CHAPTER IX. MARGARET AND CHILION.
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Margaret was carried to Deacon Ramsdill's, where she was
bled, and after lingering for three or four days in comparative
exhaustion, she recovered so far as to be able to go abroad.
There was no precedent that forbade a man, under sentence
of death, the sight of his friends, and, what she had so much
at heart, she at length attained, permission to visit her brother.
In the Jail-house, her dress and person were strictly searched
by Miss Arunah Shooks, maiden daughter of the Jailer, who
stripped her of every article by which it was supposed the
death or escape of the prisoner could be compassed She
found her brother hand-cuffed, and locked to the floor by a
chain about his ankles; a precaution some might think unnecessarily
rigid, but one to which her own conduct had contributed;
since a scrap of paper had been discovered on
Chilion, and Mr. Shooks suspecting something out of the way,
suggested the matter to the Sheriff, General Kingsland of
Dunwich, who ordered the additional confinement of the
wrists. The cell was small, dark, cold and infested with many
descriptions of noisomeness. Her brother rose as she entered,
she heard the clanking of chains; she stood for a moment
like one stupified, then rushed forward, and wrapped herself
about him. They sat down together upon the edge of the bed.
“My brother! O my brother! poor Chilion!” and other similar
out-bursts of a deep sisterly affection were all she could
utter. She had many tears to shed, and many sighs to dispose
of, before she could speak with connection or composure.
“It is all over with me,” said Chilion at length.
“I know it, I know it,” said she.
“I knew it must come to this,” said he. “I have been
making up my mind to the worst. If I could only put my arms
around you, Margaret, I would ask no more.”
“Dear, dear Chilion! lean against me. I can hold you.”
“When you was little I carried you in my arms, and how I
have loved to lead you through the woods! If it were not for
you, Margaret, I should not care so much to die. Let me feel
your face.”
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“Tony gave me some Nuremburg salve to rub on your sores;
but they took it away because they thought it was poison.
Would that it were, and that you could kill yourself at once.
Your foot is dreadfully swollen.”
“That is the foot I lamed when I was in the woods after
you, Margery; I suffered more that night, when I thought you
was dead, than I have here in the Jail.”
“Poor, dear Chilion; I will sit on the floor and hold your
feet. The chain has worn through your stocking. Let me
put my hand under.”
“That feels easier—but don't you sit there, my pains will
soon be ended. If you smooth my hair a little I should be
glad; I have not been able to lift my hand to my head these
four days, and it is all touzled.”
“You look deadly pale,—or is it the light of the room? and
you have lost almost all of your flesh.”
“I have not been able to stir about any, I used to walk the
length of my chain, till it hurt me so much.”
“I will hold up the chain and see if you cannot walk a
little.”
“No, no, Margery, I am content to sit here by the side of
you. It is but a little while we have together, and I feel as if
I had many things to say to you.”
“To say to me, my dear brother! How little we have
spoken to one another. Why do you tremble so?”
“O Margaret, Margaret! I have loved you, so loved you as
no words can tell. All my heart has been bound up in you;
and all that I care for now is, that I must die and leave
you.”
“Speak, Chilion, tell me all you feel; you have always been
so silent.”
“I know I have, but only because I could not talk, or did
not know what to say. And since I have been in prison things
have labored in my mind, and I have been afraid I should die
without seeing you. When I have been silent I have thought
about you the most, and loved you the most. When you came
a little baby, I loved you; I used to feed you, play with you,
sleep with you; I rocked you to sleep on my shoulder, I loved
your sweet baby breath; I set you on the grass and watched
you while I spooled on the door-stone for Ma; I took you out
in my boat on the Pond, and got Bull for you to play with.
When you grew older I led you into the woods, I made you a
canoe and taught you how to paddle it; I made a sled for you
to coast with in the winter, I let you run about in the summer.
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You loved to do these things, and I knew it would make you
strong, healthy and bold. I grew proud of you, you had better
parts than I; and when the Master used to come to our house,
he took a good deal of notice of you, and when he brought
you books, he said you learned so well, better than a great
many did. I told you the names of the birds and the flowers,
and songs of the birds. As you grew up, I followed you in my
mind, and with my eye every day, every hour.”
