Belford's Magazine, Vol. II, No. 3, February 1889

The prosecuting attorney was alone in his office that evening, looking over a resumé of another case, that of a mere horse-thief, which would succeed Dorn Hackett's in order of trial – for he had already given up all hope of hanging Dorn – when the sheriff entered, with an air of mingled eagerness and caution, to inform him, in a sort of melodramatic whisper:

"Silas Thatcher's father has asked permission to see his son in his cell, and I have had him delayed until I could tell you. Do you wish to overhear their interview?"

"I – rather think – I'd like to," answered the prosecutor, meditatively. "I shall have him in hand before long, no doubt, and might as well know beforehand what he has to say for himself."

The men passed together through the sheriff's office, and by a private entrance therefrom into the rear part of the jail, first taking off their boots that their steps might not be heard on the stone floor.

When they entered the corridor, along one side of which the cells were located, they moved with caution, and noiselessly entered a dark and unoccupied cell adjoining that in which Silas was confined. After a little quiet fumbling along the wall, the sheriff found the end of a string, which he pulled, thus conveying to his assistant in the front office of the jail, where Uncle Thatcher was waiting, a private signal that all was ready. In a few minutes more the grim old man was shown in by the jailor, and permitted to enter his son's cell, the door of which was locked upon him. Every sound made there was clearly audible where the prosecutor and sheriff were.

Silas, to whom the interior of a prison was not altogether a novelty, had laid down with a sort of philosophical content upon his little cot bed, but sat up, somewhat surprised, when his father appeared. The jailor put upon the stone floor the tin candlestick holding a tallow candle which he had carried in, and went away.

For some moments neither father nor son spoke a word. The old man was the first to break the oppressive silence.

"So," said he, "this is where I find you at last."

"Yes, it is, and what of it?" retorted Silas sullenly.

"My God! How I have dreaded this shame! – this horror! How the fear of it has haunted me, day and night, for years!"

"If you've come here for to preach to me, why, you might as well drop it; that's all. I ain't no chicken. I'm a man, I am, and game for all there is in the pot. I ain't afraid. I don't want no snivellins around me!"

"Silas, I haven't come here either to preach or snivel. I have come to learn, if I can, whether the agony and blighting shame of seeing a son hanged is likely to be mine or not."

The young reprobate winced visibly at his father's plain speech, and it was with a violent effort, belied by his pallid lips and quavering voice, that he assumed sufficient bravado to reply:

"What's the use of making a fuss about a feller's getting into a little scrape? I'll get out of it all right. All I want is a good lawyer. It might happen to any feller to get into a hole. Fellers get into 'em all the time and get out of 'em again. This morning everybody thought Dorn Hackett was in the worst kind of a hole, but to-night the jailor tells me everybody says he's bound to get out of it."

"Dorn Hackett was innocent. Are you?"

Silas hesitated a moment before he replied:

"Course I am! Every fellow's innocent until he's proved guilty."

"Where did you get that seal?"

"A – a – feller gave it to me."

"Who was he?"

"I dunno – never saw him before."

"Silas, you are lying to me."

"Well, what business have you got to come here pestering me with questions, as if you was trying to catch me?"

It was hard work for the old man, who was naturally of rather a violent temper, to keep his hands off his rebellious son; nevertheless, he restrained himself.

"Silas," he exclaimed after a brief pause, "there is blood upon your hands."

"Where? No, there isn't! They're clean!" ejaculated the young man in a tone of fright, starting to his feet and nervously examining his hands.

"Fool!" said the old man, with contempt, "did you think I meant red drops that human eyes could see? No. But in the sight of God they are dripping with the stains of a foul murder. I read your guilt in your skulking eyes, your impudent assumption of brazen effrontery, your falsehoods. Ah, you will not get out of this hole as easily as you pretend to think. There is but one road open from here before you."

"What is that, father?" asked Silas, tremblingly, for he had already begun to lose the fictitious nerve that had hitherto sustained him.

"The gallows!" responded the grim old man, sternly.

"Oh, for the Lord's sake, don't talk like that!" pleaded the young wretch, with a piteous howl. "It's all your fault, anyway. You wouldn't let me have any more money, and I was hard up. You told me the Van Deusts had a mint of money. I didn't mean to harm anybody, but he jumped out of bed and clinched me; the jimmy was in my hand, and I was afraid of being caught, and I – Oh! my God! what have I said? You've got me all unnerved, with your cursed croaking. I didn't know what I was saying. It wasn't true. I haven't been in a mile of Van Deusts' for more'n three years. I don't know who killed Jake Van Deust any more'n you do. Dorn Hackett did it. Why don't they hang him, curse him! and be done with it!"

