Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 November 1895 — THE STORY OF THREE OLD MEN [ARTICLE]

THE STORY OF THREE OLD MEN

Shortly after the successful issue of our ■truggle for independence, on a certain night in the fall of the year, a storm of unwonted violence was rioting in the Catskill Mountains. The wind screamed as though in a delirium of triumph, flinging with tireless sury, the cold rain over haughty peak and modest valley. The long, pliant urms of the leafless mountain willows lashed the black night in impotent rage and more than one craggy mass, loosened from its bond of ages, tore its awful way that night through the upland forest to the sodded level beneath. Even Alistress Dorris, the merry, plump little widow who supplied the customers of the Old Leeds Arms with “ales, wines, spirituous liquors, tobaccos and snuffs,” even sbe was out of sorts, for what with the going out of lanterns and the coming in of water through the diamond panes of the rickety lattice; what with the smoke that seemed not to know the purpose of a chimney, and the coughing aud grumbling of the shivering old man in the bar parlor, her head and hands were busy enough.

There was something uncanny about this visitor. An absolute stranger, he had entered in the height of the storm, his appearance indicating a long foot journey, had given his bearskin coat to the potboy, with an injunction “to have it dried aud laid on the bed in the little room over the the tap,” and, without a question, had gone direct to the parlor. He looked as nncient as the inn itself, of which he evidently knew every nook and corner. “Bring me a mug of mulled ale, mistress,” he said, “aud, hark ye, Hiram Cook, the constable, is livin’ still, ain’t he?”

“Judge Hiram Cook is my father,” .replied the widow; “it is many years since he was constable. He took the wagon to court this morning; and may not trust the roads till daylight.” “To court!” repeated the stranger. “Ay, I understand; it will be choice gal- J lows fruit—choice gallows fruit!" aud lie rubbed his skinny hands and blinked his unnaturally bright eyes at a lively rate. The gibbet is a depressing subject at times, but to have it linked in an obscure fashion with one’s parent by a grinning old stranger, at the approach of midnight, ■with the rain driving at the doors and ■windows as though death sought admittance, and the tempest moaning a dirge, defines perhaps the limit of endurance. Airs. Dorris was evidently of this opinion, for, forgetting all about the mulled ale, she dropped upon the leather couch and stared at her shriveled guest witb the blankness of a corpse. < “Yes,” he laughed, pulling his skeleton fingers until they “cracked,” “sixty long years have I waited for what to-morrow will bring. These bills have been less patient, for they I warrant have changed since last 1 trod them, while I have known no change—at least, here!” And he laid his long fingers over the spot where his heart should have been. “To-morrow,” he continued, “this owl they call justice will awake, and he will hear my curse as he is dragged to the scaffold !” “What crime is this?” exclaimed the hostess, springing to her feet in the belief that she was confronting a mad man, “that you dare to lay at my father’s door ?” “Nay, mistress, it is of Reuben Elliston I speak. I asked if Hiram Cook yet lived, for it is fitting that he who tied the silken cord around the murderer’s neck should be the one to take it from his corpse! Doubtless the final arrangements have taken him to town.” “Old Reuben Elliston!” “Ay,” continued the stranger, rising and looking intently into the woman’s eyes, “R'uben Elliston! Even now I passed the stone house and saw a light in the windows; you dare not tell me he is dead!" “Our neighbor has been near the grave these many years, but death and he are strangers. Since my earliest recollection he has lived a life of seclusion, but we grant to age what you would link with crime.” “Woman!” cried the old man, flinging his hands above his head, “did your father speak to you of Mercy Douglass, the Scotch girl, whose services as house menial were bought by Squire Elliston from the owners of the Glasgow packet for the price of her passage, who ran from his home and his proffered love, was retaken, tied to the scoundrel’s horse and dragged to death among the rocks on this very road ?” The question seemed to revive a host of buried memories. Mrs. Dorris remembered that as a child she had listened to the story of Murder Notch; had seen the identical rock on which the ghost of a beautiful victim was said to sit at midnight, two burning tapers in her hands and sing of her sad fate. She recalled how Tom Dorris—rest his soul—long before he had dreamed of becoming her husband—bad told her of the spectral horse which time and again was seen to dash up the road as the village clock struck Iff, dragging at his heels the form of a lovely woman. “Ha! your memory is quickened, mistress 1” said the old man, who had narrowly watched her face. “There was such a story when I was very young,” she replid, “but I never heard it coupled with the name of Reuben Elliston. The great war has driven out many a legend, master. Old Reuben helped the cause with all he had; he is poor and nearly blind now, aud folks with evil tongues should spare their breath.” The stranger’s eyes glittered with auger at this reproof. “1 feared it would be kept from this generation 1" he cried. “Listen! Mercy was to be my bride. Because she would not break her vows he killed her in his jealous pride. She lie 3 buried on this farm. He was tried for the crime and sentenced to deatt, by the rope, but a corrupt judge delayed his execution until his ninety-ninth birthday. He was, however, ordered to wear a cord of silk Upon his neck and ouce a year to show to the court that he still bore the emblem of (Ain. To-morrow, mistress, Reuben is

