"Born but to banquet and to drain the bowl."
—Homer.
The "Mary Ann" had just returned from a trip to New Orleans, and while waiting for her cargo lay moored at the foot of Broadway. As the quack ascended her gang-plank the captain and mate rose to greet him. There was not on the entire river, where so many extraordinary characters have been evolved, a more remarkable pair.
The captain was five feet four inches in height, round, ruddy, mellow and jocund. A complete absence or suppression of moral sense, together with health as perfect as an animal's, had rendered him insensible to all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. He had never shed a tear save in excessive laughter, and sorrow had never yet struck a dart through the armor of fat in which he was sheathed.
The mate was his counterpart and foil. Six feet and three inches tall, he was long-legged, lantern-jawed and goggle-eyed. Bilious in his constitution, he was melancholic in his temperament, had been crossed in love and soured at twenty, betrayed and bankrupted at thirty, and at forty had turned his back upon the world, forswearing all its amusements but those of the table, which his poor digestion made more painful than pleasurable, all of its ambitions but those of getting money And all friendships but those of the captain, to whom he was attached like a limpet to a rock.
Such were the leading characteristics of the two worthies who rose from their deck-stools to meet the doctor as he rolled up the gangway.
"Howdy, doctor?" said the mate, in the peculiar drawling vernacular of the poor whites of the south, extending a hand as cold and hard as an anchor.
"Welcome, prince of quacks! For a man who has made so many others walk the plank with poison drugs, you do it but poorly yourself," cried the captain, merrily.
"You will d-d-draw your last breath with a joke, as a d-d-drunkard sips his last drop with a sigh," responded the doctor.
"The captain was born with the corners of his mouth turned up like a dead man's toes," drawled the lugubrious mate.
"Where is the judge?" asked the doctor, hitting the captain a hearty slap on the back.
"He will be here a little later," the host replied.
The three boon companions seated themselves by the gunwale of the vessel, basking in the mellow light of the moon and quaffing the liquor which a negro brought them.
While they were drinking and recalling the many revels which they had held together, an hour passed by, and at its close a form was seen coming leisurely down the sloping bank of the river. It was the justice of the peace, come to make merry with the husband of the woman he had just betrayed. Upon that cynical countenance a close observer might have noted even in the pale light of the moon an expression of sardonic pleasure when he returned the hearty greetings with which his coming was hailed.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," he said.
"We have all the b-b-better appetite," responded the doctor.
"If, as the old saw says, the time to eat is when the stomach rings the bell, I am ready!" the captain piped, in his high-pitched voice.
"Diogenes being asked what time a man ought to eat, responded, 'The rich, when he is hungry, and the poor, when he has food,'" said the judge, whose mind threw up old scraps of classical knowledge as the ocean throws up shells.
"As for hunger, my appetite is sharper than a scythe; but my indigestion is duller than a whetstone," said the mate, to whom a feast was always prophetic of subsequent fasting.
"Good digestion waits on appetite; but waits too long, eh?" the judge replied.
The captain led the way to the cabin. It was a low, dingy room, but ruddy with the light of a dozen tallow candles. On the table was spread a feast that would have tempted the palates of the epicures who gathered about the festive board of the immortal Lucullus. There was neither art nor display in the accompaniments of the food, but every luxury that an ample market could supply had been prepared by a cook who could have won immortality in a Paris restaurant, and the finest whisky that could be distilled in old Kentucky, the rarest wines that could be imported from the Rhine or from sunny Italian slopes, were ready to flow.
Four slaves received the banqueters and then took their places behind the chairs at the table. The captain's face was shining like a full moon; the doctor's was swarthy, sinister and piratical; the judge's possessed the dignity of a splendid ruin; the mate's was haunted by an expression of unsatisfied and insatiable desire. Observing it and calling the attention of the others, the justice remarked, "Like the old Romans, we have a skeleton at our table to remind us of death."
"You would look like death yourself if you had to sit staring at these bounties like a muzzled dog in a market," snarled the mate.
"Be like the dyspeptic who was about to be hanged," said the doctor. "The sheriff asked him to make his last request. 'I will have a dozen hot waffles well b-b-buttered; and let there be a full dozen, for I shall not suffer from the cramps t-t-this time,' says he."
The first few courses of the feast were eaten in almost uninterrupted silence; but as the keen edge of their appetites became a little dulled, the tongues of the banqueters were unloosed and a torrent of talk began to flow, interlarded with oaths and stories of a more than questionable character. Corks popped from bottles with loud explosions, the darkies greeted the sallies of wit with boisterous laughter and surreptitiously emptied the glasses.
The fun grew fast and furious, the thoughts of the revelers flowing in the usual channels of such feasts. At a certain pitch of this wild frenzy, a desire for music invariably recurs and so at a signal from the captain the slaves who performed the functions of deck-hands, waiters or musicians as the exigencies of the occasion demanded, brought in their musical instruments and the rafters were soon ringing with their simple melodies to the accompaniment of banjos and guitars. The deep rich voices blended harmoniously with the tingle of the stringed instruments and the clicking of the bones. Plantation songs were followed by revival hymns, and these by coarse and licentious ditties. At a second stage of every orgie, desire for the dance is kindled by music, and so, at the command of their master, two of the slaves began to execute a "double shuffle."
