THE LOVE CHARM

 THE LOVE CHARM


 Phoebe, too, lowered her voice, but the full sweetness of its quality
thrilled out.
"Mary Frances Giles is going to be married next week. I've been down to
see her things. She's real pleased."
"You don't suppose they'll ask father to
marry 'em?" Miss Dorcas spoke
quite eagerly.
"Oh, no, they can't! It's a real wedding, you know. It's got to be at the
house."
"Yes, of course it's got to! I knew that myself, but I couldn't help hoping.
Well, goodnight. You come Sunday."
Phoebe lifted her pink skirts about her, and stepped, rustling and stately,
down the garden walk. Miss Dorcas drew one deep breath of the outer
fragrance, and turned back into the house. A thin voice, enfeebled and
husky from old age, rose in the front roo
m, as she entered:
"Dorcas! Dorcas! you had a caller?"
Her father, old Parson True, lay in the great bed opposite the window. A
thin little twig of a man, he was still animated, at times, by the power of a
strenuous and dauntless spirit. His hair, brus
hed straight back from the
overtopping forehead, had grown snowy white, and the eager, delicate
face beneath wore a strange pathos from the very fineness of its
nervously netted lines. Not many years after his wife's death, the parson
had shown some wander
ing of the wits; yet his disability, like his loss,
had been mercifully veiled from him. He took calmly to his bed, perhaps
through sheer lack of interest in life, and it became his happy invention
that he was "not feeling well," from one day to another, b
ut that, on the
next Sunday, he should rise and preach. He seemed like an unfortunate
and uncomplaining child, and the village folk took pride in him as
something all their own; a pride enhanced by his habit, in this weak
estate, of falling back into the h
omely ways of speech he had used long
ago when he was a boy "on the farm." In his wife's day, he had stood in
the pulpit above them, and expounded scriptural lore in academic English;
now he lapsed into their own rude phrasing, and seemed to rest content
i
n a tranquil certainty that nothing could be better than Tiverton ways and
Tiverton's homely speech.
"Dorcas," he repeated, with all a child's delight in his own cleverness,
"you've had somebody here. I heard ye!"
Dorcas folded the sheet back over the
quilt, and laid her hand on his hair,
with all the tenderness of the strong when they let themselves brood over
the weak.
"Only Phoebe, on her way home," she answered, gently. "The doctor
visited her school to
-
day. She thinks he may drop in to see you to
-
night. I
guess he give her to understand so."
The minister chuckled.
"Ain't he a smart one?" he rejoined. "Smart as a trap! Dorcas, I 'ain't
finished my sermon. I guess I shall have to preach an old one. You lay me
out the one on the salt losin' its s
avor, an' I'll look it over."
"Yes, father."
The same demand and the same answer, varied but slightly, had been
exchanged between them every Saturday night for years. Dorcas replied
now without thinking. Her mind had spread its wings and flown out into
the sweet stillness of the garden and the world beyond; it even hastened
on into the unknown ways of guesswork, seeking for one who should be
coming. She strained her ears to hear the beating of hoofs and the rattle
of wheels across the little, bridge. Th
e dusk sifted in about the house,
faster and faster; a whippoorwill cried from the woods. So she sat until
the twilight had vanished, and another of the invisible genii was at hand,
saying, "I am Night."
"Dorcas!" called the parson again. He had been asl
eep, and seemed now
to be holding himself back from a broken dream. "Dorcas, has your
mother come in yet?"
"No, father."
"Well, you wake me up when you see her down the road; and then you go
an' carry her a shawl. I dunno what to make o' that cough!" His voice
trailed sleepily off, and Dorcas rose and tiptoed out of the room. She felt
the blood in her face; her ears thrilled
noisily. The doctor's, wagon, had
crossed the bridge; now it was whirling swiftly up the road. She stationed
herself in the entry, to lose no step in his familiar progress. The horse
came lightly along, beating out a pleasant tune of easy haste. He was
dr
awn up at the gate, and the doctor threw out his weight, and jumped
buoyantly to the ground. There was the brief pause of reaching for his
medicine
-
case, and then, with that firm step whose rhythm she knew so
well, he was walking up the path. Involuntarily
, as Dorcas awaited him,
she put her hand to her heart with one of those gestures that seem so
melodramatic and are so real; she owned to herself, with a throb of
appreciative delight, how the sick must warm at his coming. This new
doctor of Tiverton was n
o younger than Dorcas herself, yet with his erect
carriage and merry blue eye she seemed to be not only of another
temperament, but another time. It had never struck him that they were
contemporaries. Once he had told Phoebe, in a burst of affection and
pi
tying praise, that he should have liked Miss Dorcas for a maiden aunt.
