Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 31, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 April 1875 — A NIGHT IN THE WOODS. [ARTICLE]

A NIGHT IN THE WOODS.

A cold Canadian winter. Snow and slush; "dripping eaves and gables on our rude log-house; a bitter February day near its close; the cold intense; all around outside, the picture of desolation ; tall trees, gaunt and leafless, uprearing skeleton arms to the murky sky. A thaw had set in, and at every step you take out of doors you sink ankle-deep in the soft snow. Indoors is dreary; the cold air is forced through many a chink. Upon that night my fingers were benumbed, toes ached painfully, and a feeling of depression seized me such as I had never felt before. Save for my baby I was alone. My little child, indeed, gave me employment for • hands and mind: it had been ailing, ■ and its pretty face looked pinched and wan, with a hectic flush on it, and its little hands were hot and feverish. I had been frightened about it all day, as it lay moaning in my arms ; but now', as sleep closed its eyes—a troubled sleep at first, but gradually deepening and. growing tranquil—my mind, relieved about it, began to revert to my own loneliness. With a heavy heart I looked around the scantily-fur-nislred room, where all the articles were of the commonest kind; at the partition of rough boards which divided the hut into compartments; at the fire which had burned down, and was a heap of white ashes. Replenishing this last, and fanning it into a flame, gave me fresh occupation. It was not easy to make the damp, green logs catch fire. And at last, weary with the effort, cold and nervous, I burst into a fit of impatient tears. I was indeed desolate; divided by at least a mile from any human being, in • tire heart of a forest, the small portion of cleared land round our cottage showring forth more plainly, as it were, the density of the surrounding woods. My husband the day before had gone to a town some miles distant to obtain a sum of money due’ to him for the sale of cattle. He had left me alone with my one female servant, solely against his will; but it was impossible to avoid going, and equally impossible to take me and my sick baby with him. I had never been without him, a night since our arrival in the bush, and I felt miserably weak and nervous as night came, and morning dawned, and day again faded into night, and still kept him. One comfort was my child. My servant had been summoned that morning to go to her father, who lay dangerously ill some distance off; and though I missed her much, there was nothing for it but resignation. And now’ that my husband had not returned I began to fear that I should have to spend the night alone with my baby. Before the fire, now beginning to burn dully, I sat on the ground. The shade of evening fell fast, and a thick haze was dimming the small panes of the one window. Ah me! crouching thus on the cheerless hearth, listening to the soft breathing from the cradle where nestled my treasure, my thoughts went wandering, traveling backward; my heart was too oppressed to look forward. Asfaras human companionship went, I was, but for my baby, aldne; but I had one faithful friend with me—a dog, a rough-haired Irish terries. We had had him some time, and the faithful creature seemed to us to have more than canine sagacity. Now, as I sat brooding, he placed one paw on my lap; then his cold nose rested on my folded hands. “ Poor Ter,” I said aloud —and the sound of my own voice, breaking the stillness, made me start —“poor fellow;” then, stroking his rough coat, relapsed into thought. Far away from the dark Canadian forest —far away, indeed, my memory carried me. I saw rise before me a rose-embowered cottage, its windows opening on a sloping lawn, at the foot of which ran a rippling river; a pretty lawn studded with trees, an orchard close by, bright with blossoms, giving promise of golden and russet fruit, the sweet scent filling the air; underneath a spreading elm a rustic seat, and a girl resting thereon. From an open French window issues forth a gentleman, old and gray-haifed, but erect and stately still—the village doctor, my father. In that house I was born; by that river-side passed my youth; underneath that spreading elm dreamed I my foolish romantic dreams—built my castles in the air. Under that dear father’s loving care I was simply, calmly happy; no sorrow came near me. Adas! he died—died in the discharge of his duty, and I was left alone to commence the’struggle of life. The speculation in which my father’s whole savings were embarked proved a failure and all was lost. Determined to be up and doing, I became companion to a lady, but dally found the life grow more distasteful. But just when hope seemed dead within me my life was suddenly brightened by the possession of the love of my brave and faithful Jack. We were married. Things did-not go on quite well in worldly matters, and we had trials ; but we were so much to each other, and Jack was so strong and brave, that they were not very difficult to bear. At last came a dav when he de-

termined to emigrate and we .came to Canada. He had a good knowledge of farming and thought he would get on. So with the little money he had he purchased this place and was now trying to get a living out of it. He had had hard work enough, We were poor, and could not get proper help to clear the land, and Jack had to depend a great deal on his own strong arms and clear head. But, thank God, neither failed him. He never gave up hope; when things looked their worst he w r as ever calmly brave; his strong heart never gave way. He used sometimes to say words of self-reproach for having married and brought me to face such a hard struggle. My dear Jack, he need not have so spoken or thought. I cared for nothing in the life he had rescued me from. I regretted sometimes I was not stronger—a more useful helpmate for him. But I was only too glad to rough it with him, and strong in the will to do all I could to set his mind at ease on my account.