The clatter and the beating of negro feet to the accompaniment of the banjo and the bones, and the shouting of the spectators gave vent to the boisterous emotions of the revelers. Even the melancholy mate caught the enthusiasm, and for a time at least forgot his misery. Of them all, the judge alone preserved his gravity. He sat looking unmoved at these wild antics, and murmured to himself:
"If music be the food of love,
play on.
Give me excess of it, that,
surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so
die.
That strain again! It had a dying
fall.
O, it came o'er my ear like the
sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of
violets
Stealing and giving
odor."
Nothing could be more horrible than the sight of this gifted man herding with these beasts. It was like a lion devouring carrion with wolves. Aside from the pleasure of the palate, his enjoyment of the scene was derived from the cynical contempt with which he regarded it. Having descended to the lowest depths of human degradation, he had arrived at a point where he drew his keenest relish from the inconsistencies, the absurdities and the sufferings of his fellow-men. In order that he might behold a scene in which all the elements of the horribly grotesque were combined, he determined to provoke the egotism and complacency of the quack to the very highest activity at this moment when his fortunes and his hopes were being undermined.
After the excitement of the dance had abated, the concluding phase of all such orgies came in its inevitable sequence, and they began to drink great bumpers to each other's health. After all had been pledged, the judge proposed a toast to the "gypsy bride."
The tongue of the quack was loosened in an instant and he poured forth an extravagant eulogy of her beauty and her devotion.
"If she were mine, I should be on the ragged edge with jealousy every hour of the day and night," said the judge, as they set their glasses down.
"Y-y-you'd have reason to! B-b-but I'm a horse of a different c-c-color, old boy! W-w-women have p-p-preferences," the doctor replied, pulling out the ends of his mustache and winking at the captain and his mate, who stupidly nodded their appreciation of the hit.
"When honeysuckles close their petals to hummingbirds, Venus will shut the door on Adonis," responded the judge, draining his glass and smiling into its depths.
The quack was too far gone in his cups to comprehend or even to be curious as to the significance of this sneer and went on sounding his own virtues and Pepeeta's beauty while the judge provoked him to the fullest exhibition of his colossal vanity. He took a sinister delight in drawing him out. It was the pleasure of a cat playing with the mouse, which it is about to devour, or of savages mocking the man who is about to run the gauntlet. He exulted in the contrast of this proud man's present confidence, and the humiliation which awaited him within the next few hours.
The quack was an easy victim. His career of prosperity had met with but a single serious interruption and he had so entirely forgotten his dangerous sickness in his perfect health that he was seldom troubled by foreboding as to the future. Never had he possessed more confidence of life than at the very moment when all his hopes, all his confidence, all his faith, were about to be shattered.
Our misfortunes draw a train of shadows behind them; but they often project a glowing light before them. Sickness is often preceded by the most bounding health, failure by unexampled success, misery by irrepressible emotions of exultation. Too bright a sunshine as well as too dark a shadow is often the herald of a storm upon the sea of life.
But ebullitions of happiness and confidence did not excite the apprehension of the quack. Each bumper of wine was followed by a new outburst of vanity. The captain and the mate had already succumbed to the potent influence of the liquors which they had been drinking, and amidst his maudlin speeches the quack's tongue was becoming hopelessly tangled.
The judge was as sober as at the beginning of the feast and with a smile upon his lips in which cynicism was incarnate, waited until the doctor had just begun to snore and then aroused him by another question.
"Who is this paragon of virtue to whom you so confidently trust the chastity of your wife?"
"This w-w-what?"
"This paragon of virtue—this ice-cold Adonis?"
"Say whatcher mean."
"Who is this pure young man with whom the beautiful Pepeeta is so safe? What is it you call him, David Crocker?"
"'Tain't his real name."
"What is his real name?"
"D'n I ever t-t-tell you?"
"No."
"Real name's C-C-Corson—David Corson."
"What?" cried the judge, springing to his feet.
"C-C-Corson—I tell you," stuttered the quack, too drunk to notice the peculiar effect of his announcement.
"What do you know about him?" the judge asked with ill-suppressed excitement.
"Keep still—wan' go sleep."
"Wake up and tell me what you know about him, I say."
"He' Squaker."
"A Quaker?"
"Yes, Squaker."
"Great heavens!" speaking under his breath and trembling visibly. "What else do you know?"
"Illegitimate child."
"What?" passing around the table, seizing him by the collar and shaking him. "Say that again."
"'S true—s' help me! What you c-c-care?"
"How do you know he is an illegitimate child—I say?"
"I know—that's nuf! Sh'tup and lemme g-g-go sleep."
"Tell me, curse you!" shaking him until his teeth rattled.
He was too far gone to answer and fell under the table. The judge kicked him, and with a muttered curse took up a glass of whisky, and tossing it down his throat, hurriedly left the cabin, and began to pace the deck in violent agitation.
This man who had so ruthlessly set a pitfall for his neighbor had suddenly tumbled into one which retributive justice had dug deep for himself!