He was crying, trembling. The unhappy father bowed his face in his hands and was silent a long time, while Silas went rambling on:

"I can prove I was in New York that night. There's lots of the fellers will swear me out of it. What if I did have the seal? Didn't Dorn have the handkerchief? I know where I got it. I buy'ed it one night from a stranger that got broke in a faro bank. I can get fellers to swear they see me buy it. All I want is a lawyer. You've got to get me one – a good one. You will, won't you? I'm broke or I wouldn't ask you. I've had awful bad luck lately. But I'll pay you back when I get out. And you wouldn't see your son h – h – hanged, would you?"

Uncle Thatcher raised his head and, looking fixedly at his son, asked slowly:

"Why did you come here to-day?"

"I don't know," answered Silas, almost with desperation. "Because I am a damned fool, I suppose. I met Lem Pawlett in the city, and he told me about the trial, and – somehow – I had to come. I couldn't keep away."

"And you still think that a lawyer could get you out?"

"Oh, yes. A good, sharp lawyer, from New York. I know of one that's up to all the dodges. He gets lots of the fellers off. He'd clear me, I'm sure of it."

"And you do not see God's hand driving you here and giving you up to man's justice? You think to contend against His will? To employ a lawyer who shall shield you from the fate He has decreed? Foolish and unhappy boy! you have sown and the day of harvest is nigh; the harvest for both of us: for you the full sheaf of ripe dishonor and death; for me the gleaning of bitter shame and grief. And to the Lord of this harvest we may neither of us say 'nay.'"

As he spoke he arose from the cot, where he had taken a seat early in the interview, stood before his son, and continued:

"It is not probable that I shall ever see you again. In due course of time you will be tried, convicted, and hanged, and I shall hear of it all: that will be enough for me. As far as other people will allow me to, I shall endeavor to forget that I ever had a son. You have simply to continue, as for years past, so far as affection or respect for his counsels were concerned, in forgetting that you have a father. Send me no gallows-tree messages of penitence and love. Carry your penitence, if you have any, to your God; and may He, in his infinite knowledge and justice, grant you such mercy and pardon as you deserve."

With this farewell, the wretched father took his departure, preserving his sternness of demeanor as long as he was in his son's sight; but in the jail office without, he gave way to his natural grief, which he could repress no longer, and much time elapsed ere he recovered himself sufficiently to go home. Silas, left alone in his cell, threw himself upon his bed, on his face, alternately weeping, cursing, and praying, in a delirium of remorse and fear, and no sound of stealthy footsteps leaving the adjoining dungeon reached his ears.

XXV.

THE LESSON OF PETER VAN DEUST'S LIFE

Immediately upon the opening of the court, the morning after Silas Thatcher's arrest, the prosecuting attorney arose and made a neat little speech, in which he admitted his conviction that an error had been made in the accusation of Dorn Hackett, expressed his gratification at the discovery of the new and unimpeachable evidence of the innocence of the accused afforded by his learned brother from New York, and, in conclusion, desired to move the entry of a nolle prosequi in the case of the People vs. Dorman Hackett. In short, never did hunter retire with better grace from a hopeless chase. The motion was promptly granted by the court, and Dorn Hackett was a free man once again.

Lem Pawlett shouted and hurrahed at the top of his voice, defying two sedate officers of the court who sought to hush him; and many others joined in his cheers – almost all, indeed, for so fickle are the multitude, so worshipful of success, and so easily influenced by impulse, that their purposes and the currents of their feelings vary like the shifting winds. How many there were who now said that they "had always looked upon Dorn Hackett as a noble fellow, one who could not be guilty of a crime!" How many who declared they had "thought his arrest a great mistake from the first!" And they found it the easier to forgive Dorn for escaping since they had another victim in prospect, in his stead. Not even Deacon Harkins was altogether unhappy, for he still had a horrid example at whom to aim his homilies and texts. All that was necessary was to substitute the name of Silas for that of Dorn, and his stream of malignant cant flowed steadily on.

Dorn was conducted into the judge's private room, where he found Mary awaiting him with open arms, glad smiles, and tears of joy in her bright eyes. How happy and how beautiful she looked. He pressed her to his breast, again and again, with rapture: but the lovers' hearts were too full for speech. The greatest joys, like the deepest griefs, are voiceless; mere words humble, even profane them. Could those two loving ones have phrased the gratitude, to the Giver of all Good, that thrilled their souls? Ah, no! They could only kiss and be happy.

