tears; and, pale and anxious as she was, Doctor Willard saw, in her exceeding beauty, an ample excuse for Percival's degrading marriage.
She had loosened the rosary from her neck, and she held the sacred emblem of salvation before the sufferer, as she said, "Try to pray, dear father!" He gazed on her, for a moment, with a dreadful expression of remorse and terror, and then turned his face the other way, without speaking a word.
Doctor Willard prepared an opiate, and as his child stooped down to arrange his pillows, and apply the laudanum to his throbbing temples,—with a frightful, hollow laugh of insanity, he exclaimed, "Where is your bloody gown, Gertrude? I have been told that heart's blood will not wash out in any earthly stream!"
He looked up as he spoke—his expression suddenly changed; and he shaded his face, as he murmured, "O, how much like Fitzherbert!"
"It's a lie!" squeaked the old miser, in tones hardly audible, "I never touched Fitzherbert's money."
"Ha! are you there, old raven?" said his accomplice, trying to raise himself on his elbow.
The exertion was too much for him, and with a deep groan he fell backward. His spasms were, for a while, more violent than ever. Percival left the bed-side of his uncle, where he had long been pouring words of kindness and consolation into ears that regarded him not; and when his wretched father-in-law had an interval of comparative quiet, he took Mr. Osborne's hand, as he said, "Here is a clergyman come to pray with you."
"I know what to say to please him and all his tribe," replied the hardened sinner; "but it would do no good. There is an accusing spirit, with a bloody robe, that will ando all that he or I can do to save me."
"But there is One who has the power and the will to save the penitent," observed Mr. Osborne.
Mr. Wilson scowled deeply. "I have something to confess," said he; "but he is not one of the confessing sort."
"Is there no holy priest in Boston, who could give ease to my father's parting spirit?" inquired Gertrude.
"There is no Catholic, God be praised!" said Mr. Osborne, with a look that expressed his compassion for her deluded faith.
"I have much to say, and brief space to say it in," rejoined Wilson; "but it touches the life of that old man. I meant to have reformed from my evil ways, if the Almighty had given me time; as it is, I must take my chance."
A loud groan, at that instant, directed all eyes toward Mr. Townsend's couch. Percival instantly sprang forward,—for, unnoticed by any one, he had fallen into strong convulsions. Doctor Willard tried to open his hands; but, with strength that seemed almost miraculous, he clasped the golden treasure, and, in broken and indistinct accents, complained that they were taking away his last farthing.
"I won't, I won't!" said he, struggling with the physician, "I say, I won't pay a farthing; for I never wronged her."
Sinking back as he spoke, his muscles twitched, his limbs drew up, and he expired.
The tears coursed each other down the cheeks of his nephew, as he gazed on the corpse of him who had lived unbeloved and died unlamented.
It is always melancholy to see a desolate mortal venturing into the fathomless abyss of eternity, without one friendly voice on shore to bid him God-speed; and perhaps the mixture of regret and self-reproach, which we feel when standing by the death-bed of those whom we ought to love, yet cannot, has more of anguish in it than belongs to any other species of sorrow.
Wilson, himself tottering on the verge of the precipice from which his companion had just dropped, seemed to be the only one unmoved.
"So he has gone to hell before me, and my story can do him no harm," said he. With a look of unutterable agony, Gertrude fell on her husband's neck, and sobbed out, "O! 1 cannot hear him talk thus."
The action seemed to soften the heart of her father; and, seizing the favorable moment, Mr. Osborne said, "You are a dying man, Mr. Wilson; and something seems to weigh heavily on your conscience. Remember there is one to whom it is never too late to kneel for pardoning mercy."
Wilson waved his hand impatiently. "I have something else to say now," answered he;—"when I have done, I will listen to you. Mr. Townsend was executor to the Fitzherbert estate. He embezzled most of the property. I broke open the widow's house; I intercepted her letters, and he paid me for it."
Before he could say more, his fits again came over him. He writhed and groaned, and the sweat stood on his brow, in the intensity of his pain. With selfcommand wonderful in one so young, his daughter leaned over him, and assisted Doctor Willard in his attempts to restore him.
When he revived a little, Mr. Osborne, impelled by his anxiety for Lucretia, asked where the proofs of this transaction could be found.