"It must be true," he was saying. "It accounts for the strange feeling I had toward him when he asked me to help him do that infernal deed. I could not understand it then, but it is plain enough now. He is my son! And I have not only transmitted a tainted life to him, but helped to damn him in its possession! God! what irony! Of course the quack never knew that I, too, am living under a false name! I wonder if it is too late to stop him? Yes—it's done, and he is miles away! It's almost daybreak now! Whewwwh! It's horrible!"
He dashed his clenched fist on the railing of the vessel. While he stood there, his mind ran back into the past. He lived over again those passionate days when he had won and betrayed a young, beautiful, impressionable girl. His heart beat with a swifter stroke as he remembered the excitement of their hurried flight from her parents, and the wild joy of their adventurous lives, and then sank again to its steady, hopeless throb as he recalled her penitence and misery after the birth of the boy, his consenting to marry her, the ceremony, the respite from self-reproach, the few happy months, the relapse into old bad habits, the sobered mother becoming a devout and faithful member of a Quaker church, his disgust at this, his quarrels with her and finally his desertion of her. And then the whole subsequent series of adventures and disasters passed before him—a moving panorama of dishonor and crime! He paced the deck again; then he paused and leaned over the gunwale, listening to the water lapping the sides of the vessel. Nothing could have been more astonishing to him than the sudden activity of his conscience. It had been so long since he had experienced remorse that he believed himself incapable of it. But suddenly a fierce and unendurable pang seized him. To a man who had been long accustomed to feeling nothing in the contemplation of his deeds, but a dull consciousness of unworthiness, this sharp and terrible attack of shame and guilt was startling indeed. He could not understand it. The pain seemed disproportionate to the sin; but he could not resist the repugnance and horror with which it filled him! And this is an element in the moral life with which bad men forget to deal! Because conscience ceases to remonstrate and remorse to torment, they think the exemption permanent. They do not know that at any moment, in some unforeseen emergency—this abused faculty of the soul may spring into renewed life. This elemental power, this primal endowment, can no more be permanently dissociated from the soul than heat from fire! It may smoulder unobserved, but a breath will fan it into flame! Without it, the soul would cease to be a soul; its permanent eradication would be equivalent to annihilation! If conscience can be eliminated, man has nothing to brag of over a tadpole! We are no more safe from it than from memory! Who can be sure that what he has forgotten has ceased to survive? The sweet perfume of a violet may revive a bitter memory dormant for fifty years! At a word, a look, a glance, conscience—abused, suppressed, despised, inoperative—may rise in all her majesty and fill the heart with torment and despair!
This corrupted judge, this faithless lover, this dishonorable parent, had become accustomed to dull misery; but this fierce onslaught of an avenging sense of personal unworthiness and dread of divine justice was more than he could bear. Life had long since lost its charms and he had more than once seriously contemplated suicide.
"There seems to be no use in trying to beat nature in any other way, and so I will try the dernier resort," he said aloud. Opening his pocket knife, he cut a piece of rope from the flagstaff, looked around, found a heavy bar of iron, and fastened rope and weight together. In one end of the rope he made a noose, slipped it over his neck, approached the railing and leaned upon it to reflect. His mind now went back into the still more remote past; he was a boy again, and at his mother's knee. Half audibly and half unconsciously, he began murmuring, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray—no—I'll be consistent," he added, with a sigh. "I have lived without the mummery of prayer, and I will die without it."
And then by one of those strange freaks of the mind that make people do the most absurd things at the most sacred times—mourners laugh at funerals, and soldiers in the thick of battles long for puddings—he began to say over that old doggerel which he used to repeat when shivering on the spring-board over the cold waters of the Hudson river:
"One, two, three, the bumble
bee,
The rooster crows and away she
goes!"
The absurdity of so trivial a memory at such a serious moment excited his sense of humor, and he smiled.
By this time the violence of his remorse had begun to subside and proved to be only a fitful, fleeting protest of that abused and neglected moral sense. Something more terrible than even this discovery of the wrong done to his own son would have to come. There was plenty of time! Nature was in no haste! This was only a warning, a little danger signal.
By a short, swift revulsion, his feelings changed from horror to indifference. "After all, why should I care?" he said. "The boy is nothing to me, and at any rate he would have gained his end in some other way. Let him have his fling; I have had mine. If he didn't break that old impostor's heart, he would probably break a better one! And as for the gypsy—it's only a question of who and when. What a fool I have made of myself! Who would believe that such a trifle could give me such a shock? There is something to live for yet. I must see what sort of a face the quack makes when he takes his medicine to-morrow."
He threw the iron weight into the water, entered the cabin, took another drink, smiled contemptuously at the drunken wretches under the table, crossed the deck, descended the gang-plank and climbed the steep path to the city.
Against his inheritance from such a nature as this, the young mystic had to make his life struggle.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH
"There are moral as well as physical assassinations."—Voltaire.
When he awoke the next morning, the poor bedeviled doctor crawled back to the hotel as best he could, his head throbbing with pain, his wits dull and his temper wild. Stumbling up the long flight of stairs which seemed to him to reach the sky, he burst open his door and entered the room. It was empty. The bed had not been occupied. Pepeeta was nowhere to be seen.
It took him some moments to comprehend that he did not comprehend. Then he called, "Pepeeta! Pepeeta!"