“Why have you not told me this before, Chilion? I always
knew you loved me, but you never expressed your feelings to
me.”
“It was never my nature to talk much; I did not seem to
have the use of words as others did; and I never knew what
to say. Perhaps I took a kind of pride in seeing you go on;
you went farther than I did, you had more thoughts than I;
that I knew when I heard you talk with the Master, and I was
willing to be silent. You seemed to have a mysterious soul,
anagogical, the Master calls it, and all I could do was to
play to you. I played myself, my feelings, my thoughts to
you.”
“So you did, Chilion, and I knew you felt a good deal.”
“Almost my only comfort in this world has been you and
my fiddle. Our family were once in better circumstances, we
have not always lived at the Pond; but that was before you
were born. Pa did something wrong and lost his ear, and he
never has been himself since. We have followed drinking,
and that has ruined us. Ma has lost her courage, Pa doesn't
care what he does, and Hash is not what he was when he was
a boy.—And we were all in drink that dreadful night.”
“Can you not now, Chilion, tell me something about what
happened then?”
“Solomon behaved bad to you?”
“He only asked me to kiss him.”
“Was that all?”
“He said if I wouldn't he would turn us out of house and
home; but I knew he was drunk, and did not mind him.”
“Did he do nothing more? Rose said his manner was insulting.”
“Perhaps it was; but you know I tasted some, and it went
into my head so, I hardly knew what was done. But do tell
me if you did murder him?”
“If I tell you all I know, will you sacredly promise never to
speak of it till after I am dead.”
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“I will promise anything; but your manner frightens me.
What is coming?”
“Rose, Margery, you know, loves you as much as I do.
She is happy only with you; and she feels for you as for her
own sister. That night she told me what Solomon was doing,
and she was very much excited about it. We had both taken
too much, and hardly knew on which end we stood. I was at
work on my violin with a file, and she told me if I did not
throw it she would—”
“Then you did not do it, you will not be hung!”
“Hear me, Margaret, I had murder in my heart, I should
have been glad at the moment to have seen Solomon shot dead.
I know it was a wrong feeling, but I had it. I have not had
right feelings towards him for some time. Rose told me how
he followed you—”
“I was never afraid of him; if he was drunk I knew I could
get out of his way, and if he was sober he would not dare to
touch me.”
“That may be, but Rose is very sensitive about what might
happen, she seems to look upon most men as a kind of devils.”
“Poor Rose—yes.”
“I knew Solomon had a spite against you, because he could
not find the gold; and Rose told me of his saying you should
marry him, or he would turn us out of doors. He has been
rough with me, he cut down some nice ash-trees he knew I
had marked for basket-stuff, and once when I was shut up a
long while he bored a hole in my boat and let her fill with
water. Rose kept urging me, and saying if I didn't do something
she would. I took aim towards him with my file, I
thought I would see how near I could come to him and not hit,
as the Indians do; then I thought I would strike his arm.
The pile of pumpkins you know was very high, and he was
right under them; I saw one jutting out from the rest, Pa was
shaking the table, I thought they would all soon fall, then I
remember thinking I would knock the loose one on to Solomon's
head. Rose shook my shoulder, I threw the file, and I
know no more about it.”
“Then you did not intend to kill him?”
“The law holds people answerable when they are sober for
what they do when they are intoxicated. Besides, the Judge
laid down that if death followed an act done with intention to
injure, it was murder, as much as if there was an intention to
kill. That is all I know about it, and we have no help but to
wait for what is before us.”
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“There was so much noise and hurly-burly in the room, I
saw nothing till I heard him scream out and the tables fall.
Pa leaped up and down, and began to fling the chairs about.
I took him by the arm and led him out doors to the Cistern.
When I came back, they had carried Solomon away, and most
of them were gone. What did Rose do?”