"In a small iron box, at John Dudley's house," answered Wilson. "I got them from the miser by the help of false keys; and I held the whip over his back forever after. There are two other things I would tell of,—perhaps it may help me through purgatory. There is a chest of gold buried in the ground, behind the store No. —, King-street. I meant to have left it to Gertrude," continued he, looking at her with earnest affection, "but she will have enough, if justice has all her due."
"O, tell the truth!—tell all the truth!" said Gertrude, stooping to kiss his pale face.
Delighted approbation shone in the expressive countenance of Percival. "She is richer in her husband's love than gold or silver could make her," observed Doctor Willard. "May I ask if this chest of gold is the same Mr. Townsend dug up on the island, last September?"
"The old fool never dug it up," said Wilson, with a hideous laugh. "Did he think I'd know where treasure was, and not get it myself?—I kept it as a sort of lure for him; but it was dug up in August, and a smooth stone placed in its stead."
"And what," inquired Doctor Willard, "was the meaning of the noise, and of that struggling in the sand?"
A slight smile of contempt curled the lips of the dying man, as he asked, "Had you not a favorite dog?"
"I had."
"And did you ever see him, after you left Castle William?"
"I never did—though I have offered large rewards for him."
"How superstition blinds itself!" replied Wilson.
"The men were startled by the voice of Doctor Byles; they suffered the stone to slip, and your dog was crushed beneath it."
"To whom does this gold belong?" asked Percival.
"Some accursed fatality has always joined my fortunes with Fitzherbert's," said he. "The box was his. There is that within it will explain all. There is one thing more. In Mr. Townsend's third drawer you will find a book of bank-notes belonging to Governor Hutchinson."
"Why did you not tell all this before?" inquired Percival. "I could have persuaded my poor uncle to restore all to the rightful owners."
"No such easy matter that," replied Wilson. "Beside, to tell the truth, I could not bear that Gertrude should lose a penny, until death began to stare me in the face. I knew your romantic generosity would betray all. I respect you for it; and in a moment of weakness I once trusted a fearful secret to it—a secret which you alone of all the world are privy to."
"Is he?" cried a voice, startling in its shrillness.
The eyes of all present were directed to the quarter whence the sound proceeded. A tall, gaunt figure, in a bright red cardinal, stood near the door. A wrinkled, smoke-colored arm was thrust forth from the cloak, and her hand rested on a cane covered with snake-skin. A rusty black bonnet had fallen back on her shoulders, and gave a full view of her countenance, gleaming with expression perfectly satanic. "Where should your crime be so faithfully recorded as on the heart you have crushed?" said she. "I told you a violent death was not far distant. You call me Molly Bradstreet,—but I am the mother of the murdered Gertrude May!"
A piercing shriek came from Wilson's inmost soul.
Her eyes seemed to flash with infernal fire, as she exclaimed,—"You did kill her, then? Own it, wretch!—own it!"
"I did stab her," said Wilson; "but you do not know the cause."
The frenzied mother threw her cane upon the floor, and springing to the bed, shook the dying man with the strength and fury of an Amazon.
"Take her away from him—take her away!" cried Gertrude, in a voice suffocated with emotion.
Her husband and Doctor Willard forced her from the apartment; but as they retreated, she fixed her withering gaze upon Wilson, and shook her bony fist in impotent rage, as she exclaimed: "A mother's curse go with you; and the torments of the damned be your portion—murderer as you are!"
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"The pains of death are coming over me, thanks to the hand that hurried them," said Mr. Wilson. "Stoop down and kiss me, while I have my senses; for bad as I am, I love you, my child."
"O, my father,—my poor father,—would I had never known all this!" said Gertrude; and as she covered her face with her trembling hands, the scalding tears forced their way between her slender fingers.
The dying parent gave her one fervent kiss, and would have clasped her to his aching heart, but the paroxysms came on more violently than ever. In the terrible contest, reason was forever hurled from her throne. He seemed to wrestle with some imaginary being, and screamed and struggled, as he said, "Let me go! let me go! She is standing there to heap red-hot coals upon my head. O, save me save me!" This dreadful conflict could not last long. Life yielded to the torturing fiend; and he expired amid shrieks and agony.
