Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 August 1894 — A LAST RESORT. [ARTICLE]

A LAST RESORT.

A dark night, and the sky hidden by a mass of hurrying clouds. A raw, chilly wind, the ground all mud, the tall .grass and- trees dripping from heavy rains. Justemerging into a dark cornfield from still darker : woods, a young man, his clothing j drenched and mud-stained, his face i haggard and desperate, and his whole attitude as he leaned heavily against j the rail fence telling of utter exhaustion. He was worn out. For more than two hours l*e had been flying for life over a country imperfectly known to him, though familiar to his pursuers. Turn which way lie would, Gilbert Hazelton could see nothing before him but speedy and disgraceful death. Never to see the sun again, nay, not even a friendly face! Was this the end of the bright hopes with which he had kissed his mother goodby only two short months before. He had been accused of murdey- j tried for his life, found guilty and \ sentenced to death. His letter to his friends miscarried, for they ha come to his relief. Poor and alonenhmong strangers, who persisted in believing him identical with the tramp who had murdered poor David Westford, Gilbert had yet fought bravely for his life. Some few had been convinced of his innocence, and his lawyer had succeeded in obtaining a new trial, in which new witnesses might at least prove an alibi. But when this word went abroad, the townspeople were furious. They had seen more than one undoubted criminal escape through some technicality. Were they now to see the murderer of poor David Westford escape through the easily bought perjury of some worthless companions in crime? They vowed it should not be. Last night at dusk groups of stern-looking men stood before the jail talking grimly together, and a whisper in the air warned the Sheriff what was coming. The jail was old and sickety* He could not defend it, and his resolve was quickly taken. In the early dusk the prisoner was sent out by a side door, under charge of the Sheriff’s son, while the Sheriff himself remained to make sure mob violence did not make a mistake and seize some other victim. But treachery carried the word to the mob, and they were soon in hot pursuit of the fugitives. In this emergency the boy, who was firmly convinced of the prisoner’s innocence, released him, demanding only a promise to rejoin him at a place appointed, and himself turned back to throw' the pursuers off the trail if possible. Gilbert fully intended to keep his promise, but in the darkness lie missed his way, and the bloodhounds in the rear caught his trail. Now for two hours, which seemed two eternities, he had bee a running for life, and the unknown country and horrible mud had completely exhausted the little strength that two months of confinement and terrible anxiety had left him. Nothing but utter desperation could have driven him another rod. But when a shout came faintly from the rear he pushed forward with a great effort across the strip o? cornfield, through thj fence, and out on a well-travelled road. To one less utterly worn out this would have given a glimmer of hope, for here at least the mud had become liquid ooze, which retained no footprint, The pursuers would not know Tpvhich way to turn, and must watch both roadsides to see that he did not turn aside. But he was too tired to use the advantage, and when, after running a few rods he slipped and fell, he lay there a full minute, too utterly exhausted to rise. A farmhouse stood a quarter of a mile farther on, and as he lay there panting, exhausted, waiting only for death to overtake him, his hopeless glances fell upon its light. And then he suddenly scrambled to his feet, resolved to make one last effort for life. He would struggle on to the farmhouse, and appeal to the quiet family circle.

It took all the strength this last faint hope gave him to carry him to the gate and up the cinder walk, whose hard, dark surface would betray no footstep. Yet his heart failed as he reached the door, and leaned, utterly exhausted against the doorpost. The window was but a step away. He crept to it and looked between the curtains. A plain, neat farmhouse kitcken, and two women, evidently mother and daughter, sitting by the table before the fire, the mother sewing, the daughter reading aloud. No one else in sight, yet Gilbert gave a smothered gasp and fell back in despair. “David Westford’s mother and sister! That settles it!” He had seen both faces at the trial —the elder, sad and patient under its silvery hair; the younger pure, pale clear-clear-cut, thrown into strong relief by the dark eyes, long jet lashes and heavy black braids. He stood there still hopeless and helpless, when there came a break in the clear voice within. The girl had ceased reading. He looked in and saw her pick up a pitcher and come toward the door. A moment more and she had come out, all unconscious of the man so near, gone straight to the pump, on which the lamplight ehone, and was filling her pitcher. Nerved by desperation, Gilbert stepped toward her.i “I will appeal to her. Why shouldn't I? I did not kill her brother. She may pity me. She is a woman, and they are half Quakers I have heard,” he muttered and aloud, “Miss Westford, help for God’s