The silence at first bewildered, then aroused hims and crossing the corridor he entered David's room. It, too, was empty. He was now thoroughly astonished and awake. Recrossing the hall he once more entered his room and began in earnest to seek an explanation of this mystery. It did not take him long, for on the table were lying the jewels in which he had invested his profits and which he had confided to Pepeeta—and beside them a piece of paper on which he slowly spelled out these startling words:
"I have discovered your treachery and fled."
"PEPEETA."
He drew his hand across his eyes, took a piece of his cheek between his thumb and first finger and pinched it to see if he were awake, then read the words again, this time aloud: "I have discovered your treachery and fled. Pepeeta." "Treachery?" he said. "What t-t-treachery? Whose t-t-treachery? Fled? Fled with whom, fled where? I wonder if I am still d-d-drunk?"
Laying the paper down, he went to the wash-stand, filled the bowl with water, plunged his head into it and expected to find that he had been suffering some sort of hallucination. But when he returned to the table and again took up the missive, the same words stared him in the face.
At last, and almost with the rapidity of a stroke of lightning, the whole mystery solved itself. It flashed upon his mind that Pepeeta had abandoned him, and in company with the man he had so implicitly trusted. The serpent he had nourished in his bosom had at last stung him! Tearing the paper into shreds, and stamping upon the floor, he cursed and raved.
"I see it all," he cried. "Fool, ass, bat, mole! Curse me! Yes, curse me! But curse them also! Oh! G-G-God, help me to avenge this wrong!"
As soon as a God is necessary to the atheist he invents one, and in a single instant this hopeless skeptic had become a firm believer in the Deity. It seemed for a few moments as if his passions would destroy him by their internal violence; but their first ebullition was soon expended and he began to grow calm. The electric fires of his anger were no longer permitted to play at random, but were gathered up into a thunderbolt to be hurled at his foe; this half-crazed man suddenly became as cool and calculating as he was desperate and determined.
A purpose shaped itself instantly in his mind, and he began its execution without delay. He made no confidant, took no advice; but having smoothed his ruffled clothing and combed his disheveled hair so as to excite no comment and provoke no question, he passed through the hotel corridor and office, greeting his acquaintances with his accustomed ease, and made his way to the livery stable. He went at once to the stalls where his famous team was accustomed to stand, and to his astonishment and delight found his horses both there.
"Tom," he said to the hostler, "did you hire a horse and b-b-buggy to a young couple last night?"
"I did not," answered the surly groom.
"Tell me the truth," said the doctor in a voice that made every word sound like the crack of a rifle.
"What do you take me for?" asked the stableman, trying to appear indignant and innocent.
"You're a l-l-liar, and I am in no mood for trifling. Out with it, you scoundrel!" he cried, seizing him by the throat.
With a sign of terror the groom indicated his readiness to come to terms, and the doctor relaxed his grip.
Still trembling, he told the truth.
"Do you know which road they took?"
He waved his hand toward Kentucky.
"Put a saddle on Hamlet—no, on Romeo," he ordered, tersely.
The groom entered a box stall and led out the black beauty. The doctor glanced him over and smiled. And well he might, for every muscle, every motion betokened speed, intelligence, endurance.
The pursuer made a single stop on his way to the river and that was at a gun store, from which he emerged carrying a pair of saddle bags on his arm. In the holsters were two loaded pistols.
He smiled as he mounted, having already consummated vengeance in his heart. Once across the river and safe upon the Louisville pike, he loosened the reins. The horse, whose sympathetic heart had already been imbued with the spirit of his rider, shook his long black mane, plunged forward and pounded along the hard turnpike. His hoof-beats—sharp, sonorous, rhythmical—seemed to be crying for vengeance; for hoof-beats have a language, and always utter the thoughts of a rider.
Now that he was well on his way the outraged husband had time to reflect, and the past few months rose vividly before him. He saw his own folly and did not spare himself in his condemnation; but this folly did not for an instant modify the guilt of the two fugitives. Every moment his injuries seemed more colossal, more unpardonable, more unendurable. He had been wounded in his affections and also in his vanity, which was far more dreadful, and an agonizing thirst for vengeance overpowered him.
The great veins began to swell in his neck. He would have choked, had he not violently torn off his collar and cravat and flung them into the dust.
His thirst for blood outstripped his fleet horse, who seemed to him, in his impetuous haste, to be creeping like a snail. He drove his spurs deep into the sides of the frightened animal, which almost leaped through his girth. A less expert horseman would have been unseated; but an earthquake could not have thrown this Centaur out of his saddle.
The forests, hills and houses flowed past him like a river. Occasionally he halted an instant to inquire of some lonely traveler if he had seen a horse and buggy passing that way, but he was cunning enough to conceal his anxiety and to hide his joy as every answer made him more certain that he was on the trail of the fugitives.
The road was perfectly familiar. He had traversed it a hundred times, and not having to inquire the way he had only to remember and to reflect. An undercurrent of speculation had been flowing through his mind as to where he should overtake the fugitives.
"They will have arrived almost at the edge of the great forest and I will let them enter," he said to himself.