“They cried out that I had done it. One and another said
they could swear they saw me do it. I seemed to come to my
senses; I saw how it was. I might have tried to get away,
but I was lame and could not run; if I took Nimrod's horse
I knew I should soon be caught. Besides I knew somebody
must suffer. Rose said it was her act, and she would abide
the consequences; and told me to go. When I refused, she
said she would stay with me. We told her that it was of no
use, that one of us must abide the result; and if she stayed
they might take us both. She fell on her knees and pleaded
to stay, said she did not wish to live, and that perhaps my life
would be saved. I could not listen to her, I told her I wanted
she should be a comfort to you, Margaret, if I should be taken
away. She flatly refused to go. At last, Nimrod got his
horse, and as he sat in the saddle, Sibyl dragged Rose out of
the house, and lifted her up into his arms, and they rode
off.”
“Poor Rose!”
“She grew very dear to me, Margaret; I could almost say,
if it were possible for me to say such a thing, I loved her.
One day she told me something of what she had been through.
She loved to hear me play, and I knew the music made her
happier and better. I would die a hundred deaths, before a
hair of her head should come to harm. I have now told you
all, Margaret, I could say nothing before. Esq. Bowker questioned
me a good deal, but I was afraid I should injure Rose,
and I held my peace.”
“Have I not loved you, Chilion? Have I not been kind to
you? Yet not so much as I ought to have been. I remember
once you asked me to dig you some worms, and I went off
into the woods, and did not do it. Can you forgive me for
that? And now you are going to die, it seems as if I had
not been half so good to Pa and Ma, and Hash and Bull, as I
ought to have been. I thank you for telling me about that;
do, Chilion, tell me some more about yourself.”
“What I think more of than anything is you, my dear
sister. I seem to have had strange hopes about you. I remembered
the dreams you had when you was a girl, you have
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seemed to me sometimes destined to good things. There is
something about you I could tell, but if you live, you will
know all, and if you do not,—well, let it go. I have brought
you up to Music, Margaret, I have taught you the notes, and
as much of the Art as I know. The Master always insisted
you should have books, though I did not care much about
them. There is a great deal in Music. I have played myself
to you when I could not speak it.”
“Alas! And where shall I hear any more Music, or
another Chilion!”
“Let that go now.—Those who can be reached by nothing
else are reached by Music; at the Balls and dances, I have
seen this.”
“I thought things went strange sometimes, and I could not
account for it.”
“I could raise a storm, and then still it. It was given me
to perceive this power when I was quite a boy. You remember
the brawl at No. 4, one Thanksgiving, we cured by a
song. I cannot explain it, I only saw it was done.”
“It must be what Deacon Ramsdill calls `nater.”'
“There is nature in it. I have seen the Old Indian stop
against our door a long time when I have been playing.”
“Rose was completely subdued, and at times wholly transformed
by your Music.”
“Yes, and how we could manage Dick; and when they
brought you up out of the woods, I had them all a dancing,
even what the Master calls the saints danced, and the Ministers
looked on and smiled.”
“Is not Music what the Deacon calls praying? He says it
is `feeling up.”'
“Yes, it is that. I have done all my praying with my
fiddle. I had a tune almost ready for the Lord's Prayer, which
I was taught a good many years ago. When you talk with
people their prejudices close their ears against you; when you
play it seems to open their hearts at once. Music goes where
words cannot. And Music makes people so happy, and when
they are happy, they love one another. Music takes away the
bad passions, and people are not envious or quarrelsome while
you play. All this I have seen, and it would always be so, if
it were not for the drinking. If I could have got ready and
played, as I was going to do, I think Solomon would not have
been rude to you, as you say somebody tamed wild beasts and
savages by Music—”
“Orpheus, you mean, who subdued Pluto and rescued
Eurydice with his lyre?”
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“Yes, Orpheus. But I threw an iron instead of a musical
point, and here I am! There is something else, it has seemed
to me that Music might be a good thing for the world. I
have sometimes thought if I were not lame, and we were not
so poor, I would travel off and make Music. You, too, Margaret,
can play, you can sing songs, your voice and ear are
most excellent. You know how we are at home, you know
what people think of us; it has seemed to me that we might
make our way up among folks by Music. I have had many,
many thoughts about you and Music, and the world, more
than I can speak of. You yourself have a certain unknown
connection with Music, which I cannot tell. Then I do not
mean mere fiddle-strings, because when you told me about
your Dream of Jesus, he seemed to me like a Harp, it had
the same effect on me that Music does; then in one of your
Dreams you said you heard invisible Music. It is not all in
catgut and rosin. There has been a certain Something in
my mind, which I have not words to explain. It has been
coming upon me for several years. I think it is one thing
that has closed my mouth so. My heart and thought have
gone out to it very often. And now I am cut off in the midst
of my hopes—”
“O sad condition! O most inexplicable existence! I am
sunk lower than our bottomless Pond in doubt and fear. I
can now feel as Rose does what a dreadful thing our life is.
