How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year's Part 7

"I trust," said the man, as they approached, "that we have not kept you waiting by our tardiness?"

"Yer comin' be true to a minit," answered the trapper, glancing up at the western mountain, the top of whose pines the lower edge of the sun had just touched. "The meat be ready. We sartinly can't boast of the bark or the dishes," he continued, "but the victuals be as good as natur' allows, and yer welcome be hearty."

"We could ask no more," said the man, courteously, "and one might almost think that the hand of woman had adorned the table."

"The posies be the boy's doin'," replied the trapper, glancing at Herbert; "he has a likin' for their color and smell, and I never knowed him to eat without a green sprig or a bunch of bright moss or some sech thing on the bark."

"I am sure I do not like them any better than you do," answered Herbert, smiling, and looking pleasantly into the old man's face.

"They be of the Lord's makin'," responded the trapper. "They be of the Lord's makin', and it be fit thet mortals should love 'em, as I conceit.

I've lived a good deal alone," he continued, "but I've never lived in a cabin yit that didn't have a few leetle flowers, or a tuft of gra.s.s, or a speck of green somewhere about it. They sort of make company for a man in the winter evenin's, and keep his thoughts in cheerful directions."

"Your sentiments do honor to your nature," responded the other, "and I am glad to meet with one of your age, who, having lived among the beauties of Nature, has not allowed them to become commonplace and unworthy of notice. Many in the cities show less refinement."

"I conceit it is a good deal in the breedin'," answered the trapper.

"There be some that don't know good from evil in natur',--leastwise, they don't seem to have any eyes to note the difference; and what isn't born in a man or a dog you can't edicate into him. The breedin' settles more p'ints that the missioners dream, as I jedge. But come, friends, the victuals be coolin', and the mouth loves a warm morsel."

"I am certain," said the man, as they were partaking of the repast, "that I never tasted a piece of venison so finely flavored before."

"I've cooked the meat for nigh on to sixty year," answered the trapper, "and have larnt not to spoil the sweetness of natur' by overdoin' it.

It's a quick aim that brings the buck to the camp, and a quick fire that puts the steak on to the plate ready for the mouth.--trust, lady, that ye enjoy the victuals?"

"I do, indeed," answered the girl, "and if the cooking were less perfect, I should count this as a feast."

"Yis, yis; I understand ye," answered the old man. "The sound of the tumblin' water be pleasant, and the eye eats with the mouth," and he glanced at the green woods that stretched away, and the brightly-colored clouds that hung like fleece of gold in the western sky.

"The barbarian eats from a trough," remarked Herbert; "civilize him, and he erects a table; and as you add to his refinement, he adorns that table until the furniture of it magnifies the feast and the guests think more of the beauty of the adornments than of the food they swallow."

And so with pleasant converse the meal progressed. Soon the sun declined and darkness began to thicken in the pines. The table was moved to one side, the dishes cleansed and the fire lighted for the evening. With the darkness silence had fallen upon the group,--not that silence which is awkward and oppressive, or which comes from lack of thought, but that fine silence, rather, which is only the thin shadow of the reflective mood, and because the thought is inward and overfull.

And so the four sat in silence by the fire. Above, a few great stars shone warmly. Here and there the rapids flashed white through the gloom.

From a huge pine on the other side of the pool a horned owl challenged the darkness with his ponderous call.

Suddenly the man broke the silence,--broke it with a question which led to a remarkable conversation, and a tragical result. And the question was this:--

"Friend, answer me this question: _If a man take a life, should he give his own life in atonement for the dreadful deed?_"

III

"_If a man take a life, should he give his own life in atonement for the dreadful deed?_"

Such was the question that the man asked. He was looking at the trapper at the time,--looking at him steadily; but the sound of his voice as he put the question did not seem to give personal direction to the solemn interrogation; it seemed rather the echo of a reflection, as if his own mind in its communings had come upon the terrible question, and the words, without volition of his own, which framed it into speech, had pa.s.sed out of his mouth.

He was looking at the trapper, as we said, and the trapper was looking into the fire,--the light of which, that came and went in flashes, brought distinctly out the settled gravity of the features, and the rugged but grand proportions of the head. There is no better light in which to see an old man's face than the fitful firelight; and no better background than that which the darkness makes.