“My father has told me nothing of this!” said Mrs. Dorris. ‘ ‘No ; because he thought death would spare him the task,” cried the other fiercely; “but I knew otherwise? Notone day in all these long years that has not brought a forecast of to-morrow! I knew he could not die—l knew 1 must live; live to see them drag him, screaming with the reality of his late years’ nightmare, to the punishment a guilty judge would have spared him! Far removed from these mountains, I have seen them by day and by night, I have watched him in his pride, the rich young squire, living down the memory of his crime. Once in a dream, many years ago, I saw him at a feast, amid the roars of his drunken friends, take from his neck the silken cord and tie it upon his hound! Then, again; I saw him, the aged head of an upright family, living a life of peace, unruffled by the past. I heard his thoughts: ‘One decade more at most, and I shall rest as honored as they!’ Then I stood before him and laughed, and pointed to a forgotten grave behind which stood the hangman and the gallows! Again I pictured him, living on, on, on, far beyond his hoped for limit, a frightful fear in his heart; the hideous past arisen from its grave and stalking ever by his side. Ah, that was the dream of dreams! ”

As the star grass on the hills quivers before a storm so the old man Shook with the intensity of his hatred. “Our neighbor and the Reuben Elliston of your dreams wonld never be mistaken for one another,” exclaimed the widow. At this moment the judge, a tall, kindly man, who did not look his great age by many years, entered the room, accompanied by a timid, sweet-faced girl of twenty. “Take off your wet cloak, my dear,” said the judge; “daughter, Alercy Elliston will stay here to-night.’l “Alercy Elliston,” gasped the stranger. “I sent Amos, the mail rider, to Poughkeepsie yesterday,” continued the judge; “has he returned ?” Mrs. Dorris threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Oh, then it is true?" she whispered; “You have sent to Governor Clinton for a pardon for Reuben Ellis, ton ?” The judge’s eyes inquiringly sought those of the strange guest. “1 have told her what you, Hiram Cook, have so long concealed,” said the latter. “You here, Giles Raven 1” “Do you remember my words of sixty years back—that I should live to see it?” “Hush!” whispered Hiram, “in pity keep it from her !’’ “Bis kin?” “Yes; for she has known no other. He took her from the breast of a poor woman who had perished in the snow a score of years ago. They have been all the worlj to each other. He named her ‘Mercy,’ after the one who lies over there.” A foreboding of evil seemed to be lodged in the girl’s breast, which was certainly not dissipated by the kindly little widow’s tears and caresses. Why had she been brought from the stone house! Why had Reuben begged of the judge that he might be alone for this night? Giles Raven was not the man to spare anyone who loved the object of his life hatred. Shuffling across the room, he hissed in Alercy’s ear: “To-morrow Reuben Elliston will die on the gallows in spite of this mau’s efforts to defeat the law !" “The gallows!” cried the poor girl. “Oh, what fearful secret do you keep from me ?" “Come, dear!” whispered Mrs. Dorris, who gained strength at the sight of another’s weakness, and Mercy’s cheek lay upon the widow’s shoulder as they passed from the room.

For a full minute the two men, thus tragically brought together agaiu after the lapse of a lifetime, looked at each other in silence. “Giles Haven,” said the judge at length, “there is no boot but is too clean to tread on such a worm as tliou! Yeur after year our neighbor has come to me and bared his neck that I might see the accursed cord upon it, and I have pitied him, for never before in the world—mark me, Giles, never before in the world—has mischance borne so great a penalty!” “You have light words for gallows deeds, master !’’ sneered Raven. “Tear from your eyes the film of hatred, Giles, and acknowledge what well you know, that Reuben Elliston never bad murder in his heart.” “Mercy Douglass was mine—sbe left him to become my bride'—be had spoken of love to her—the law said that for a term her labor was his—be retook her by force—be slew her. Call you that a ‘mischance,’ Hiram Cook ?” “He was young and bad youth’s haughty ways; be erred, but when that poor girl was dragged to her death it was because no human arm could have checked his course.” “Yes a jury called it murder,” grinned the vengeful man, “aud murder’s due, though long delayed by kuavery, is near at last!” “God touch the governor’s heart and bring Amos safely through the storm !’’ exclaimed the judge. “I have written Clinton that the conviction was under the English rule and might well be avoided.” “And if the roads should delay your mercy pleader ?” Hiram replied with a sigh, which was full of significance. Giles rose and opened the door. “Hiram Cook,” be a said, “we three old men have not so far exceeded the limit of human years—for nothing. ” “Father,” cried Airs. Dorris from the tap-room, “some one is comiug up the road; perhaps it is Amos.” Poor Mercy, who bad exacted the terrible story from the widow, already stood in the dark road, listening for the slightest sound which would liearald the bearer of I the governor’s clemency. The storm was abating. “Loo-ee-oooo!” came faintly through the blackness. “It is Amos,” exclaimed the girl, who knew the voice of Jtke brave young fellow better than most people were aware. In a few minutes the mail rider, drenched to the skin, drew rein at the door. Since noon on the preceding day he bad ridden nearly 100 miles over the heavy roads and had twice rowed across the river. His had been a perilous and dreary task, but his face wore a smile as be drew a packet from the holster of his army saddle and banded it to the judge, who stepped quickly into the house, followed by Raven.