Having reached the foot of a long hill, he dismounted, led his horse to a little brook and permitted him to drink. When the noble animal had quenched his thirst, the quack patted his neck, picked him a little wisp of grass and talked to him as if he were a man.
"We will rest ourselves a little now, for we shall need all our strength and nerve. One more b-b-burst of speed and we shall overhaul them. Have you got your wind, Romeo? Come then, let us be off!"
Once more he sprang into the saddle, the restive horse pawing the ground and leaping forward before he was seated. His master held him back while they ascended the long slope of the hill, and stopped him as they gained its summit.
The descent was a gradual one, down into a beautiful valley. For a mile or two the road was perfectly straight and the rider, shading his eyes, glanced along it. In the distance a moving object attracted his attention, and as he gazed at it, long and strainingly, the terrible smile once more wreathed his white lips.
He opened the holsters, drew out the pistols, examined them carefully, replaced them, felt of the stirrup straps, tightened the girth, settled himself in the saddle and shouted "Go!"
The command electrified the horse, and he dashed forward again faster than ever. As they tore down the slope of the hill, it occurred to the doctor that he had not formed any definite plan as to what he should do to Pepeeta! "Shall I kill her, also?" he asked himself.
The thought sent a shudder through him and he instinctively pulled on the bridle.
"My heart will tell me," he cried aloud, and loosened the reins of his horse and of his passions. The very semblance of humanity seemed to be suddenly obliterated from his countenance. This was no longer a man, but an agent of destruction rushing like a missile projected from a cannon. There were only two things present to his consciousness—the carriage upon which he was swiftly gaining, and the fierce smiting of the horse's hoofs which seemed to be echoing the cries of his heart for vengeance. On he swept, nearer, nearer, nearer. He was now within hailing distance, and his brain reeled; he forgot his discretion and his plan.
"Halt," he screamed, in a voice that cut the silent air like a knife.
A face appeared above the top of the buggy, and looked back. It was his foe.
With a howl of rage, he snatched a pistol from the holster and fired. The bullet went wide of the mark and the next instant he saw the whip-lash cut the air and descend on the flank of the startled mare. The buggy lurched forward, and for an instant drew rapidly away. Overwhelmed by the fear that he might be baffled in his vengeance, he drew the other pistol and fired again more wide of the mark than before.
With a wild oath he flung the smoking weapons into the road, and again drove the spurs into the steaming sides of his horse. There could be no doubt as to the result of the chase after that. The half-maddened animal was overhauling the fugitives perceptibly at every enormous stride, and in a few moments more shot by the buggy and up to the head of the terrified mare. As he did so, his rider reached out his left hand and caught the mare by her bridle, reined up his own horse and threw both of the animals back upon their haunches.
In another instant the two men stood confronting each other on the road, the quack black and terrible, the Quaker white and calm. Not a word was spoken, and like two wild beasts emerging from a jungle they sprang at each other's throats. They were oddly, but not unequally, matched, for while the doctor was short, thick-set and muscular, but clumsy and awkward like a bear, David was tall and slim, but lithe and sinewy as a panther. Locked in each other's arms, they seemed like a single hideous monster in some sort of convulsion.
As it was impossible for them in this deadly embrace to strike, they wrestled rather than fought, and bit with teeth and tore with hands with equal ferocity.
At the instant when the two infuriated men seized each other in this deadly grip, Pepeeta fainted, while the terrified mare backed the buggy into the bushes by the roadside. Romeo, snorting and pawing the ground, approached the combatants, snuffed at them a moment as if profoundly concerned at their strange maneuvers, then, turning away, began to crop the rich blue grass in entire indifference to the results of this mad quarrel between two foolish men.
The combatants surged and swayed back and forth along the dusty road, tripping and stumbling in vain efforts to throw each other to the ground. Their danger lent them strength, and their hatred skill. At last, after protracted efforts, they fell and rolled over and over, now one on top, now the other. Suddenly and as if by a single impulse changing their tactics, their right hands unclasped and began to feel each for the other's throat. A sudden slip of David's hold permitted the doctor to turn him over, and sprawling across his breast he pinioned him to the earth. His great hand stole toward the throat of his prostrate foe and fastened upon it with the grip of an iron vise.
The beautiful face turned pale, then grew purple. This would have been the last moment in the life of the Quaker had not his right hand, convulsively clawing the road, touched a piece of broken rock. It was as if a life-line had swung up against the hand of a drowning man.
Through the body which had seemed to be emptied of all its resources, a tide of reserve energy swelled, under the impulse of which the exhausted youth untwisted the grip of the iron hand, flung off the heavy body, mounted upon it, crowded the great head with its matted hair and staring eyes down into the dust, seized the stone with his right hand, raised it, and struck.
The effect of the blow was twofold—paralyzing the brain of the smitten and the arm of the smiter. Across the low forehead of the quack it left a great gaping wound like a bloody mouth. A death-like pallor spread itself over his countenance, the lids dropped back and left the eyes staring hideously up into the face above them.
David's arm, spasmodically uplifted for a second blow, was suspended in air. He did not move for a long time; and when at length his scattered senses began to return he threw down the stone, rose to his feet and exclaimed in accents of terror, "My God! I have killed him."