"Good evening," he said, heartily, one foot on the sill. "How's the
patient?"
At actual sight of him, her tremor vanished, and she answered very
quietly,
--
"Father's asleep. I tho
ught you wouldn't want he should be disturbed; so I
came out."
The doctor took off his hat, and pushed back his thick, unruly hair.
"Yes, that was right," he said absently, and pinched a spray of
southernwood that grew beside the door. "How has he seem
ed?"
"About as usual."
"You've kept on with the tonic?"
"Yes."
"That's good! Miss Dorcas, look up there. See that moon! See that wisp of
an old blanket dragging over her face! Do you mind coming out and
walking up and down the road while we talk? I
may think of one or two
directions to give about your father."
Dorcas stepped forward with the light obedience given to happy tasking.
She paused as! quickly.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I can't. Father might wake up. I never leave him
alone."
"Never mind
, then! let's sit right down here on the steps. After all,
perhaps it's pleasanter. What a garden! It's like my mother's. I could pick
out every leaf in the dark, by the smell. But you're alone, aren't you? I'm
not keeping you from any one?"
"Oh, no! I'm
all alone, except father."
"Yes. The fact is, I went into your school to
-
day, and the teacher said she
was coming here to
-
night. She offered to bring you a message, but I said
I should come myself. I'm abominably late. I couldn't get here any
earlier."
"Oh, yes! Phoebe! She was here over an hour ago. Phoebe's a real
comfort to me." She was seated on the step above him, and it seemed
very pleasant to her to hear his voice, without encountering also the
challenge of his eyes.
"No, is she though?" The doctor suddenly faced round upon her. "Tell me
about it!"
Then, quite to her surprise, Dorcas found herself talking under the spell of
an interest so eager that it bore her on, entirely without her own
guidance.
"Well, you see
there's a good many things I keep from father. He never's
been himself since mother died. She was the mainstay here. But he thinks
the church prospers just the same, and I never've told him the
attendance dropped off when they put up that 'Piscopal buildin
g over to
Sudleigh. You 'ain't lived here long enough to hear much about that, but
it's been a real trial to him. The summer boarders built it, and some rich
body keeps it up; and our folks think it's complete to go over there and
worship, and get up and d
own, and say their prayers out loud."
The doctor laughed out.
"I've heard about it," said he. "You know what Brad Freeman told Uncle
Eli Pike, when they went in to see how the service was managed?
Somebody found the places in the prayer
-
book for them,
and Brad was
quick
-
witted, and got on very well; but Eli kept dropping behind. Brad
nudged him. 'Read!' he said out loud. 'Read like the devil!' I've heard that
story on an average of twice a day since I came to Tiverton. I'm not tired
of it yet!"
Miss D
orcas, too, had heard it, and shrunk from its undisguised profanity.
Now she laughed responsively.
"I guess they do have queer ways," she owned. "Well, I never let father
know any of our folks go over there. He'd be terrible tried. And I've made
it my pa
rt in our meeting to keep up the young folks' interest as much as
I can. I've been careful never to miss my Sunday
-
school class. They're all
girls, nice as new pins, every one of 'em! Phoebe was in it till a little while
ago, but now she comes here and sit
s in the kitchen while I'm gone. I
don't want father to know that, for I hope it never'll come into his head
he's so helpless; but I should be worried to death to have him left alone.
So Phoebe sits there with her book, ready to spring if she should hear
a
nything out o' the way."
The doctor had lapsed into his absent mood, but now he roused himself,
with sudden interest.
"That's very good of her, isn't it?" he said "You trust her, don't you?"
"Trust Phoebe! Well, I guess I do! I've known her ever sinc
e she went to
Number Five, and now she's keeping the school herself. She's a real noble
girl!"
"Tell me more!" said the doctor, warmly. "I want to hear it all. You're so
new to me here in Tiverton! I want to get acquainted."
Miss Dorcas suddenly felt a
s if she had been talking a great deal, and an
overwhelming shyness fell upon her.