In the court-room without it was very evident that, for a time at least, there need not be any hope of doing business. Even after Lem had been silenced, – thanks not to the two sedate officers but to little Ruth, who had by this time regained all her authority – there was still kept up such a buzz of conversation, interchange of ejaculations and comments, breaking out afresh in one place as soon as quelled in another, lulling for an instant and then recommencing with even greater vigor, that the judge and prosecuting attorney pantomimed to each other that there might just as well be an adjournment until the afternoon. And after the prosecutor had laid his little sacrifice upon the altar of form, in a statement, audible only to those at his elbows, that he would not be ready until afternoon to go on with the next case upon the docket, the judge ordered an adjournment and retired to his room.

"Well, young folks," he said cheerily, finding the lovers in each other's arms, of course, "you seem to be enjoying yourselves!"

Mary blushed and hung her head, but Dorn looked up manfully and replied, with a glad ring in his voice:

"Ah, yes, sir! I cannot tell you how happy we feel! But you, sir, may be able to know what is in the heart of a man who has been very close to a shameful death, for a crime of which he was innocent, and who is suddenly restored to life, and hope, and the love of the woman who is dearer to him than all the world beside."

"Yes, my boy," responded the good-hearted judge warmly, shaking his hand. "Yes, I do appreciate your feelings; and while congratulating you on the fortunate end of your trial, join you most heartily in thanking God that another has not been added to the already too long list of melancholy proofs of the fallibility of human wisdom in the administration of justice. But it was a providential thing for you that Mr. Holden arrived when he did, just in the nick of time."

"Indeed it was, sir. I had ceased to hope for his coming. I would like to see him before he goes away, to offer him my thanks."

"So you shall. Right away, if you wish." And stepping to the door the judge called in the little elderly gentleman, who came looking as radiant with pleasure, almost, as if it had been himself who had just escaped the gallows.

After shaking hands with Dorn, congratulating him, and receiving his thanks, Mr. Holden addressed himself to Mary and, with old-time courtesy and gallantry, made her a pretty little speech of compliment.

"You young folks intend to get married, don't you?" suddenly and bluntly asked the judge.

Mary flushed red as a peony, but smiled, and Dorn, too, felt the color rising in his cheeks as he replied, half laughingly:

"Yes, sir, if Mary doesn't change her mind."

"How is that, Mary?" demanded the judge. "Have you any notion of changing your mind?"

"Oh, no, sir," answered the girl timidly, and with an affectionate glance at Dorn.

"I should think not, from the way I found you when I came in," added the judge mischievously. "Well, you know what Franklin says, 'never put off until to-morrow what can be done to-day.' Why not get the business over right away, and complete the happiness of your day. Stand right out there before me and I'll soon – "

"Oh, no, sir," exclaimed Mary, in a half-frightened way, "Please, no, sir. I promised Ruth that we would wait for her and Lem, and we are all to stand up together."

"Ah, indeed! Well where are your friends Ruth and her lover? They ought to be here."

"I think they are in the court-room outside," volunteered Mr. Holden. "At least they were there a few moments ago, when I came in here. I have the pleasure of knowing Mr. Pawlett, and can guess the relations between him and a very pretty little girl sitting beside him."

"You know Lem?" exclaimed Dorn.

"Yes, he hunted me up in New York, and it was at his instance that I came here to give my testimony."

"And he didn't tell me a word about it when he came back; did not even come to see me – left me to imagine that he had not succeeded in finding you!"

"Ah, he followed my instructions somewhat too literally. I advised him not to tell anybody, but I did not exactly mean that he should not mention it to you. Still, the fault, if any exists, is mine. And it's all right now."

"All right? Oh, sir, how can I ever sufficiently thank you and him for what you have done?"

"You need not mind thanking me any more; and as for him, I guess he will consider the obligation squared if you facilitate his matrimonial projects by calling in him and his sweetheart, and carrying out the judge's suggestion for immediate action."

"Yes, by all means," urged the judge, "call them in, and let us have a wholesale hymenial tournament at once."

Mr. Holden looked out into the court-room, which was by this time almost emptied. Lem and Ruth were still there, however, and sturdy Mr. Merriwether, of New Haven, who was talking to Mr. Dunn; and three or four loiterers near the door; and a man who sat at the prosecutor's table, and bent over it, his head resting upon his arms.

"Come in here, Mr. Pawlett, and bring the young lady with you!" called Mr. Holden. "And step this way, if you please, Mr. Dunn, and your friend."