He could not overcome the fascination of the lifeless face and wide-staring eyes. They drew him towards them; he stooped down and felt for the pulse, which was imperceptible; laid his hand upon the heart, but could not feel it beat; he raised an arm, and it fell back limp and lifeless.
Suddenly one elemental passion gave place to another. Horror had displaced anger, and now in its turn gave way to the instinct of self-preservation. He looked toward the carriage and saw that Pepeeta had fallen into a swoon. "Perhaps she has not seen what has happened," he said to himself, and a cunning smile lit up his pale face.
Stooping down, he seized the loathsome object lying there in the dust of the road and dragged it off into the thick shrubbery. Stumbling along, he came to a hollow made by the roots of an upturned tree. Into this he flung the thing, hastily; covered it with moss and leaves, and stood staring stupidly at the rude sepulchre. He experienced a momentary feeling of relief that the hideous object was out of sight; but the consciousness of his guilt and his danger soon surged back upon him like a flood. In such moments the mind works wildly, like a clock with a broken spring, but sometimes with an astonishing accuracy and wisdom.
It occurred to him that if he left the body where it was and it should be eventually discovered, it would afford the gravest suspicions of foul play; but that if he dragged it back again to the road and laid it with its face in the dust, against the rock with which the deed was done, it might pass for an accident.
Once more that hideous smile of cunning lit up the face which in these few moments had undergone a mysterious deterioration. He hastily removed the heap of rubbish, shuddered as he saw the loathsome thing once more exposed to view, but seized it, dragged it back, and placed it with consummate art in the position which his criminal prescience had suggested.
As it lay there in the road nothing could have seemed more natural than that it had fallen from the horse; he felt another momentary relief from terror, in which he cunningly conceived a still more sagacious plan, on noticing Romeo. They were the best of friends; it was easy to catch him. He did so, removed the saddle, broke the girth and placed it near the prostrate figure of the quack. Nothing could have more perfectly resembled an accident. An adept in crime could not have performed this task with finer skill, and he was free now to turn to the rest of the work that he must do to conceal this ghastly deed.
Approaching the buggy, he found to his immense relief that Pepeeta was still unconscious. With swift and silent movements he freed the mare, led her out into the road and drove hurriedly away.
The wood through which they were passing was wide and somber. The shadows of the evening had already begun to creep up the tree-trunks and lurk gloomily among the branches. Plaintive bird songs were heard from the treetops, and among them those of the mourning dove, whose solemn, funereal note sent shudders through the heart of the trembling fugitive.
But all had gone successfully so far, and he actually began to cherish hope that he would escape detection. There still remained, however, the uneasy fear that Pepeeta herself had been a witness of the deed. Horrible as was his own consciousness of his crime, he dared to hope that he could stand it, if only she did not know! He dreaded to have her waken, and yet it seemed as if he could not endure the suspense until he found whether she had seen the deed or not.
Without trying to rouse her, he drove rapidly forward, and just as he emerged from the wood came to another brook, so similar to the one by the side of which the struggle had occurred, that he conceived the idea of stopping by its side and awakening Pepeeta from her stupor there. "She will not notice the difference," he said to himself; "and if she did not witness the fatal blow I can persuade her that I overpowered the doctor and forced him to return while she was in her swoon."
Stopping the horse, he lifted her inanimate form from the carriage, bore it to the side of the brook, laid it gently upon the bank and dashed a handful of the cold water into her white face. She gasped, opened her eyes, and, sitting up, looked about her with an expression of terror.
"Where am I?" she asked.
"Do you not remember? You are here in the wood where the doctor overtook us," he replied.
"And where is he?"
"He has returned."
"Has something dreadful happened?"
"Nothing."
"But I saw you clench with each other, and it was awful! What happened then? I must have fainted. Did I?"
"Yes, you fainted. Were you so frightened?"
"Oh, terribly! I thought that you would kill each other! It was horrible, horrible! But where is he now?"
"He has returned."
"Returned? Do you mean that he has gone back without me? How did you persuade him to do that?"
"How did I persuade him? Ha! ha! I persuaded him with my fists. You should have seen me, Pepeeta! Are you quite sure that you did not see me? I should like you to know what a coward he was at last, and how he went home like a whipped puppy."
"But did he acknowledge that he had deceived me?"
"He did indeed, upon his knees."
"And do you think he has gone, never to return?"
"Yes, he has gone, never to return," he answered, shuddering at the double meaning of his words. "He made his confession and relinquished his claim, and I made him swear that he would renounce you forever. And so we have nothing to do but forget him and be happy. Are you feeling better now?"
"Yes, I am better; but I am not well; I cannot shake it off. It seems too dreadful to have been real. And yet how much better it is than if one of you had been killed! Oh! I wish I could stop seeing it" (putting her hands over her eyes). "Let us go! Let us leave this gloomy wood. Let us get out into the sunshine. See! It is getting dark. We must not stay here any longer."
"Yes, let us go," he said, rising, lifting her gently from the ground and leading her back to the buggy in which they took their seats and drove rapidly forward.
In a few moments they emerged from the forest. The sun was still a little way above the horizon; its cheerful beams partially restored Pepeeta's spirits, and David felt a momentary pleasure as he saw a slight smile upon her pale countenance.
