The Haunted Homestead Part 24

"Neither man on earth nor demon from h--ll shall stop me!" broke forth the man, in a voice of thunder, striding off.

In an instant Mr. Waring had intercepted him, holding up a light cane, and exclaiming:

"Stand back, you villain!"

Valentine came on with the evident intention of attempting to pa.s.s.

Mr. Waring met him with a sudden, sharp blow with his cane across the face.

And as Valentine, giddy and blinded for an instant with the blood that streamed from the cut, staggered backward, Mr. Waring, by another heavy stroke with the loaded end of the cane, felled him to the floor, and proceeded to follow up his victory with several other severe blows.

But Valentine was struggling to his feet, and at last sprang up--reeled, righted himself, cleared the blood from his eyes, glared around; and just as Mr. Waring had broken his cane with a final stroke over his shoulder, Valentine saw and seized a heavy oaken stool, and, aiming one fatal blow with all his force, struck his master in the face! The heavy leg of the oaken stool, aimed with all the strength of madness, crushed the eye--entered the brain, and Oswald Waring fell, never to rise again!

But Valentine was maddened! frenzied! and showered blows upon the dying man like one unconscious of his acts, until the agonized screams of women brought him slightly to his senses, when he found himself seized between Mrs. Waring, who was, amid her frantic shrieks, trying to pull him away, and Phaedra, who was crying, distractedly: "Oh! Valentine, you've murdered him!"

He glared from one to the other, in the amazed, bewildered manner of one half wakened from a horrible dream; looked at the mutilated form before him; looked at the strange weapon in his hand--the foot-stool, with its legs clotted with blood and hair; and then, with a violent start, and an awful change of aspect, as if, for the first time the reality, the horror and the magnitude of his crime had burst upon his consciousness, he stood an instant, and casting the weapon from him, broke from the hands of the women, cleared the porch at a bound, rushed across the yard, leaped the fence, crossed the road and plunged into the shadows of the cypress swamp beyond.

That night, as Fannie lay on the wretched bed of her poor room, in darkness and solitude, and in the semi-delirium of fever, suddenly an apparition, like some ghastly phantom of her husband, gleamed out from the surrounding shadows, stooped over, raised her in its ghostly arms, chattered, raved wildly, incoherently, and--was lost; whether really from the room, or only from her failing consciousness, is not certain--and, indeed, how much of this scene was an actual occurrence, and how much of it was the mere phantasmagoria of frenzy, the sufferer never knew!

CHAPTER VIII.

THE APPARITION.

Ye seem to look on me with asking eyes!

Listen! and I will tell a fearful story!

Since I remember aught about myself, A strange heart sickness almost like to death, A deep remorse for some unacted crime, For some impossible, nameless wickedness, Was on me--in its prophecy I lived; No wretch dragg'd on to execution E'er felt more horrid pangs than then stirr'd up My spirit with remorseful agony.--JOHN WILSON.

Eighteen months had pa.s.sed since the murder of Oswald Waring, and yet the murderer had not been apprehended. Though, upon the night of that fatal catastrophe, both the regular and volunteer police had turned out in great numbers, and scattered themselves over the neighborhood in pursuit of the criminal; though trained sleuth-hounds had been made to smell his clothing, and had been set upon his scent; though, thus with men and dogs, the authorities had hunted him throughout the State, and had offered the largest rewards for his betrayal or apprehension, this length of time had pa.s.sed, and he had not been arrested.

Mr. Waring having died intestate, his property, according to the laws of that commonwealth, fell to the next of kin.

His childless widow inherited none of her late husband's wealth, but returned to New Orleans, and thence retired to the country, to live upon her own reserved patrimony.

The plantation fell into other hands, and the planter pa.s.sed out of memory.

Valentine, with his crime and his fate, overlaid by newer excitements, was already sinking into oblivion. He was supposed to have escaped from the State. But there were three faithful friends who knew that, in all this time, the miserable young man had never left the neighborhood, or wandered five miles from the blood-stained floor of his crime.

Phaedra was set free. The quadroons and mestizzas, with all their fiery vehemence of temperament, have perhaps less of real vital stamina than any other race. They cannot bear up under any great mental or physical pressure. Phaedra, by the terrible blow that had fallen upon her, was crushed into premature age and decrepitude. And, as a useless old crone, she was suffered by her new master to retire to a lone cabin in the pine barrens above the cypress swamp, and, without being required to work, was supplied with rations of food and clothing upon an equal footing with the plantation laborers.

But this poor Naomi, in her desolation, had also her Ruth.

Fannie had almost miraculously recovered from the yellow fever; and, in the mental imbecility that had attended her convalescence, she had been long shielded from the knowledge of the calamity that had fallen upon them all; and at last so gradually did the facts of the catastrophe enter her mind that she could never after say when or how she first learned the sum of her misery; and thus she was spared the sudden shock that must certainly have proved fatal to her.

No one could look upon that fragile form and thin face, with its fair, transparent pallor, and large, mournful eyes, and not know her heart was breaking.

What kept her life power going?