The Fates have left us the solitary comfort of a tear!”
“Let us, my dear sister, bear up under it as well as we
can. You will live if I do not; Apollo's Lyre, as you call it,
I bequeath to you.”
“Pitiful Fiddle! Here it lies broken-hearted like its
Master. When I heard you playing the other night, it
sounded to me for all the world, as if Rose's heart had been
set in musical motion like a wind-harp. It will never, never
play another tune.”
“I hear the bolts opening, they are coming for you. Parson
Welles and Deacon Hadlock were here yesterday, but I could
not say much to them. I wish you would ask Deacon Ramsdill
to come, and the Camp-preacher. He prayed so for you,
when you was lost in the woods, I can never forget him. I
want also to have Dick stay with me, if they will let him. If
you see Ma, I wish you would ask her to bring me a clean
linen shirt, and my best clothes, those I wore to Balls, I had
rather be hung in them.”
“Oh, Chilion! Oh, my brother!”
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“Be quiet, Margaret, as you can: Let us hope if our sins
are forgiven we shall meet in a better world.”
Margaret was obliged to leave her brother. She represented
his wishes to Deacon Ramsdill. “The Parson and
Brother Hadlock tell a hard story of Chilion, I know,” replied
that gentleman. “But we should not judge too hash. Down
to Arcady they said the French were savages, that their
crosses bewitched the people; but they were a dreadful harmless
set of folk. And we must take care too, Molly, what we
think. The Parson has a good deal of nater in him, only it
is all grown over with notions and politicals. You give your
cows tarnips and you taste it in the milk; now he has been
feeding on tarnips all his days, and I count your brother don't
like the smack of him. Besides, Chil is what we were saying
the other day, a baby in these matters, and he ought to have
the very sweetest and best of milk, and if you put in a little
molasses it wouldn't hurt him. Brother Hadlock has nater too,
nobody in the world would sooner do you a kindness. But he
runs of an idee that things are about done for, that there is no
use trying any more. But, if we would fetch the butter we
must keep the dasher a going; if you stop, you know it all
runs back. Yellow-bugs have been the pest of our gardens
for two or three year; now I have noticed that in new-burnt
ground they don't appear at all. If we should get burnt over
a little, perhaps we could raise better squashes and cucumbers
than we do now. The Preacher is more nateral, but he
is as wild as a calf dropped in the woods. When you wind a
ball of yarn you make little holes with your thumb and finger,
and as you wind along you cover them up, and when you are
done, the ball has a great many of these holes. So folk get
all wound up with their notions and politicals and haremscarems,
but they are still chock full of these little holes of
nater. Speaking of holes, I have seen mice make their nests
in rocks, and then the bees came and used these nests for
hives, so that arter all, we got nice honey out of hard rocks
and mischievous mice. I will try to get the squirrel to your
brother. Down to Arcady, the little gals cried as if their
hearts would break because we wouldn't let them bring away
their moppets and baby-houses; I can't forget that.”
During the interval between the Trial and the Execution, a
period of ten days, Margaret was allowed to visit her brother
two or three times. Soon as possible after the sentence, under
the auspices of Deacon Ramsdill, a petition was got up, and
privately circulated, for the pardon of the prisoner; it was
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sent to the Governor with about half a dozen signatures, at
the head of which stood the name of Judge Morgridge. This
movement was unknown to Margaret, and on the whole without
consequence, since the answer was in the negative. The
day preceding the Execution she went to have her final interview
with him. The sheriff having taken up his quarters at
the Jail-house, and a guard being kept about the premises at
night, it was deemed safe to knock the chains from the
prisoner, and allow him a more commodious and better-lighted
apartment. He had on the dress he ordered, a pearl-colored
coat, buff-swansdown vest, white worsted breeches and stockings,
all somewhat worn and faded. Margaret brought a new
linen stock the Widow Luce made for him. Tony the Barber
came in to perform his last office on the condemned.