"Do you feel happier now?" he said.
"Yes, a little," she answered, looking into his face with eyes suffused with tears. "And I am so thankful that you are safe!"
"And so you fainted before we fell?" he asked, compelled to reassure himself.
"Did you fall?" she said, trembling again and laying her hand upon his arm.
"There, there," he answered gently; "I ought not to have asked you. We must never allude to it again. We must forget it. Will you try?"
"Yes, I will try, but it is hard. It belongs to the past, and we must live in the present and in the future. I will try. I love you so, and I am so thankful that you are safe." As she said this, she took his hand in both of hers and pressed it to her breast.
This tender caress produced a revulsion in his heart and he shuddered. Pepeeta observed it. "What makes you tremble so?" she asked.
"Nothing," he answered, regaining his self-control. "It is only that I have been very angry, and I cannot recover from it at once."
"No wonder," she said, taking his hand again and kissing it.
In the distance they saw the steeple of a church. "Look," said David, "there must be a village near. We will top and rest here to-night, and in the morning we will push on toward New Orleans and forget the past."
They rode in silence. Pepeeta's thoughts were full of gladness; and David's full of agony—they rushed tumultuously back and forth through his mind like contrary winds through a forest.
"Was it not enough that I should be an Adam, and fall? Must I also become a Cain and go forth with the brand of a murderer on my forehead?" he kept saying to himself.
His life seemed destined to reproduce that whole series of archetypal experiences, whose records make the Hebrew Scriptures the inspired mirror of human life.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A FUGITIVE AND A VAGABOND
"That is the bitterest of all,—to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing!"—Daniel Deronda.
The morning after the fight David and Pepeeta hurried on to Louisville, and from there took a steamer to New Orleans.
However hard it is to find stepping-stones when one wishes to rise, those by which he can descend have been skilfully planted at every stage of life's journey, and Satanic ingenuity could not have devised an instrument better fitted to complete the destruction of the young mystic's moral nature than a Mississippi steamboat, such as he found lying at the wharf. He had been subjected to the fascination of love, now he was to be tried by that of money. It is by a series of such consecutive assaults upon every avenue of approach to the soul that it is at last reduced to ruin.
Pepeeta was radiant with joy as they embarked. "How happy I am!" she cried. "It seems as if I had left my old life and the old world behind me!"
"And I am happy to see you glad," answered the wretched youth, whose heart lay in his bosom like lead and whose conscience was writhing with a torture of whose like he had never even dreamed. They embarked unknown and unobserved; but as soon as the first confusion had passed, their singular beauty and unusual appearance made them the cynosure of every eye.
"Who is that splendid fellow?" women asked each other, as David passed with Pepeeta on his arm, while under their breaths men swore that his companion was the loveliest woman who had ever set foot on a Mississippi steamer.
The pilot forgot to turn his wheel and the stevedores to put out the gang plank when she stood looking at them. Love, and her freedom, had transfigured her. She was radiant with health, happiness and hope, and entered into the novelty and excitement of this floating world with the ardor of a child.
All was gaiety and animation oh board the vessel. People from countries widely separated mingled with each other and chatted with the greatest freedom on every subject of human interest. Acquaintances were made without the formality of an introduction, and it was not long before the two adventurers were drawn into conversation.
"I have traveled all over the world," said a gentleman of foreign air, "but I have never seen anything so picturesque as this boat. Look at the variegated colors and styles of these costumes, at the manifold types of countenance, at the blending of races—black and white and red! Listen to the discordant but altogether charming sounds, the ringing of the great bell, the roar of the whistle, the splash of the paddlewheels, the songs of the negroes, and the clatter of dishes in the cabins! It is a hurly-burly of noise! Then what varied scenery, what constant excitement at the landing, what a hodge-podge, a pot-pourri of merchandise! There is nothing like it in the world."
"Wait until you see a race with another steamer," said an officious Yankee, who rejoiced in a knowledge which frequent trips had given him.
"Are they exciting?" asked the foreigner.
"Well I should say! I have seen horse races and prize fights in my day, but I never ran against anything that shook up my nerves like a race between two of these river boats! Every pound of steam is crowded on, the engines groan like imprisoned devils, a darkey sits on the safety valve, the stokers jam the furnaces, the passengers crowd the gunwales, everybody yells at the top of his voice until pandemonium is mere silence compared to it! And then the betting! Lord, you never saw betting if you never saw a river race."
"They bet, do they?"
"Bet? They don't do anything else! Just got on at Louisville? Oh! well, you'll see sights in the cabin to-night that will open your eyes. Isn't that so?" he asked, turning to a southern planter who had been edging his way toward Pepeeta.
"Reckon the gentleman'll see a little gambling, sah, if that's what you refeh to. I've heard those that ought to know say that a Mississippi river boat is the toughest spot on top of earth for little games of pokah and that soht of thing, sah. 'Spect the gentleman can be accommodated if he likes a lively game of chance."
"I don't expect to be surprised in that line," the foreigner said, with the air of one who knew a thing or two; "for I have been in Monte Carlo, Carlsbad and every famous gambling place in Europe."