"There isn't much to tell," she hesitated. "I don't know's anything'd
happened to me for years, till father had his ill
-
turn in the spring, and we
called you in. He don't
seem to realize his sickness was anything much.
I've told the neighbors not to dwell on it when they're with him. Phoebe
won't; she's got some sense."
"Has she?" said the doctor, still eagerly. "I'm glad of that, for your sake!"
He rose to go, but stood a moment near the steps, dallying with a
reaching branch of jessamine; it seemed persuading him to stay. He had
always a cheery manner, but to
-
night it w
as brightened by a dash of
something warm and reckless. He had the air of one awaiting good news,
in confidence of its coming. Dorcas was alive to the rapt contagion, and
her own blood thrilled. She felt young.
"Well!" said he, "well, Miss Dorcas!" He to
ok a step, and then turned
back. "Well, Miss Dorcas," he said again, with an embarrassed laugh,
"perhaps you'd like to gather in one more church
-
goer. If I have time
tomorrow, I'll drop in to your service, and then I'll come round here, and
tell your fathe
r I went."
Dorcas rose impulsively. She could have stretched out her hands to him,
in the warmth of her gratitude.
"Oh, if you would! Oh, how pleased he'd be!"
"All right!" Now he turned away with decision. "Thank you, Miss Dorcas,
for staying out. I
t's a beautiful evening. I never knew such a June. Good
-
night!" He strode down the walk, and gave a quick word to his horse, who
responded in whinnying welcome. An instant's delay, another word, and
they were gone.
Dorcas stood listening to the scatter o
f hoofs down the dusty road and
over the hollow ledge. She sank back on the sill, and, step by step, tried
to retrace the lovely arabesque the hour had made. At last, she had some
groping sense of the full beauty of living, when friendship says to its
mate
, "Tell me about yourself!" and the frozen fountain wells out, every
drop cheered and warmed, as it falls, in the sunshine of sympathy. She
saw in him that perfection of life lying in strength, which he undoubtedly
had, and beauty, of which he had little o
r much according as one chose to
think well of him. To her aching sense, he was a very perfect creature,
gifted with, infinite capacities for help and comfort.
But the footfalls ceased, and the garden darkened by delicate yet swift
degrees; a cloud had g
one over the moon, fleecy, silver
-
edged, but still a
cloud. The waning of the light seemed to her significant; she feared lest
some bitter change might befall the moment; and went in, bolting the
door behind her. Once within her own little bedroom, she loo
sened her
hair, and moved about aimlessly, for a time, careless of sleep, because it
seemed so far. Then a sudden resolve nerved her, and she stole back
again to the front door, and opened it. The night was blossoming there,
glowing now, abundant. It was s
o rich, so full! The moonlight here, and
star upon star above, hidden not by clouds but by the light! Need she
waste this one night out of all her unregarded life? She stepped forth
among the flower
-
beds, stooping, in a passionate fervor, to the blossoms
s
he could reach; but, coming back to the southernwood, she took it in her
arms. She laid her face upon it, and crushed the soft leaves against her
cheeks. It made all the world smell of its own balm and dew. The
fragrance and beauty of the time passed into
her soul, and awakened
corners there all unused to such sweet incense. She was drunken with the
wine that is not of grapes. She could not have found words for the
passion that possessed her, though she hugged it to her heart like
another self; but it was e
lemental, springing from founts deeper than
those of life and death. God made it, and, like all His making, it was
divine. She sat there, the southernwood still gathered into her arms, and
at last emotion stilled itself, and passed into thought; a wild tem
ptation
rose, and with its first whisper drove a hot flush into her cheeks, and
branded it there. Love! she had never named the name in its first natal
significance. She had scarcely read it; for romance, even in books, had
passed her by. But love! she kne
w it as the insect knows how to spread
his new sun
-
dried wings in the air for which he was create. Sitting there,
in a happy drowse, she thought it all out. She was old, plain, unsought;
the man she exalted was the flower of his kind. He would never look o
n
her as if she might touch the hem of wifehood's mantle; so there would
be no shame in choosing him. Just to herself, she might name the Great
Name. He would not know. Only her own soul would know, and God who
gave it, and sent it forth fitted with delica
te, reaching tentacles to touch
the rock set there to wound them. She began to feel blindly that God was
not alone the keeper of eternal Sabbaths, but the germinant heat at the
heart of the world. If she were a young girl, like Phoebe, there would be
shame
. Even a thought of him would be a stretching forth her hand to
touch him, saying, "Look at me! I am here!" but for her it was quite
different. It would be like a dream, some grandmother dreamed in the
sun, of rosy youth and the things that never came to p
ass. No one would
be harmed, and the sleeper would have garnered one hour's joy before
she took up her march again on the lonesomest road of all,
--
so lonesome,
although it leads us, home! Thus she thought, half sleeping, until the
night
-
dews clung in drops
upon her hair; then she went in to bed, still
wrapped about with the drapery of her dreams.