And to-night all this came before me—my dear, dead father, my absent husband; and so 1 sat dreaming on until the darkness had quift? fallen, and I awoke with a start to the realities of the present. The fire had begun to crackle loudly, shedding a bright light around, dancing and flashing on the timbers and filling the room with a crimson glow’. I went to the window and drew the screen. I did not close the shutter, thinking that if he did come home to-night he would like to see the cheery light in token of welcome. I went to the next room, used as a kitchen, softly followed by the dog, and bringing forth some candles lit one. I had to be sparing of them, for my stock was but small; but to-night I could not bear the shadows cast in the corners by the flickering of the fire. I scarcely expected Jack. Still hope would whisper: “He may come.” But the hours grew , into night, and still' the longed-for arrival did not take place. My baby was sleeping in its cot, and “ Terry,” the dog, lay' snugly before the now cheerful fire; I tried to while away the lonesome time by reading and thinking; but my book proved tedious ana my thoughts became sad. My fears were for Jack. I cried with sheer, nervous fright. “ What can delay him so?” I cried. “ Oh! what trouble is in store for me?” Then my better sense came to my aid. What use in idle repining? I made, some tea and drank it, but with little relish. As I watched my sleeping infant the stillness of the night was suddenly broken by a wild,' unearthly yell! The wolves in the swamp some distance off. I cowered and shrank. What if Jack, determined on coming home, had faced the night and those terrible foes!

Nerving myself with; a great effort, I stole to the window and fastened the shutter tremblingly. Terry barked violently at this moment, and awoke my baby, which diverted my thoughts for a while, until I had petted and nursed it into another soft slumber. I heaped on fresh wood. The night was far advanced, but I could not go to bed. Indeed, I felt thoroughly sleepless; and, drawing my low rocking-chair to the fire, sat down. I must have slept some time when a long, low whine from the dog aroused me. He was standing facing the window, his ears erect, his hair bristling, listening attentively. “ Terry, poor boy, good dog,” I w’hispered, trembling, “what is it?” How long the silence lasted I cannot say; all at once it seemed to me as if some one or thing was creeping round the shanty—round, slowly feeling its way. There was a crunching sound in the snow, at first faint, now quite distinct. And now, too, the dog’s behavior changed. With a fierce bark he dashed forward to the door. At this moment, on the glass on the window, came a nolent rapping—a rapping, it seemed, of human fingers! I smothered a shriek, and sank on my knees. Then, again, Jack came before me, and I approached the casement. But the loud barking bf the dog and the crying of the awakened child stupefied all other sound. I opened the shutter, and, raising the screen, looked into the darkness. I recoiled with a shriek! Awhite face was pressed against the glass on the outside —a face so wild and ghastly that it looked nothing in this world. Involuntarily I glanced at the window again. If was there still. Then tapping on the pane the hands strove to open the sash. With a yell Terry sprang forward; but I caught him ere he “could break through the window, and the face disappeared. But now at the door the> knocking was repeated. Holding back the dog, I bent my ear to the chink and listened.

“ Let me in, for God’s sake,” moaned a hoarse voice. “I am a dying man; let me die in the light. Woman, woman, I beg of you, let me in!” “ Who are you?” I asked. “Do I know you?” “Let me in. lam dying! He is hunting me!” he screamed; and then, as it, seemed, fell, for I felt the door shake as if he had clutched it. “ The wolves are after him,” I thought, and hesitating not; an instant undid the fastenings and opened the door. He had fallen, and lay across the threshold as if dead. Kneeling down I lifted his head; he was not insensible. At first I thought that it was drink that ailed him, but his face disproved that. It was pinched and white, and like the face of a dying man, as he called himself, I helped him to a sitting posture, then to his feet. He staggered in, and sank down again when he reached the hearth. His hands were benumbed. His teeth chattere’d with cold, and his clothes were wet and torn. Altogether, he looked the picture of wretchedness and misery. His wild eyes were riveted oq the door. “ Shut it,” he whispered. “ Keep him out, for —w —” I quickly closed the door and fastened it. Then giving him a little cordial it revived him greatly. “My poor fellow, are you better?” He nodded. The fire’s heat seemed to make him drowsy; so, getting a blanket and some skins, I made him a kind of bed. He laid down obediently, and gradually I saw his eyes close. I looked at him cautiously. I was not frightened now.