While the persons thus indicated came forward, the loiterers at the door, seeing no chance of their being included in the invitation, went away. When Dorn had passed through another torrent of congratulations, the judge genially resumed the direction of affairs.

"Come!" said he. "When justice gets hold of a man, she cannot let him go scot free, even if he is innocent. Something must be done to him. If we can't hang him, we must at least marry him. And as you young folks, Lemuel Pawlett and Ruth – I haven't yet been told the rest of your name, Miss."

"Ruth Lenox, sir."

"Ruth Lenox, eh? A very pretty name – almost worthy of so pretty an owner. Very well; as you, Lem Pawlett – and you, Ruth Lenox, have confessedly aided and comforted Dorn Hackett in evading the fate that a very blind justice had marked out for him, it is deemed right and proper that you should suffer with him."

Lem and Ruth, knowing nothing of what had transpired before they entered the room, and not half understanding the judge's rapid and somewhat figurative language, looked very much puzzled and even a little alarmed.

Mary led her friend to one side, and the two girls held a little whispered consultation together, from which they returned blushing, but apparently resigned, for each placed herself beside her lover. Then the two couples ranged themselves in order before the judge, who, dropping his jocose manner, and with the gravity befitting so solemn a ceremonial as that of uniting two human lives "until death does them part," proceeded to make the lovers husbands and wives.

Then the judge resumed his jovial mood, and claimed as his fees the first kiss from each of the brides, and Mr. Holden and Mr. Merriwether followed suit, and Mr. Dunn was very certain not to let himself be forgotten when any such fun as that was going on. There was a great deal of hand-shaking, and expression of kind thoughts and good wishes all around. And amid all this happiness nobody noticed for some little time that the man, whom Mr. Holden had seen bowed over the prosecutor's table, had arisen, come forward, and was standing in the door. A weak, trembling old man he was, with thin, deeply furrowed face, and a sad, weary look in his eyes. It was Peter Van Deust.

"I suppose," said he, speaking in a slow, meditative way, and with a weak, quavering voice, "that I have no right to come here as a kill-joy among you. Love and youth were done with me long ago. The first I drove from me, and the second left me. I can no more call back one than the other, now. If Jacob were alive to-day, he'd be more at home among you than I am."

He paused a moment, sighed deeply, passed a tremulous hand over his eyes, that were full of tears, and continued:

"But I feel as if I ought to speak to you, to two of you at least, and – beg your forgiveness. I erred, and I'm sorry. I ain't what I used to be; my head's failing me, a little, sometimes, I guess. But they've got the right man now, haven't they? They've got him at last! And they'll hang him, won't they?"

His voice was becoming momentarily more shrill, and his manner more excited. Mr. Holden took his hand with a gentle, sympathetic pressure that seemed to recall him to himself, and in a lower tone, half-choked by a sob, the poor old man exclaimed:

"Oh, you don't know how I miss Jacob! I didn't know how much he was to me, how much we had grown together, until I lost him! He was so good, so kind! Ah! If I had been more like him, people would feel for me now more than they do. But it has taken me all my life to learn that love is better than gold."

Sadly and slowly he turned and moved away, through the deserted court-room and the crowded street – lonely alike in both – to his desolate home, from which, thereafter, he was seldom seen abroad. But the lesson that it had taken him all his life to learn, he did not forget; for, when they laid him down by Jacob's dust – ere again the trailing arbutus put forth its fragrant blossoms beneath the dead leaves of the forest – and read his will, they found that he had left all he possessed to Mary Wallace, "for the sake of the kindly love my dear brother Jacob bore for her in memory of her mother."

What need can be to say the rest? how justice laid her heavy hand upon profligate young Silas Thatcher, and his doom was that his father had foretold; how Dorn entered into partnership with Mr. Merriwether, who proved his staunch and life-long friend; how faithful Lem Pawlett flourished, and how happy Ruth and Mary were. The interest of our story is done. Even justice, good deeds, calm joys, and placid lives are tame to tell.

THE END

1

The intermediate regiments were raised in Boston, Philadelphia, and in Ohio.

2

Sam was a member of the 7th regiment, and in battle was distinguished for his bravery. He was killed Oct. 27, 1864, in the battle near "Kill House," Va.

3

A much larger number of slaves had been received at the barracks, but the great majority, being non-combatants, had been transferred to other points.

4

The rights of dramatization of this story are reserved by the author.

5

Copyright, 1888, Belford, Clarke & Co.