Next morning, when Dorcas carried in her father's breakfast, she walked
with a springing step, and spoke in a voice so full and fresh it made her
newly glad.
"
It's a nice day, father! There'll be lots of folks out to meeting."
"That's a good girl!" This was his commendation, from hour to hour; it
made up the litany of his gratitude for what she had been to him. "But I
dunno's I feel quite up to preachin' to
-
da
y, Dorcas!"
"That'll be all right, father. We'll get somebody."
"You bring me out my sermon
-
box after breakfast, an' I'll pick out one,"
said he, happily. "Deacon Tolman can read it."

Innocence Honore de Balzac

Innocence Honore de Balzac
 

 By the double crest of my fowl, and by the rose lining of my sweetheart's
slipper! By all the horns of well
-
beloved cuckolds, and by the virtue of
their blessed wives! the finest work of man is neither poetry, nor painted
pictures, nor music, nor castles,
nor statues, be they carved never so
well, nor rowing, nor sailing galleys, but children.
Understand me, children up to the age of ten years, for after that they
become men or women, and cutting their wisdom teeth, are not worth
what they cost; the worst
are the best. Watch them playing, prettily and
innocently, with slippers; above all, cancellated ones, with the household
utensils, leaving that which displeases them, crying after that which
pleases them, munching the sweets and confectionery in the house
,
nibbling at the stores, and always laughing as soon as their teeth are cut,
and you will agree with me that they are in every way lovable; besides
which they are flower and fruit
--
the fruit of love, the flower of life. Before
their minds have been unsett
led by the disturbances of life, there is
nothing in this world more blessed or more pleasant than their sayings,
which are naive beyond description. This is as true as the double chewing
machine of a cow. Do not expect a man to be innocent after the manne
r
of children, because there is an, I know not what, ingredient of reason in
the naivety of a man, while the naivety of children is candid, immaculate,
and has all the finesse of the mother, which is plainly proved in this tale.
Queen Catherine was at tha
t time Dauphine, and to make herself
welcome to the king, her father
-
in
-
law, who at that time was very ill
indeed, presented him, from time to time, with Italian pictures, knowing
that he liked them much, being a friend of the Sieur Raphael d'Urbin and
of
the Sieurs Primatice and Leonardo da Vinci, to whom he sent large
sums of money. She obtained from her family
--
who had the pick of these
works, because at that time the Duke of the Medicis governed Tuscany
--
a precious picture, painted by a Venetian named
Titian (artist to the
Emperor Charles, and in very high flavour), in which there were portraits
of Adam and Eve at the moment when God left them to wander about the
terrestrial Paradise, and were painted their full height, in the costume of
the period, in
which it is difficult to make a mistake, because they were
attired in their ignorance, and caparisoned with the divine grace which
enveloped them
--
a difficult thing to execute on account of the colour, but
one in which the said Sieur Titian excelled. The p
icture was put into the
room of the poor king, who was then ill with the disease of which he
eventually died. It had a great success at the Court of France, where
everyone wished to see it; but no one was able to until after the king's
death, since at his
desire it was allowed to remain in his room as long as
he lived.
One day Madame Catherine took with her to the king's room her son
Francis and little Margot, who began to talk at random, as children will.
Now here, now there, these children had heard this
picture of Adam and
Eve spoken about, and had tormented their mother to take them there.
Since the two little ones at times amused the old king, Madame the
Dauphine consented to their request.
"You wished to see Adam and Eve, who were our first parents;
there they
are," said she.
Then she left them in great astonishment before Titian's picture, and
seated herself by the bedside of the king, who delighted to watch the
children.
"Which of the two is Adam?" said Francis, nudging his sister Margot's
elbow.