The man before me could not have injured a'child, were he so inclined. Worn to a mere skeleton, the wreck of a once powerful man lay there. As the light fell on his face I saw that he must once have possessed no ordinary portion of good looks. His beard was grizzled, though he was not past the prime of life; but toil and hardship, and, to judge from the sunken eyes and furrowed brow, care and sorrow too, had done their work. I pitied him, and was glad that no cowardly fear had caused a refusal to his entreaty for admission. Poor fellow! those sinewy hands, feeble as my baby’s now, spoke of hard work, a life spent in outdoor toil. I anxiously looked for morning, as well as for the return of my husband. While enduring ibis s..d vigil the stranger whom I ba I sheltered suddenly burst into exclamations, like thravings of a madman; “Keep him out—keep him out: 1-. :i‘t you hear him?” The man was t'• ■■ ■ pointing with extended finger. • l p off!” he cried; “ keep off! Your time mis not come yet. Stand there between me and him. Save me!” I sprang toward him. “There is no one here,” said I hastily; “no one, indeed. lam quite alone, except the little child and the dog. You are mistaken.” I was terrified, but strove to speak calmly.

“I am not mistaken. Have I been mistaken these ten years? For ten years on this very’ night, this 20th of' February, I have heard his voice and seen his face. Stand there between me and the door. Hark! hear to him!” He cowered down, shuddering. “Let me die,” he murmured. “He said he’d be with me at my dying hour, and he is;” he stopped speaking. His last words were uttered in a hoarse whisper. In the silence I could hear the beating of my ow r n heart. He stretched out his hand feebly. “■Touch me,” he said, “ ’twill give me I did so, taking his hand in mine. “You are an angel,” he sajid, his fingers convulsively tightening on fiiftne. “ Look at the dog!” he cried. His voice waslow and hoarse through excessive weakness. “ Maybe you think it’s the horrors of drink that’s on me. I haven’t tasted liquor, till you gave it to me, these six months. It only drove me worse when I took it —and I am not mad,” reading .some such thought in my face. “ Though, if I was, you’d be in no danger; even madness couldn’t put the strength to harm into this bag of bones,” glancing at his hands lying before him. “No ma’ann I am not mad.” I knelt down, the cowering dog at my side. I prayed earnestly, and when my voice ceased he spoke. “I’ll tell ye true,” he said —“I’ll tell ye true. Besides, as I can through your means help another, I know you won’t refuse me. I have done harm, maybe—a deal of harm, to one whenever injured me. An’ now I can never repay it if you don’t help me.” His eyes were on mine, and the pupils seemed covered with a film. The effort seemed evident when he spoke even in the lowest tones; yet in voice and gaze there were signs of strong anxiety. “ I promise you,” I replied, “ I shall try to have your wishes complied with. All my husband and I can do we will.” “ Moisten my lips; they’re parching. Bless you.” He was silent for a brief space; then, speaking in a stronger, yet constrained, tone, as if he had nerved himself to the task, he said: “Let me say my say. I haven’t much time left now. ’Tis ten years since I spoke in confidence to any human crayture; ’tie ten years since I spoke the truth by word or deed! I was a happy, contented man. I was a husband and a father, an’ my W'ife was as purty a girl, an’ as good an’ true, as ever lived. We rented a little farm in the county of Limerick, an’ we were happy an’ honest. I was considered a smart fellow, an’ likely to do well; an’ Mary had the good word of all the neighbors. Ah! a bitter drop it is —l’ll never meet her again. She’s in heaven! So things went on fair enough with me for some time; when on a day, cornin’ in from the field, I found my wife cryin’ lan’ lookin’ vexed an’ flustered somejiow, wid the flush on her face. She would not tell me the cause. So I went out to my work again, angry a bit at her being secret-like with me. I met Mr. Donevan, the agent, by the way, an’ he gave me a civil good mornin’, an’ talked for a bit about the cattle an’ the crops, an’ was mighty kind entirely. He w’ent his way an’ I went mine, I thinkin’ what* a nice gentleman he was.”