“Oh, Amos! It is good news, isn’t it?” Mercy implored.. The smile vanished. Amos knew not on what business he had been engaged. He loved the sweet face that looked so pleadingly into his; he hud not expected to find Aiercy at the inn. and the question started the blood from his honest cheeks. The judge stood in the tap room, behind a suspended lantern, the official letter trembling in his hand. Suddenly lie staggered anil grasped a chair for support and the document fell to the floor. “God be merciful to him!” he groaned. A piercing scream ran through the nouse and the strong arm of Amos held a very lovely burden. Giles picked up the letter, put on his spectacles and glanced at the contented

then, shivering as with an ague, he left the room. “Tell me what this means, Mrs. Dorris?” Amos asked. “It means that poor old Reuben Elliston is to be executed to-morrow." Mercy Elliston, in spite of her hysterical entreaties to be allowed to go to Reuben, was token upstairs by Mrs. Dorris; not, however, to know the blessing of forgetfulness, but to lay in a half conscious state upon the widow’s bed and moan away the night. The judge and Amos sat in the parlor, the latter frequently sobbing like a child, in spite of the landlady’s reassuring bulletins. “Oh, how can it be true!” sobbed Mercy; “how can one so gentle as he who saved me from the snowdrift have done murder! You do not know him as I do, or you would not hear (hem say it?” “Hush!" said her companion; “we do not believe it, dear." “But the grave—the grave !’’ she cried, “and the beautiful flowers he has alwava grown for it, and the dark shadow on his heart that I have so long seen but never understood! ” Presently, however, Mercy slept and Airs. Dorris stepped downstairs with words of comfort for Amos, in whom sbe had begun to take a warm interest. Giles Raven crept from “the little room over the tap” and entered the chamber. Afaking sure that the young woman was asleep he pressed a kiss upon her forehead and then, with a wildly beating heart, as silently left the room. It is morning. Far over the blackness of the weeping forest that stretches almost to the princely Hudson glows the cold light of a new day, while west and south and north, from Overlook to the Black Dome, a galaxy of granite monarchs have already put on their crowns of molten gold. In the dawn’s increasing glory the somber night clouds that move upon the lower hills seem like strange monsters from some vaster and still more gloomy world. The robin wakes and chirps his greeting to the morning; the trees shake off their repletion of moisture; overhead a silver star tells of a clearer heaven. The face of nature wears a smile once more as the radiant sun kisses away her tears. But it is easier to charm a harvest from the earth than to put gladness in a conscience stricken heart. Over the heavy road, in the early light, toils a care-bent, aged man. He is bound on an errand so strange that be half doubts his own identity, and looks behind him now and again, as though expecting his true self to overtake him and drag him back. On his left lays the Stone House farm: here is the turnstile : —unchanged in half a century. A hundred paces from the mountain road there is a small raised bit of earth; it is covered with dead flowers. "I have laid no blossoms here!" he says, and he kneels upon the wet grass and lays his face upon them. A well trodden path, terminating at the grave, leads toward the rear of the house. Giles takes this path. There is no bar upon the door, yet for a moment he feels unable to enter. He must not turn away ! To kneel at the feet of the man whose life has been passed in penitence, to confess his own misdirected life anil obtain Reuben’s blessing, is to give him strength to ask forgiveness of one to whom alone vengeance belongs. The gorgeous hills throw a ray of light in the gloomy place. The dreamer knows now that no guest but sorrow has sat at this board for decades. Giles turns the handle of the parlor door. An aged figure kneels at the casement. Upon his weary, upturned face is cast the first gleam of the morning. Perhaps it is given to these dim eyes to see the orb of light onee more, for on the gentle lips there rests a smile of wonder and yet of ineffable peace. “Reuben! Reuben!” Slowly the eyelids droop and slowly the head falls upon the breast. It is broad day.