The distressing scene came upon the innocent heart of Gertrude with double power; for, till now, she had been ignorant that a shadow of crime could be imputed to her father; and she was carried from the room in a state of insensibility.
Delicacy prevented any one from alluding to the shocking causes of the deaths they had just witnessed; though none doubted the distressing truth.
"I sincerely thank you for your kind exertions, though they have been so fruitless," said Percival to the worthy clergyman. "It is but lately that my father-in-law made a firm resolution that a virtuous old age should atone, as far as possible, for his early sins; but late reformations are always dangerous."
"The stains of evil are indeed washed out with difficulty, when they have long been drying and deepening beneath the scorching heat of the passions," replied Mr. Osborne. "Such instances should teach us all an impressive lesson. They serve too well to confirm the awful truth, that the threshold of hell is paved with good resolutions."
"I trust the fearful warning will not be lost upon us," rejoined the young man. "A priest of our own persuasion would be more pleasant to myself and Mrs. Percival; but as this is not altogether practicable at this time, will you, my good sir, attend these funerals, the day after to-morrow?"
Mr. Osborne readily assented; and after Doctor Willard bad generously offered his services in any way they might be required, the young husband retired to console Gertrude with all the arguments that good sense or tendemess could suggest.
Grace and Lucretia spent the ensuing day in the house of mourning; and their ready kindness and unaffected sensibility rapidly made their way to the heart of the fair mourner,—while the guileless simplicity of her ideas, aided by the witchery of foreign accent, made a claim on their affections, equally powerful.
They were all at that happy age, when the heart, elastic and pliable, bounds forward to receive an impression, and gives back its image in lines broad, deep, and distinct. When they parted,
Percival smiled, as he said, "You have taken the heart of my Gertrude by a coup de main; had you been nine years in the St. Vallier's convent, I think you could hardly have been greater friends."
In no point of view could the death of the two unhappy men be considered a misfortune;—yet the funeral was a crowded one.
The novel and exciting circumstances attending their decease, the handsome Canadian stranger, and the desire to explore a house which they had never been allowed to visit during the life-time of its owner, led the populace thither in throngs.
When everything was arranged for the procession, the sexton, according to custom, announced that any one had liberty to view the bodies. The crowd rushed in with eagerness. Every one that looked on their convulsed and blackened features turned away with an expression of horror; and others, with redoubled eagerness, pressed forward, to ascertain the cause of such obvious emotion. He must have, indeed, been ingenious in torture, who first devised this cruel custom, still common in the interior of our country. O, how the mother is thrilled with anguish, when the blessed little face, that has so often nestled to her heart in cherub playfulness, is exposed to the view of the rude and unfeeling! and how the husband's heart swells almost to bursting, when the loved countenance, once all radiant with affection, is given, in its cold and lifeless beauty, to the heartless gaze of a multitude!
There were no such feelings to be aroused on this occasion; but Gertrude was oppressed with a deep and distressing sense of shame, that the violent death of her father should thus needlessly be made public. Her husband sympathized with her feelings, and beckoned to Doctor Willard, who, in a low voice, requested the sexton to screw down the lids of the coffins, and dispense with further ceremony.
"Not till I have looked my last," said a discordant voice. The crowd made way for some one, and presently the grandmother of Gertrude stood by the coffin, eying the lifeless remains of her son-in-law, with the malignant triumph of a vindictive fiend. "I told him it would end thus; but he little thought how much more I could have told him," murmured she, as she seated herself among the mourners.
"Who is she? who is she?" was whispered among the crowd; but those who were able to give the information did not choose to impart it, and no further notice was taken of the interruption.
In a long and fervent prayer, Mr. Osborne alluded to the insufficiency of wealth, and dwelt much on the never failing mercies of the Saviour. What he said was so exactly appropriate, and what he forbore to say evinced so much delicacy and tenderness, that Gertrude half forgot her Catholic prejudices; though she internally resolved that mass for her father's soul should be said for three months in the convent of St. Vallier.
When the procession formed, Mr. and Mrs. Percival rose, and led the way. With a sudden and rapid stride, the grandmother approached Lucretia, and seizing her arm, attempted to follow. Lucretia shrank from the contact, with loathing and terror; but the singular woman held her in a strong grasp, as she said, "Thus, thus it should be. I am no mourner,—neither are you; nevertheless, our place is here."