The speaker had kept his eyes fixed on me and never once glanced around. I strove to rise to get him more stimulant, for his voice had grown alarmingly weak. “No, no,” he said; “I am dfin’; I know it. But if I had twenty years’ life in me and knew the gallows was before me I’d spake now. Well, one evenin’ a month after I found it out. Cornin’ through a lonely windin’ borheen I came suddenly on a woman struggling with a man. ‘Help!’ ‘she cried. My heart leaped. I knew that voice. I rushed forward and with a blow knocked down the villain who held her and caught my wife in my arms. I’ll never forget the scowl he gave al me as, picking himself up, he limped off. I kept, by Mary clinging to me, from following him. * Oh, Jim, don’t go after him,’ she said. Then at length she told me how Mr. Donevan had followed her about for a long time, both before and afther her marriage, and how the day I found her cryin’ he had insulted her, and how he had threatened her if she ever tould me a word about it he’d be the ruin of me. “ Well, to cut it short, for I feel the life’s going fast from me, we were turned out of our house by the agent; all my little stock and furniture seized. My wife was sick and the bed was taken from under her. A naybour took her in, but the ’shock and removal killed her. I lost her an’ her baby together. “ In one short week I was a widower and childless, without house or home, or one penny in the world. I did not much care for the poverty now, though. I met Mr. Donevan the day I buried Mary, an’ his wicked face wore a sneering smile, an’ he gev me one look, which said to me plainly,: ‘Haven’t I kept my word?’ But I was determined to be revenged on him

who caused my bitter sorrow. It came to my hand, my revenge did, unexpected. One night I was cornin’ alongst a lonely country road. There was a moon, but the clouds were scudding across it sometimes, an’ thin all would be dark; an’ thin she’d suddenly appear, lightin’ up everythin’ quite clear. It was in another county it was, away from my own place, having gone there for work. I had to live somehow an’ was bound to work. All alone I walked an’ all alone in the world I thought I was too; when all of a sudden a horse’s throt sounded on the road, cornin’ toward me. I moved aside, to let him pass, when he pulled up an’ asked me if this road was not a short Cut to K . The moon shone out then clear an’ bright, an’ I see his face, an’ heard his voice, an’ knew it was him. In ■ n instant he was on the ground at my I feet. One blow from the stout stick I carried had. felled him from the saddle. He never stirred afther! The frightened horse rushed away, an’ I dragged the [ body Inside a low ditch. I took his watch, purse an’ some papers that were on him an’ Jest him, as if he had been murdered for robbery’s sake. I was unknown in them parts. None would ever suspect me in my own place. If they searched for me I never knew it. I got away from Queenstowm* by a ship which was short of hands, an’ as l had at one time lived by the sea an’ been used to boats they were glad to get me. Over the vessel’s side I flung, as we left Cork Harbor behind us, the watch and purse, but the papers I kept. They were in one small packet. I put them up; I don’t know why, but I did not like to destroy them. They are now in my pocket. I went to San Francisco an’ I went all round the world, but never back to Ireland. I changed my name, an’ none ■who once knew me would have recognized me, I became so changed in looks. But, as it happened, I never met one from my old place. My revenge brought me no comfort.”

Here his voice quivered and he uttered some wild exclamations. He was evidently laboring under a terrible sense of remorse and his mind was wandering. I could see he was dying. He lay quite still but for the deep heaving of the chest. I softly wiped away the deathdews. The eyes seemed to see nothing; the face was still and fixed. The rattling became fainter; he breathed at longer intervals. Suddenly he put out one of his hands feebly and touched mine; a smile stole over the mouth that had not smiled for years. “ I shall see Mary,” he said, and died. Just then, when all was over with the miserable being, there was a loud knocking at the door and with rapture I heard the voice of my husband: “Hollo! Nell! Let mein, child. Where are you?” I flew to the door, and, in the agitated state of my feelings, I fainted away in his arms. When I came to myself I was in the kitchen, and Jack beside me; his dear face looked pale with anxiety, and he held me close to his heart as I told jiim what had occurred, as soon as I could find voice at all, and I did not forget to mention the packet. Jack had been unable to leave D until late the preceding day, and had been overtaken by the darkness. The fog increasing, he had consented to accept a friend’s hpspitality for the night, but, being miserably uneasy about it, he had started long before daxvn, and, arriving home, beheld the strange scene related. I was ill, and it was a good while before I got well. In the interval my baby was attended to by an English settler’s wife, who lived next to us. Having lost her own child she nursed mine with care and love until it could be restored to my care. During this dismal period I escaped any concern as to the removal and burial of the stranger who had died in the distracting circumstances I have recorded.