[The clanking of the pump ceased. The giil looked around with a startled I air. “ Who spoke?” she demanded, j “A fugitive, utterly exhausted with fFght-from a bloodthirsty mob. They are close at heels. I can’t go farther, and I am doomed unless you have pity and give me help, or concealment.” “Who are you?” she inquired, ard with a dreadful sinking at his heart he gave his name, “Gilbert Hazelton.” She uttered a sharp cry and looked i away where the distant lanterns were gleaming through the cornfield—the pursuers on his track. “I must- ask mother,” she said, and snatching up her pitcher swept past him into the house. He heard her quick voice, and Mrs. Westford’s startled outcry, and in very desperation followed her in. The old mother met him, whitehaired and venerable. “So thee can seek shelter here, of David Westford’s bereaved mother ? ” she said, bitterly, wonderingly. “Why not ? I never harmed you or him,” he urged desperately. “As true as there is a heaven above us, 1 am innocent of what is laid to my charge. It will be proved when my friends come. But that will be too late unless you help me.” ‘-But I do not know it now,” Mrs. Westford wavered. “Thee speaks fair, but do not all criminals do the same ? A trial was given thee and thy innocence was not proved. Why should I save the murderer of my boy ?” Gilbert fell into a chair too exhausted to stand. “You will know V'»V*n it, is too late if you refuse me dm. Madam will you risk it ? —risk feeling that you have saved an innocent man, but instead let him go to his death ? ” “Ernestine,” cried the old mother, piteously, “what ought we to do ? How can we risk a lifelong remorse, or how can we risk letting David’s murderer go free to break other hearts as ours are broken ? What does thee say ? ” The girl stood in the open door,her glances alternating between the pleading face of the fugitive and the lanterns coming along the roadside. ‘ 'We must decide quickly, mother, ’ ’ and her clear voice quivered with feeling. “He may be innocent. It hardly seems as though a guilty man would come here—to David’s home —for shelter. And if we are accessory to his death—mother, it is murder for them to take the law into their own unauthorized hands. Our choice lies between one man, who may or may not be a murderer, and a score who Will surely bo if we do not binder.”

“Then thee says save him?” Mrs. Westford asked, doubtfully. “I dare not refuse it, mother. Do you?” The old lady hesitated, then, opening a corner cupboard, took out a pair of handcuffs—relics of the days when David had been deputy sheriff and earned the enmity of tramps and evildoers —and held them towards Gilbert. “If thee will put these on, that we may have no fear from thy violence when the mob arc gone, we will conceal thee safely, and when the search is over send thee back to thy lawful guardian. That is all. I cannot place myself and my daughter at the mercy of one who may have none. Will thee consent?” She was only prudent. Gilbert bowed silently and extended his hands. It was his only chance for life, and it would be the height of folly to object. Yet a faint color came into his face as the cold steel snapped on his wrists, rendering him helpless—yet scarcely more so than fatigue had already made him. The hesitation of both was over now. Ernestine bade him remove His muddy shoes, while she swiftly closed the door and drew down the blinds, and the mother hurried into another room. Thither Ernestine beckoned ljim to follow, pausing only to thrust the shoes out of sigTit. At the door she turned. “It is David’B room,” looking keenly in his face. “Come in!” It was a small, plain!}' furnished room. Mrs. Westford had drawn the bed from the wall and thrown back the last breadth of carpet, revealing a tiny trap-door. At his entrance she opened it, and motioned him down. “It is only four feet. You can drop that far,” said Ernestine encouragingly. “There is no outer door. Y’ou will be quite safe.” Her mother smiled sadly. “How many frightened fugitives have slept there in safety! But that was years ago—before the war. Thee need not fear. Now—but stay, thee must be faint. I will bring thee food and drink.”

She hurried away, and he swung himself down. It was not very easy, with his manacled hands, and Ernesttine helped him. llis heart thrilled at the touch of her cold, trembling fingers. “She shrinks from my touch. She thinks my hand stained with her brother’s blood,” he thought bitterly. But another glance at the pure, pale face relieved him. She was listening anxiously, and said with hurried kindness, “There is an old bed there. Look, while I hold the light down. There! Even half an hour’s rest will help you. But you must eat and rest in the dark, for this cellar extends under the kitchen, which is carpetless, and has cracks in the floor. Here comes mother.” Very hurriedly Mrs. Westford passed the well-filled dish and pitcher to him, reporting the mob almost before the house. “Cover up, quickly, Ernestine, I am going to wake Harry.” That was her youngest son, still sleeping soundly upstairs. She hurried away, and Ernestine quickly lowered the trap-door and pushed back the bed. Shut down in the darkness, Gilbert groped his way to the old bed, and sank down on it in utter exhaustion. He heard the girl’s quick step, the closing door, the louder steps directly overhead, and a slender spur of lamplight came down through a crack. She was back in the kitchen —and there were stern voices indistinctly to be heard without. Ernestine heard them more plainly, and stood with clasped hands and pale face, pravinsr silently, but oh,