Fearing her violence would create confusion, Lucretia passively yielded to her guidance,—though partly from fear, and partly from the inequality of their stature, she found it nearly impossible to keep pace with her. Nothing was said till they arrived at the burial-ground. The harsh, grating cords lowered the coffins into the earth; the heavy clods were heaped upon them, and slowly and with measured tread the mourners left the melancholy spot. "Lucretia Fitzherbert," said the old woman, stepping aside from her companions, and warmly clasping her hand, "you'll may-be never see me again; or if ye do, I'll may-be bring you unwelcome tidings. I am sometimes strongly moved to make reparation for all I have done; but it will not come out. A good name will do much for you; but when you come to your rich relations, and your heaps of silver, do not forget a poor, halfcrazed creature, that has watched for ye, wept for ye, and kept an eye on ye,—but never for evil. You are the only one left to pray for her now!"
Her chin quivered, her lips moved convulsively, and the pressure of her hand was painful in its desperate fervor.
With mingled surprise and pity, Miss Fitzherbert answered: "If there is anything I can do for you, poor woman—"
"Your love and your prayers," interrupted she;—"oh, if I had them, I could tread my wearisome pilgrimage in peace."
"My grandmother," said Gertrude, who had often looked back, and now timidly approached them, "is there nothing you will allow us to do for you, before we go back to Canada?"
"You! you!" replied she, with a vacant laugh. "You owe me nothing; but your painted outside has done well for you."
Without waiting for an answer, she suddenly struck into a little winding path, and was soon seen towering among the distant bushes.
"It is very strange," said Gertrude; "we invited her to this funeral, and offered her a suit of mourning; but she refused to come. My husband voluntarily promised her a house and a pension for life; but she treated it all with the bitterest scorn."
On their way homeward, it was agreed that her grandchildren, accompanied by Lucretia, should seek her dwelling, the ensuing day. They did so accordingly; but no traces of the unhappy creature could be found. An old woman, who lived a few rods from her wretched hut, said that "Molly had gone off, the day before, bag and baggage; and that it was borne in upon her mind, that she meant to lay violent hands on herself; but then there was no telling—for she always had a rambling way with her."
There were but few affairs left for Mr. Percival to arrange, before he left New England. Four thousand pounds, the amount proved to have been sequestrated from the Fitzherbert estate, was paid into the hands of Governor Hutchinson. The chest of gold was found where Wilson had directed, and its contents were precisely what he stated in his conversation with Mr. Townsend. At the bottom of the silver was a letter, worn and blackened by the metal, but still enough of it legible to make out, with slight assistance from imagination/
"I was induced to collect my property, lest the settlement should trouble you, in case of my death.
"Ever your loving husband,
"Edmund Fitzherbert."
Lucretia kissed the precious document, and steeped it in her tears. "How well it is," said she, "that we never know the event of what we undertake! Could my poor father have foreseen that his dear wife would have died of a broken heart, without ever being aware of the kind provision he had made for her comfort, how wretched he would have been!"
The identical handwriting of Captain Fitzherbert was immediately sent to England, together with an account of Wilson's confession; and Mr. and Mrs. Percival returned home, blessed by the numerous friends whom their integrity and kindness had procured for them.
A few days after their departure, Doctor Byles entered the breakfast-parlor, before Governor Hutchinson had arisen from the table.
"I have made you an early call," said be; "for since there are no moles stirring, and since the talk about Wilson and Townsend begins to die away, I think you must be in need of excitement."
"That was a gloomy business," replied the governor.
"Those who were witnesses of it will not speedily forget it. With all Mr. Osborne's abhorrence of Wilson's superstitious creed, he said it made him feel melancholy to see a poor, dying sinner, craving the only spiritual consolation in which he had the least faith, and yet unable to procure it."