"You silly!" replied she, "to know that, they would have to be dressed!"
This reply, which delighted the poor king and the mother, was mentioned
in a letter written in Florence by Queen Catherine.
No writer having brought it to light, it will remain, li
ke a sweet flower, in a
corner of these Tales, although it is no way droll, and there is no other
moral to be drawn from it except that to hear these pretty speeches of
infancy one must beget the children

an-occurrence-at-owl-creek-bridge

 An-occurrence-at-owl-creek-bridge.


A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down
into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his
back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It
was attached to
a stout cross
-
timber above his head and the slack fell to
the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers
supporting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his
executioners
--
two private soldiers of the Federal army, direc
ted by a
sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short
remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform
of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge
stood with his rifle in the posi
tion known as "support," that is to say,
vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm
thrown straight across the chest
--
a formal and unnatural position,
enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty
of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge;
they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.
Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight
away into a forest for a hundred
yards, then, curving, was lost to view.
Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the
stream was open ground
--
a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of
vertical tree trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure through
whi
ch protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge.
Midway of the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators
--
a
single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the rifles
on the ground, the barrels inclining sligh
tly backward against the right
shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the
right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand
resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the
bridge, n
ot a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily,
motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have
been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms,
silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but m
aking no sign. Death
is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with
formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In
the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.
The man who was eng
aged in being hanged was apparently about thirty
-
five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit,
which was that of a planter. His features were good
--
a straight nose, firm
mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was c
ombed
straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well
-
fitting frock
coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes
were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would
hardly have expected in one who
se neck was in the hemp. Evidently this
was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for
hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.
The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside
and each d
rew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The
sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately
behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements
left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the tw
o ends of
the same plank, which spanned three of the cross
-
ties of the bridge. The
end upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth.
This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now
held by that of the ser
geant. At a signal from the former the latter would
step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down
between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as
simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes
bandag
ed. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his
gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his
feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes
followed it down the current. How slowly it appe
ared to move, What a
sluggish stream!
He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and
children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists
under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers
,
the piece of drift
--
all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of
a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a
sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct,
metallic percussion like the stroke o
f a blacksmith's hammer upon the
anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and
whether immeasurably distant or near by
--
it seemed both. Its recurrence
was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each
stroke w
ith impatience and
--
he knew not why
--
apprehension. The
intervals of silence grew progressively longer, the delays became
maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in
strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife;
he
feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.
He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free
my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the
stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously,
reach the bank, take to the woods and get
away home. My home, thank
God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond
the invader's farthest advance."
As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed
into the doomed man's brain rather than evolv
ed from it the captain
nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.
II
Peyton Farquhar was a well
-
to
-
do planter, of an old and highly respected
Alabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a
politician he was naturally an origin
al secessionist and ardently devoted to
the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is
unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with
the gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with
the f
all of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing
for the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the
opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it
comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did
what he could. No service was
too humble for him to perform in aid of the South, no adventure too
perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a civilian
who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too much
qualificat
ion assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous dictum
that all is fair in love and war.
One evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench
near the entrance to his grounds, a gray
-
clad soldier rode up to the gate
and asked f
or a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve
him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her
husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news
from the front.
"The Yanks are repairing the railroads,"
said the man, "and are getting
ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put
it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has
issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian
caught int
erfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels or trains will be
summarily hanged. I saw the order."
"How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Farquhar asked.
"About thirty miles."
"Is there no force on this side the creek?"
"Only a picket post half a
mile out, on the railroad, and a single sentinel
at this end of the bridge."
"Suppose a man
--
a civilian and student of hanging
--
should elude the
picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Farquhar,
smiling, "what could he accomplish?"
The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I observed
that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood
against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would
burn like tow."
The lady had now b
rought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked
her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later,
after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the
direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.
III
As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost
consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was
awakened
--
ages later, it seemed to him
--
by the pain of a sharp pressure
upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocati
on. Keen, poignant
agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of
his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well
-
defined lines
of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They
seemed like stream
s of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable
temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of
fulness
--
of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by
thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he
had
power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion.
Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery
heart, without material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of
oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Th
en all at once, with terrible
suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noise of a loud
splash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The
power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he
had fallen
into the stream. There was no additional strangulation; the
noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the water
from his lungs. To die of hanging at the bottom of a river!