“Don't know but I cut you,” said the negro. “I am getting
old, and my hand is unsteady.”
“You stand a chance to wash off the blood,” replied
Chilion.
“Cold, gusty day,” said Tony, “can't keep the water out
of these eyes. Never shaved a man going to be hung the
next day, since the War, and them was wicked Tories.
Neck as fair as Mistress Margery's. Sheriff Kingsland wanted
to get this gentleman to play the drum to-morrow. Can't degrade
the profession so—God bless Chilion, good bye, my
brother—Forgot my rose-powder—There—threw the towel
out of the window for the soap-paper. I am growing old and
forgetful.”
Margaret and Chilion were left to themselves.
“Let me kiss your neck,” said she. “I would put my
hands about it, an amulet to keep off the ugly rope. Hold
your face to mine, let me feel it, and keep the feeling as long
as I live; look into my eyes that I may have your eyes also.
I want some of your hair too. How shall I get it unless I bite
it off. I had a pair of scizzors in my pocket, but they were
taken from me.”
“There, Tony has forgot his razor too. He laid it on the
bed. You can use that.”
“What a tempting edge!” said Margaret.
“Don't hold it up to me so,” replied Chilion, “I shall be
tempted by it.”
“I had a thousand times rather you should take your own
life than be hung by the Sheriff to-morrow. How easy for
you just to slit a vein. I would catch the blood with my own
lips, you should expire in my arms. See your stocking is
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bloody now, where the chains were. If Rose was here she
would call this wicked business, and put a stop to it very
shortly.”
“It is considered wrong to kill one's self,” replied Chilion.
“They hold it right to kill me because I killed another.”
“Right and wrong! right and wrong! I am all confusion,
Chilion. There is no truth or nature in anything. I am
losing all clearness, all sense of consistency.”
“God have mercy on you, Margaret, and on me too.
Throw the razor out of the window. Let us not keep it, or
talk about that.”
“I will, Chilion. I would not trouble you. A brief hour
alone remains to us. Our wretchedness and our communion
shall be alike undisturbed.”
“I wish for your sake, my dear sister, I could live longer.
You are all I care for. You have made our home happy.
But I do not know as I would stay in this town. I would go
elsewhere, and perhaps you will find some to love you. I
should like to go up and see the Pond once before I die.”
“Can I leave it, Chilion, its water, its woods, my little
canoe, our house, my flowers, the dear Gods, Mons Christi,
that we had given to the Beautiful One? Whither in this
wide wicked world shall I go? If I were going to be hung
with you I should be glad. Mr. Evelyn is gone, Isabel is
sick, and perhaps she too will die, the Master is sick, and
Rose—she, after all, is worse off than I. Why do I complain.
And Damaris Smith I know loved her brother, and he too is
dead!”
“Be composed, Margaret. There are things not quite so
bad in my case as in some others. Dr. Spoor says he will not
take my body for dissection, and Deacon Ramsdill says he will
have me buried in the grave-yard. Don't cry, Margaret, don't
cry, if you do I shall cry, and here is little Dick looking up into
your face as if he meant to cry too. I want you to go to Mr.
Smith's and ask their forgiveness for me, and the little willow-basket
I made to hold your sewing work, I want you to give to
Damaris. My boat I want you to sell to pay Deacon Penrose
for some screws and a chisel; and some red-lead I got to
paint your canoe with, and some silk Ma had to mend this
waistcoat. I have eight or ten baskets ready made which he
will take. My Fiddle I wanted you to have, but I think you
had better sell it to pay some of Pa's debts; Tony I guess
will give six or seven dollars for it. You will find, Margaret,
in the bottom of my chest, up garret, five dollars and a
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quarter; it is what I got several years ago, for some wolf
skins; I have been saving it to buy you a Guitar; but you
must take it to help pay for my coffin; and I want you to go
up to the Ledge to Mr. Palmer's, and get a plain slab of marble
to put on my grave. He has always remembered you
kindly, and I think he will let you have it for a low price. Mr.