"It is a pity that Brother Osborne had not as much political charity as he has religious," answered the doc. tor. "That these two wicked mortals went to the bar of an offended God with all their unrepented sins upon their heads, is melancholy enough; but as to the Catholic priest, I am much of the opinion of 'the ever memorable Hales.' 'Pliny somewhere tells you,' says this bold and witty writer, 'that he that is stricken by a scorpion, if he go immediately and whisper it in the ear of an ass, shall find himself immediately eased. That sin is a scorpion, and bites deadly, I have always believed; but that, to cure the bite of it, it was a sovereign remedy to whisper it into the ear of a—priest, I do as well believe, as I do that of Pliny.'"
"Probably Mr. Osborne's faith is about tantamount to yours and 'the ever memorable Hales','" said Lucretia; "but it is not surprising his feelings were touched. What news do you bring, to excite us?"
"What would you give to know?" said Doctor Byles, drawing a package from his pocket with the most tantalizing moderation.
"Only tell me one thing,—is it from England?" inquired Lucretia.
"It is."
"Nay, then, you must not keep us one moment in suspense," said Governor Hutchinson.
"O, if a letter from Mr. Fitzherbert has arrived!" exclaimed Miss Sandford.
With a most provoking air, the clergyman replaced the letters in his pocket, as he observed, "Self-denial is a very necessary virtue, Madam Sandford. Women, in particular, should learn it well."
"Small danger of their lacking lessons, as long as society affords such lordly and tyrannic beings as yourself," she replied.
"This is too bad," said the governor, half angry and half amused at his friend's childishness.. "In the name of his most Christian majesty, George III., Defender of the Faith, and, by the grace of God, King of Great Britain, Ireland, and the American Colonies, I command you to deliver up the sealed parcel wherewith you have been intrusted."
"Prove your credentials, and I yield to royal authority," answered Doctor Byles.
"Might makes right," replied his antagonist, and making a sudden plunge, he snatched the package from its hiding-place.
"Since you have it," observed the doctor, "I will give an account how I came by it. I walked unusually early this morning, and perceiving the Queen Caroline at the wharf, I went on board to search for letters; and finding two parcels—one for yourself, and one for me—I took charge of both."
Two epistles, in the well-known hands of the Lords Hillsborough and North, were laid aside, to be read at leisure. The third, though directed to his Excellency Governor Hutchinson, began:
"Dear Niece:
"I have only time, before this vessel sails, to tell you that the important papers—certificate of marriage, birth, &c.—came duly to hand. Evidence is ample and satisfactory. There is no doubt that your father was my dear, but very headstrong nephew,—though your miniature shows not a shadow of family likeness. I rejoice to see, by your letter, that you have been educated as a Fitzherbert should be. As a trifling acknowledgment of this kindness, present the articles that accompany this to Governor Hutchinson and his sister. A voyage at this season would be cold and dangerous; but as soon as the spring opens, you must make for England. "Your loving uncle,
"Fitzherbert."
This laconic letter was in a fair Italian hand; and the upright, heavy signature, was evidently the only part written by the rich old bachelor. A few hours after, a small box, directed to Lucretia, was brought from the newly arrived vessel.
It contained a superb work-box, mounted on golden claws, and ornamented with a lion couchant, of the same precious material, designed for Madam Sandford; a gold repeater, of splendid workmanship, bore the family arms of Hutchinson, marked with the initials, T. H. A miniature, richly studded with rubies and pearl, gave to Lucretia's view the bluff, sun-burnt features of her wealthy uncle; and last of all, appeared a draft on the Bank of England, to the amount of one thousand pounds.
Again and again was the transaction talked over, and the munificent presents were examined and reexamined. In the course of the day, the Osbornes called to congratulate their young friend on her good fortune, of the prospect of which they had, till within a week, been entirely ignorant.
"Joy, joy!" cried Miss Sandford; "Lucretia goes to England early in the spring; and she can have the retinue of a duchess, if she chooses."
Grace said but little, but her eloquent looks spoke satisfaction, without the slightest tinge of envy.
Mr. Osborne folded his hands over her, in paternal benediction, as he said, "Your brain must be steady, indeed, if you can stand on this dizzy height unmoved. Pray that you may be strengthened for the trial, my child."
Henry gave her hand a lingering pressure, as he whispered, "I rejoice that I was kept in ignorance of all this. Wherever Miss Fitzherbert goes, and whatever may be her fortune, she will at least remember that Henry Osborne was a friend, sincere and disinterested."