--
the idea
seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkne
ss and saw
above him a gleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still
sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere
glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew that he was
rising toward the surface
--
kne
w it with reluctance, for he was now very
comfortable. "To be hanged and drowned," he thought? "that is not so
bad; but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not fair."
He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist a
pprised
him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his
attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest
in the outcome. What splendid effort!
--
what magnificent, what
superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine e
ndeavor! Bravo! The cord fell
away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each
side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first
one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it
away and th
rust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a
water snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these
words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by
the direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neck
ached horribly; his
brain was on fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a
great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was
racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his disobedient
hands gave no heed to
the command. They beat the water vigorously
with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head
emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded
convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed
a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek!
He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed,
preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his
organic system had so exalted and refined
them that they made record of
things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard
their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank
of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each
l
eaf
--
saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant
-
bodied
flies, the grey spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted
the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass.
The humming of the gnats that danced a
bove the eddies of the stream,
the beating of the dragon flies' wings, the strokes of the water
-
spiders'
legs, like oars which had lifted their boat
--
all these made audible music. A
fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting
the water.
He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the
visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and
he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the
sergeant, the two private
s, his executioners. They were in silhouette
against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him. The
captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed.
Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms giganti
c.
Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly
within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard a
second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder,
a light cloud of blue smoke
rising from the muzzle. The man in the water
saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through the
sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a grey eye and remembered
having read that grey eyes were keenest, and that all famous marksmen
h
ad them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.
A counter
-
swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was
again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a
clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind hi
m and
came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all
other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although no
soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance
of that deliberate, drawling, aspirat
ed chant; the lieutenant on shore was
taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly and pitilessly
--
with what
an even, calm intonation, presaging, and enforcing tranquillity in the
men
--
with what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words:
"At
tention, company! . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! . . . Fire!"
Farquhar dived
--
dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears
like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the volley
and, rising again toward the surfa
ce, met shining bits of metal, singularly
flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the
face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged
between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he snatched
it
out.
As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a
long time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream nearer to
safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods
flashed all at once in the sunshin
e as they were drawn from the barrels,
turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired
again, independently and ineffectually.
The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming
vigorously with the current. His br
ain was as energetic as his arms and
legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning.
The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error a second
time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably
already given the comman
d to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge
them all!"
An appalling splash within two yards of him was followed by a loud,
rushing sound, diminuendo, which seemed to travel back through the air
to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the ver
y river to its
deeps!
A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him,
strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As he shook
his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the
deflected shot humming t
hrough the air ahead, and in an instant it was
cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.
"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use a
charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will
apprise me
--
the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is
a good gun."
Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round
--
spinning like a top.
The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men
--
all were commingled and blurred.
Objects were represented by their
colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color
--
that was all he saw. He
had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of
advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In a few moments
he was
flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream
--
the southern bank
--
and behind a projecting point which concealed him
from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of
his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he w
ept with delight. He dug
his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly
blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of
nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were
giant garde
n plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement,
inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate light shone
through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their
branches the music of olian harps. He had no wish to perfect hi
s escape
--
was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.
A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head
roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a
random farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and
plunged into the forest.
All that day he travele
d, laying his course by the rounding sun. The forest
seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a
woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region.
There was something uncanny in the revelation.
By nightfall he
was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his wife
and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what
he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city
street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordere
d it, no dwelling
anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human
habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both
sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in
perspective. Overhead, as h
e looked up through this rift in the wood,
shone great garden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange
constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had
a secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of
singu
lar noises, among which
--
once, twice, and again
--
he distinctly heard
whispers in an unknown tongue.
His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly swollen. He
knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. His eyes
fe
lt congested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen
with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from between his
teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled
avenue
--
he could no longer feel the roa
dway beneath his feet!
Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for
now he sees another scene
--
perhaps he has merely recovered from a
delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and all
bright and be
autiful in the morning sunshine. He must have traveled the
entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white
walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking fresh and
cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him
. At the bottom
of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude
of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs
forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a
stunning blow upon the back
of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all
about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon
--
then all is darkness
and silence!
Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently
from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek
bridge.