Something that was not the love of her child, or of her poor, old mother! Something that occasionally varied that look of hopeless, incurable sorrow, with a wild and startled expression of extreme terror, suggestive of insanity. Some people thought it was insanity, but they were mistaken; her reason was sound, though her heart was broken.

Fannie kept a little thread and needle shop; she owed the little shop to the benevolence of Mrs. Waring; for, to the honor of that poor lady be it spoken, even in the midst of her own awful sorrow, she had remembered and succored her humble sister in adversity. Fannie's little shop thrived moderately, and afforded herself and child a decent living, and the means of alleviating some of the miseries and adding to the few comforts of her poor mother.

Early every Sat.u.r.day evening Fannie would close her little shop and take her child and walk out to Phaedra's cabin, to remain until Monday morning. And these seasons, spent in reading the Scriptures, in prayer, and in mutual consolations, were the least unhappy in these poor women's lives.

Phaedra's decrepitude confined her closely at home.

But the brothers and sisters of her church did not leave her alone in her sorrow. They came frequently, they ministered to all her necessities, material and spiritual, as far as she had need, and they had power. They held a weekly prayer-meeting at her house.

And these Thursday evening meetings were sources of great comfort to the desolate woman.

Fannie was frequently present at them. And the old negro preacher, Elisha, was invariable in his punctual attendance. There was also another, a constant, though an unknown and unsuspected worshipper among them.

Valentine's name had long died off from every tongue, as his memory seemed to have expired from every heart. Even in comforting Phaedra her friends never designated the nature of her grief; and, in praying for the Lord's mercy upon their "aged sister in her sore affliction," they never named that affliction's cause. And though the unhappy man was remembered in their pet.i.tions, it was in silence and in secrecy.

One Thursday evening, while the March winds were piping through the pine barrens, Phaedra was holding a prayer-meeting in her cabin.

There were about twenty negroes, both men and women, present.

Among them was the old preacher, Elisha, who led the devotions.

Fannie was also present, with her child. And the look of wild anxiety that occasionally varied the heart-broken expression of her face seemed now fixed; her usually patient, suffering countenance was absolutely haggard with terror, and strong shudders shook her frame.

Phaedra watched her with great uneasiness.

Meantime the meeting went on in its services, and they sang, prayed and exhorted in turn. It was not what is technically called a "good"

meeting. Few seemed to enjoy the privilege of prayer, or to possess the gift of exhortation. The very singing was tame and lifeless. There seemed to be some spell of heaviness cast over all. At last, toward the close of the evening, an aged brother arose, and began in a strain of such wild eloquence, as deep, earnest, fervid emotions confer upon untutored minds, to exhort his brethren and sisters of the church upon the subject of their apathy and lukewarmness. I can do no justice to that wild, eyrie style of oratory. It impressed, affected and strongly excited his hearers. He concluded with _outre_ expressions and gesticulations:

"And why, my brethren, is this freezing spell of spiritual cold cast over us? Why can we not pray, or exhort, or sing, or take sweet counsel together? Why can we not love, or fear, or feel? Why will not the Spirit of G.o.d come down to us? Why will not the Lord inspire and accept our prayers? Is it because there is 'some accursed thing hidden' among us?

Is there an Achan in our camp? I charge you, brother, sister, whoever you be, repent! speak! cast the foul sin from your soul!"

He was interrupted by a deep, hollow voice that proceeded from an obscure corner, where a seeming old woman sat crouching, her form enveloped in a long cloak, her head hidden in a deep sunbonnet.

"Yes! there is 'an accursed thing hidden' in your midst! and I am the Achan in your camp!" And the figure arose, and the cloak fell, and the bonnet was dropped, and the stranger stood revealed.

"Valentine! Valentine!" cried Fannie, in a voice of agony.

He crossed quickly through the astonished group, to the spot where she cowered. He stooped and spoke to her a few earnest words, and sat her down where she could drop her poor, young head upon the lap of the trembling, sorrow-stricken Phaedra, while he stood up and gazed upon the crowd, who remained, stunned with consternation into silence.

Valentine was frightfully changed in the last eighteen months. His flesh had wasted from his bones, until it left him almost a walking skeleton; his skin had darkened, and his eyes had sunken, and concentrated their fires until they burned like two imbedded stars; his voice was cavernous. While the negroes present returned his gaze in silent awe, he spoke:

"A price is on my head! the Governor, or the State, will purchase and emanc.i.p.ate any man here who will deliver me up to death. It is written that 'a murderer shall hang on a tree!' It is every man's duty to deliver, if he can, a felon up to justice! It is every man's duty here to procure, if he can, his own freedom! Therefore, it is doubly some man's duty to take me into custody. I have determined to die for my deed! Doubtless, I could go at any time, and surrender to the authorities. But in that case I should not do the little good I am now desirous of doing. I should not in dying procure some one of you his freedom! Therefore, I wish that one of you take me in custody, and attend me to M----. Come, choose! elect, or cast lots for him who is to be the freeman. Brother Portiphar----"

Before Valentine could say another word the old preacher, Elisha, who had been gradually getting over his astonishment, and, recovering his self-possession climbed over stools and chairs and the crouching forms of women and children, and made his way toward Valentine, whom he embraced with his left arm, while he closed his lips by laying over them his right hand.