On returning to everyday life, and sitting one day with little Willie in my grins, J ack proposed to tell me a story. “If you are able to bear it,” he said, “ I will tell you a story full of interest, but also a little painful. I think you should hear it.” I requested him to proceed. He then went on as follows: “ Ten years ago, in a certain county in Ireland, lived a gentleman who had two sons. He had been married twice, and the brothers had different mothers. The first wife’s son was a great deal older than his halfbrother and was married, with a son reaching manhood, when the younger came home to his father from the English college where he had been educated. The mother of the younger brother had died in giving him birth. The elder brother’s wife was an intriguing woman. The younger son had a will of his own and was too proud and too honest to flatter. Things did not go on well between him and his brother’s family, who disliked him and were jealous of the father’s aflection for the younger son. The fortune of the father was in his own power, with the exception of a small entailed property. Gradually an estrangement crept between the bld man and his favorite son, which was not wholly the son’s fault. And there was no lajk'of malice to widen the breach on the part of others. At last a serious quarrel occurred between the young man and his father on the subject of the former’s marriage with a lady of large fortune. The father and son parted in anger. The father sent for his lawyer and made hie will, leaving his whole fortune to his elder son, cutting off the younger with one ihilling. The father and son did not meet again until just before the old man’s death. The son, hearing one day of his father’s wish to see him, hastened to him. The meeting gave happiness to both, and thev parted reconciled. The old man had not been very well for some time, but after his son’s departure rallied wonderfully, and seemed likely to live for years. One day he started on a journey, telling no one his mission. The same evening he returned, apparently in good health. The next morning he was found dead in his bed! Heart disease was the verdict of the physicians. The night before, or the morning of his death, a terrible murder had been committed near a town not twenty miles distant from the old man’s home, the victim being a solicitor and

land-agent from a neighboring county. This gentleman had come to K- on business, and had accepted the invitation of a friend to dinner. On returning to his hotel from his friend’s house he was attacked on the public road. His body was not discovered for several hours after the deed was perpetrated; and as all the valuables on Ins person were gone it was believed it was for the purpose of robbery the crime was committed. It was generally believed there were more than one engaged in the matter, as, though lame, the deceased was a powerful man, and well able to cope with a single antagonist. The murderer was never discovered. There was some hard dealings with tenants which had brought the dead man into disrepute with the peasantry ; and there was one man in particular on whom suspicion fell. But the fact of the/ robbery took people off the scent, and ‘gave Jhe crime another character than agrarian. “ Search was made, however, tor the man in question, but he was never found, and was believed to have left the country ; and no trace of the murderer, whoever he might be, was discovered. The elder of the two brothers stepped into his father’s fortune, and the younger got his shilling! They never met after they parted at their father’s grave. But the younger went his way with a lighter heart to think that his father’s last words to him had been those of peace and love; believing, also, that if he had but lived a little time longer another will would have been made and justice would have been done him.

“Justice, had been done him; another will had been made. For some reason (probably suspicion of his elder son) he had wished to keep the matter a secret, and had employed the murdered man to draw the will-, instead of the family lawyer. He had known the dead man a long:,time, and had confidence in him. He had gone to K to meet him the day of that sudden journey—the last day of both their lives —and had executed the will. Whether the elder brother ever had any suspicion on the subject it is impossible to say. The witnesses to the will are both living in K . No papers of any kind being found on the dead man, of course all was clear for the elder of these sons; and he was at liberty to disregard any idle gossip he might have heart! as to his father’s executing a deed the day before his death. The will, which was the old man’s last will and act, is found, and has, through a mysterious interposition of Providence, been sent to him to whom it chiefly applies.” “ That is fortunate, dear Jack, for the younger brother will get his due." “ And that younget brother is about to claim it, and is going to carry off his wife and child to share it with him,” said my husband, jocosely. “Ay, Nell, lam that younger brother, whose earlier history has, till now, been such a mystery ,to his sweet, little darling wife.” “ Then,” said I, tears of joy brimming my eyes—my hand fondly clasped in his—“then that is the story of the * packet?’ ” “ That is the story of the packet, so carefully guarded for years by the poor outcast who is dead and gone. And now I think my Nell will not have cause altogether to repent having sheltered the castaway on that Night in the Backwoods!”