Gisborne was in yesterday to take my measure for the coffin;
he said if he could not get his pay any other way, his wife
would be glad to have you do some weaving for her. This is
a good deal to ask of you, Margaret, but when I am dead and
gone, I don't want people to lay up little things against me.—
Speak, Margaret, don't you feel so bad. Get up from the floor.
I can't raise you, but I can hold you in my arms. There, there,
Margaret.”
“I will do anything, all you wish; but when it is ended, I
only ask to be laid under the same sod with you.”
“You may live for good. God only knows. You may see
Mr. Evelyn again; if you do I want you to give him a lock of
my hair, and tell him as my dying words, that I truly forgave all
men, and wished to be forgiven of all. The lady's slipper that
I made a box for, I want you to give to Susan Morgridge, for
Esq. Bowker's sake; he is going to marry her, and this is all
I can do for his kindness to me. On the slab I want Mr.
Palmer to mark `Chilion,' simply. I should like to have it
said, `Here lies one who tried to love his fellow men'—but
that cannot be.—I hear Pa a-hemming. Let us try and be as
still as we can.”
There entered the cell the prisoner's father and mother,
and his brothers, Hash and Nimrod. Margaret receded to
the foot of the bed, where she sat with her face folded in her
hands. The bloated frame of Pluck surged and trembled, on
his bald crimson pate stood large drops of sweat, in most sober
and earnest grief he embraced Chilion; with a quivering lip,
and a faltering accent, he said, “Farewell, my son, farewell
forever;” and turned away and wept like a child. “My
Chilly!” exclaimed the mother, falling upon her son's neck,
“My youngest boy—would God I could die for thee. My
young hands welcomed you in your fair babyhood, now these
old arms send you away to the gallows. You were beautiful
for a mother's eye to look upon. You have been a comfort to
your mother, weak and sinful as she is. I have sometimes
hoped for better days, but all is over now.” She sunk to the
floor and sobbed hysterically. “Good b—b—b” was all Hash
could utter. “I have not always been patient and kind
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towards you,” said Chilion; “can you forgive me, my dear
brother?” “Stuff it out, like a red Indian,” said Nimrod.
“The Hell-hacks would crack to see you flinch. Your lips
are white as a fox's—you are sick, Chilion, you can't stand,
let me lay you on the bed—they'll have to hold you up to hang
you, like a stuck sheep. If you should die betwixt this and
to-morrow, twelve o'clock, how many mourners you would get,
more than you have now—I feel as if the rope was round my
throat—hem—I'm choking—Ecod!—I was going to be married
to Rhody next thanksgiving—Chilion will not be there—
I have been wicked—I am going to try to do better.”—Margaret
broke into louder weeping, and the room was pervaded
with an uncontrollable and shattered wail. In the midst of all
appeared Rose, like a pale and sudden Ghost, she ran forward
to Chilion, she clung frantically about his neck; “He shall
not die, I did it, I did it, I will be hung,” she said in a wild
passionate tone. Nimrod was obliged to interfere; she resolutely
persisted; by force he unfastened her grasp, he carried
her struggling in his arms out of the apartment. Deacon
Ramsdill and the Preacher came in; all knelt while the latter,
in heart-felt earnestness and tender solemnity, commended the
soul of the prisoner to God and the forgiveness of his grace.
Smiles and good humor fled the face of the Deacon, whose
deep and variegated furrows were filled with tears. Other
persons entered to say their farewells, Judge Morgridge and
his daughter, Esquires Beach, Bowker and Weeks, the Widow
Luce and her son Job, the Widow Wright and Obed, Mr. and
Mistress Wharfield, Sibyl Radney, and a few who had known
Chilion; when Margaret was again left alone with her brother.
These final moments of the two, so tenderly attached, so mournfully
separated, we will not intrude upon.
Judd, Sylvester, 1813-1853 [1845], Margaret: a tale of the real and ideal, blight and bloom; including sketches of a place not before described, called Mons christi (Jordan and Wiley, Boston) [word count] [eaf234].