"Well, sah, I don't know; I have never been in those places myself, but I have heard those who have say that what they play there is mere 'penny ante' to what goes on in one of these yere Mississippi boats. Like a little game now and then myself, sah. Glad to have you join me."
While these men and others pretended to address their remarks to David or to each other, their free glances were more and more directed to Pepeeta who began to be embarrassed by them and gently drew David away to more retired places. He went with her reluctantly, for he was in need of excitement. The thought of his crime was constantly agitating his heart, the prostrate form of the doctor with the bloody wound on his forehead was never absent from his mind, and through all the ceaseless rumble around him he could hear the dull thud of the stone upon the hard skull. The efforts which he made to throw off these horrible weights that crushed him were like those of a man awakening from a nightmare. He scarcely dared to speak for fear of uttering words which would betray him and which seemed to tremble on his lips. Had he been on shore he would have fled to the solitude of a forest; but here he was resistlessly impelled to that other solitude—a crowd. The necessity of being gay with his beautiful bride and of concealing every trace of his terror and remorse taxed his resources to their utmost limit, and in his nervousness he kept Pepeeta moving with him all day long. At its close she was completely exhausted, and retired early to her stateroom. Freed from her company and craving relief from thought, David made his way straight to the gambling tables where the nightly games were in full swing.
The claim of the southerner that the excitement at those tables, when the river traffic was at its height, had never been surpassed in the history of games of chance, was no exaggeration. Not a semblance of restraint was put upon the players, and experts from all over the world gathered to pluck the exhaustless supply of victims, as buzzards assemble to feed on carrion. Fortunes were made and lost in a night. Men sat down to play worth thousands of dollars, and rose paupers! They staked and lost their money, their slaves, their business and their homes. In the wild frenzy which such misfortunes kindle the most shocking crimes were committed, but the criminals were never called to account, for the law was powerless.
What the fugitive sought was diversion, and he found it! Tragedies became commonplace in those cabins. Men crowded into single hours the experience and excitement of months. It was this very night that an encounter occurred which is still a tradition on the river.
An old planter approached a table where his son, who did not know of his father's presence on the boat, was playing. He stood in the background and watched a gambler strip the boy of his last penny, and when the young fellow rose from his chair, white as a sheet, he turned to look into the whiter face of his father. The enraged parent did not speak a word, but took the seat left vacant by the boy and commenced playing. Rage at the financial loss, mortification at the boy's defeat, and old scores to be settled with this very gambler, conspired to rouse him to a frenzy. His terrible earnestness paralyzed the dealer, who seemed to form some premonition of a tragic termination and lost his nerve. In a little while, in the presence of a crowd of excited spectators, the father won back the exact amount his son had lost, and then rising from his chair sprang at the gambler, seized him, dragged him from the cabin and flung him into the river.
Terrible as was the furor which this tragedy aroused, it subsided almost as soon as the ripples of the water which closed over the drowning man, and the players returned to their games as if nothing had happened.
In the months which they had spent together the quack had indoctrinated David into all the best-known secrets of this vice, and besides this, had familiarized him with the use of a certain "hold out" of his own invention, with which he had achieved incredible results and which was new to the fraternity of the river. Having watched the players for a long time, David convinced himself that he could employ this trick successfully, and took his place at the table.
The young man's nerves were tested by the circumstances in which he found himself, if nerves are tested to tension anywhere, for he faced the most experienced masters of the craft who could be found anywhere in the world, and staked not only his little fortune, but his existence, for, as he had just seen, these determined and reckless men thought no more of taking life than of taking money.
David felt his way along with a coolness that astonished himself, and his very first experiment with the delicate apparatus concealed in his sleeve was such a brilliant triumph that he saw it was undetected. With a strengthened confidence, he made the stakes larger and larger, and his winnings increased so rapidly as to make him the center of attention. The crowd swarmed round the table. The spectators became breathless. The gamblers were first astonished, then bewildered. As their nerve failed them, David's assurance increased, and when day broke ten thousand dollars lay upon the table before him as the result of his skilful and desperate efforts.
Their loss astonished and enraged the gamblers to such a degree that with a preconcerted signal they sprang at their opponent, determined to regain their money by violence. The move was not unexpected, nor was he unprepared. He fought as he had played, and so won the sympathies of the bystanders that in an instant there was a general melée in which he was helped to escape with the winnings.
He was the hero of the trip, and a career had opened before him. Satellites began to circle around him and to solicit his friendship and patronage.
When he disembarked at New Orleans he had already entered into a partnership with one of the most notable members of the gambling fraternity, and purchased an interest in one of those "palaces" where games of chance attracted and destroyed their thousands.
The newspapers made the gay throngs of that gayest of all cities familiar with the incidents of David's advent. He and Pepeeta became the talk of the town. They rented a fashionable house, and swung out into the current of the mad life of the metropolis of the South.
For a little while this excitement and glory softened the pain in the heart of the man who believed himself to be a murderer and encouraged him to hope that it might eventually pass away. He played recklessly but successfully, for he was a transient favorite of the fickle goddess. When gambling lost its power to drown the voice of conscience, there was the race, the play and the wine cup! To each of them appealing in turn, he went whirling madly around the outer circles of the great maelstrom in which so many brilliant youths were swallowed in those ante-bellum days.