One would have thought that the interrogation was not heard, for on the trapper's face there showed no line of change. The girl remained looking steadfastly into the face of the questioner, and Herbert made no response.

"I asked you a question, old trapper," said the man; "a question which reaches to the depths of human responsibility, and points to the heights of human sacrifice. In the old days, the wisdom of the world was with those who lived with Nature. Your head is white, and you tell me you have lived in the woods since you were a boy. You have seen war; have stood in battle; have slain your man, and made many graves of those you have slain. Have you wisdom? Are you able to answer the question I have asked you?"

"I have, as ye say," answered the trapper, "ben in wars. I've stood in battle; I've slain men; I've buried those I have slain; I know what it is to take a human creeter's life, and I think I know where the right to do the deed stops and where it begins."

"Where does it begin?" asked the man; "where does the right to take human life begin?"

The words came forth slowly and heavy-weighted with meaning. It was evident that the question which the man asked was not asked as one interrogates, but as one puts a question that has personal application to himself. The trapper felt this. He looked into the man's face, and studied his countenance a moment; noted the breadth of brow, the large, deep-set eyes, the fine curvature of the chin and cheek; saw the beauty and splendor of it; saw what some might not have seen,--both the beauty of its peaceful mood and the terribleness of the wrath that might surge out of it,--saw all this, and without answering the question, said simply,--

"You have killed a man."

The stranger looked steadily back into the trapper's face, and answered as simply,--

"Yes, I am a murderer."

Herbert started a trifle. The girl gave a slight exclamation and lifted her hand as if in protest. The trapper alone made reply,--

"Ye sartinly don't look like a murderer, friend."

"He is none! he is none!" exclaimed the girl. "He had provocation, old man! he had provocation!" and then she turned toward the man, and said: "Why will you say such things? Why will you condemn yourself wrongly?

Why do you brood over a deed done in wrath, and under the strain that few might resist, as it had been done in cold blood, and with a murderer's malice and forethought of evil?"

The man listened to her gravely, with a kind of considerate patience in the look of his face; waited a moment, when she had finished, as one might wait from the habit of politeness, and then, without answering her, said:

"You have not answered my question, old trapper."

"I can't answer it,--I sartinly can't answer it, friend, onless I know the sarc.u.mstances of the killin'; for there be killin' that be right and there be killin' that be wrong, and onless I know the sarc.u.mstances of the killin', my words would be like the words of a boy that talks in council without knowing what he is talkin'. Ef ye killed a man, how did ye kill him?"

"I killed him face to face," answered the man. He paused a moment, and then repeated, "Face to face."

"Why did ye kill him?" asked the trapper. "Had he done ye wrong?"

"He was my friend," said the man, "my friend, true and tried."

"Had he done ye a wrong?" persisted the trapper.

"What is wrong?" asked the man. "I can't tell whether he had done me wrong or nay. I only know he had crossed my purpose,--stopped me from doing what I had set my heart on doing; and what I set my heart on doing, old man, _I do_." And the man's eyes darkened under the abundant brow and the face tightened and contracted, as a rope when a strain is upon it. "The man came between me and my purpose," he added, "he stood up and faced me, and said I should not do what I proposed to do, and should not have what I had sworn to have; and I killed him where he stood."

It was astonishing how quietly the words were said, considering the tremendous energy of will which was charged into and through their quietness.

"He had no right to do it," said the girl; "he had no right to do it. It was none of his business, and you know it wasn't," And she spoke, apparently to the man, "Oh, sir, why do you not tell them that he was an intermeddler, and meddled with what was none of his business,--kindled you to rage by his meddling, and that you slew him in your rage, thoughtlessly, unintentionally? Why do you not tell them these things?"

The man listened to her again, politely. There was a look of grave courtesy in his eye as he half turned his face and looked upon her as she was speaking; but beyond this there was no recognition that he heard her. When she had finished, he turned his face again toward the trapper, and said:

"Old trapper, you have not answered my question. Has a man a right to take life?"

"Sartinly," answered the trapper.

"How?" asked the man.

"In war," answered the trapper.