(so earr,*etly, that the innocent, If he were innocent, might be saved, when | her young brother came rushing | downstara just as there came thunI dering knocks at the door. Mrs. Westford had told him no | more than that a crowd of men with i lanterns were approaching, and it was in perfect good faith that he flung open the door and angrily demanded their business. They soon satisfied him. “The tramp that murdered your brother is at large, and we are hunting for him. We have looked all up and down the road, for we know he caine this way. and it looks mightily as if he had slipped into your premises and hidden somewhere. Your folks will have no objection to our searching, I reckon?” “Not a bit. I don’t think he would j stop here, but if he did I hope you’ll j catch him and hang him to the near- i est tree,” the boy answered fiercely, i The fugitive, plainly hearing every i word, shuddered, but he had no idea i how many times that old house had | been searched in vain for hunted j souls, or he would not have feured. ; The out buildings and premises were I thoroughly searched, while Ernestine j and her mother looked on with pale, I quiet faces and wildly beating hearts, | and the fugitive lay and listened in the darkness. Then the men rode on, J grumbling and cursing the Sheriff for letting the prisoner escape. Silence settled on the old farmhouse, and Gilbert actually fell into a light doze, from which Mrs. Westford’s soft call aroused him. Half asleep, he made his way to the trap door and was helped up. Ernestine, in cloak and hat, stood waiting. “Mother thinks it best that you should be back in safety before daybreak,” she said simply “ I can drive you over very soon.” “I hate to let thee go, dear,” her mother said anxiously. “It is only for an hour, mother,” reassured the girl ; “and we can hardly trust Harry. He is only a boy and so impetuous and bitter.” Mrs. Westford sighed. “It seems to be a duty—and surely our Father will not let thee suffer for doing thy duty. Well, go. My prayers shall go with thee. But be careful, child.” The light wagon and bay pony stood at the door. The prisoner was helped into the back seat and Ernestine sprang in before. The big watch dog followed at her call and curled up under her seat, and Gilbert felt that however kindly these women might feel they were not disposed to run any useless risks. “Good-by, mother. Don’t fret,” was Ernestine’s parting word, and Mrs. Westford’s earnest “May God protect thee” showed her uneasiness. Yet she added a kindly word to the prisoner, “And may He bring out the truth? I hope we shall see thee free before all the world right speedily.” Then they drove away in the darkness. Ernestine spoke little; her heart heat too fast. She half apologized for taking the dog. “The roads would be so lonely coming back,” an apology which he readily accepted. Could he resent her prudence when she had given him his life? Blithe could not help being intensely thankful that the dog had been asleep in the barn when he approached. Their trip was about half done when lanterns gleamed ahead, and wheels and voices were heard approaching. “The mob!” was his first thought, and Ernestine whispered hurriedly, “Down under your seat till they pass!” then with a sudden joyful change in tone and manner, “Oh, it is the Sheriff! Thank heavens!” The Sheriff it was, looking anxiously for his charge, but with little hope of ever seeing him again alive! Ernestine turned quickly. “Your wrists, please,” and the manacles fell off. “There! You need not tell that part unless you wish. It was only—but you understand. Mother had a right to be cautious, £ou know.” I And then the Sheriff was hailing I them, and as much surprised as de- | lighted to find his prisoner in such hands. The transfer was soon made, and with a kindly word of farewell, Ernestine hastened back to her anxious mother. At the new trial Gilbert Hazelton had no difficulty in proving his own identity and was triumphantly acquitted. Of all the warm handclasps and congratulations ho received, none gave him more pleasure than those of Mrs. Westford and her daughter, “You must come and see us,” Ernestine said blushing. “I know we were not over-polite to you, mother and I; but come again, and you will find that we can be civil.” And he did come —not once, but many times—and at last earned sweet Ernestine away as his bride. —[Overland Monthly.