Complete Prose Works
poverty-stricken couple had been encouraged by the neighbors to take
possession as tenants of the place. Their name was Gills; and these
people the traveler found upon his entrance were likely to be his host
and hostess. Holding their right as they did by so slight a tenure,
they ventur'd to offer no opposition when the stranger signified his
intention of passing several hours there.
The day wore on, and the sun went down in the west; still the
interloper, gloomy and taciturn, made no signs of departing. But as
the evening advanced (whether the darkness was congenial to his sombre
thoughts, or whether it merely chanced so) he seem'd to grow more
affable and communicative, and informed Gills that he should pass the
night there, tendering him at the same time ample remuneration, which
the latter accepted with many thanks.
"Tell me," said he to his aged host, when they were all sitting around
the ample hearth, at the conclusion of their evening meal, "tell me
something to while away the hours."
"Ah! sir," answered Gills, "this is no place for new or interesting
events. We live here from year to year, and at the end of one we find
ourselves at about the same place which we filled in the beginning."
"Can you relate nothing, then?" rejoin'd the guest, and a singular
smile pass'd over his features; "can you say nothing about your own
place?--this house or its former inhabitants, or former history?"
The old man glanced across to his wife, and a look expressive of
sympathetic feeling started in the face of each.
"It is an unfortunate story, sir," said Gills, "and may cast a chill
upon you, instead of the pleasant feeling which it would be best to
foster when in strange walls."
"Strange walls!" echoed he of the red scarf, and for the first time
since his arrival he half laughed, but it was not the laugh which comes
from a man's heart.
"You must know, sir," continued Gills, "I am myself a sort of intruder
here. The Vanhomes--that was the name of the former residents and
owners--I have never seen; for when I came to these parts the last
occupant had left to join the red-coat soldiery. I am told that he is
to sail with them for foreign lands, now that the war is ended, and his
property almost certain to pass into other hands."
As the old man went on, the stranger cast down his eyes, and listen'd
with an appearance of great interest, though a transient smile or a
brightening of the eye would occasionally disturb the serenity of his
deportment.
"The old owners of this place," continued the white-haired narrator,
"were well off in the world, and bore a good name among their neighbors.
The brother of Sergeant Vanhome, now the only one of the name, died ten
or twelve years since, leaving a son--a child so small that the father's
willmade provision for his being brought up by his uncle, whom I
mention'd but now as of the British army. He was a strange man, this
uncle; disliked by all who knew him; passionate, vindictive, and, it was
said, very avaricious, even from his childhood.
"Well, not long after the death of the parents, dark stories began to
be circulated about cruelty and punishment and whippings and starvation
inflicted by the new master upon his nephew. People who had business
at the homestead would frequently, when they came away, relate the most
fearful things of its manager, and how he misused his brother's child.
It was half hinted that he strove to get the youngster out of the way in
order that the whole estate might fall into his own hands. As I told you
before, however, nobody liked the man; and perhaps they judged him too
uncharitably.
"After things had gone on in this way for some time, a countryman,
a laborer, who was hired to do farm-work upon the place, one evening
observed that the little orphan Vanhome was more faint and pale even
than usual, for he was always delicate, and that is one reason why I
think it possible that his death, of which I am now going to tell you,
was but the result of his own weak constitution, and nothing else. The
laborer slept that night at the farmhouse. Just before the time at which
they usually retired to bed, this person, feeling sleepy with his day's
toil, left the kitchen hearth and wended his way to rest. In going to
his place of repose he had to pass a chamber--the very chamber where
you, sir, are to sleep to-night--and there he heard the voice of the
orphan child uttering half-suppress'd exclamations as if in pitiful
entreaty. Upon stopping, he heard also the tones of the elder Vanhome,
but they were harsh and bitter. The sound of blows followed. As each one
fell it was accompanied by a groan or shriek, and so they continued for
some time. Shock'd and indignant, the countryman would have burst
open the door and interfered to prevent this brutal proceeding, but he
bethought him that he might get himself into trouble, and perhaps find
that he could do no good after all, and so he passed on to his room.
"Well, sir, the following day the child did not come out among the
work-people as usual. He was taken very ill. No physician was sent for
until the next afternoon; and though one arrived in the course of the
night, it was too late--the poor boy died before morning.
"People talk'd threateningly upon the subject, but nothing could be
proved against Vanhome. At one period there were efforts made to have
the whole affair investigated. Perhaps that would have taken place, had
not every one's attention been swallow'd up by the rumors of difficulty
and war, which were then beginning to disturb the country.
"Vanhome joined the army of the king. His enemies said that he feared to
be on the side of the rebels, because if they were routed his property
would be taken from him. But events have shown that, if this was indeed
what he dreaded, it has happen'd to him from the very means which he
took to prevent it."
The old man paused. He had quite wearied himself with so long talking.
For some minutes there was unbroken silence. Presently the stranger
signified his intention of retiring for the night. He rose, and his host
took a light for the purpose of ushering him to his apartment.
When Gills return'd to his accustom'd situation in the large arm-chair
by the chimney-hearth, his ancient helpmate had retired to rest. With
the simplicity of their times, the bed stood in the same room where the
three had been seated during the last few hours; and now the remaining
two talk'd together about the singular events of the evening. As the
time wore on, Gills show'd no disposition to leave his cosy chair;
but sat toasting his feet, and bending over the coals. Gradually the
insidious heat and the lateness of the hour began to exercise their
influence over the old man. The drowsy indolent feeling which every one
has experienced in getting thoroughly heated through by close contact
with a glowing fire, spread in each vein and sinew, and relax'd its
tone. He lean'd back in his chair and slept.
For a long time his repose went on quietly and soundly. He could not
tell how many hours elapsed; but, a while after midnight, the torpid
senses of the slumberer were awaken'd by a startling shock. It was a
cry as of a strong man in his agony--a shrill, not very loud cry, but
fearful, and creeping into the blood like cold, polish'd steel. The old
man raised himself in his seat and listen'd, at once fully awake. For a
minute, all was the solemn stillness of midnight. Then rose that horrid
tone again, wailing and wild, and making the hearer's hair to stand on
end. One moment more, and the trampling of hasty feet sounded in the
passage outside. The door was thrown open, and the form of the stranger,
more like a corpse than living man, rushed into the room.
"All white!" yell'd the conscience-stricken creature--"all white, and
with the grave-clothes around him. One shoulder was bare, and I saw,"
he whisper'd, "I saw blue streaks upon it. It was horrible, and I cried
aloud. He stepp'd toward me! He came to my very bedside; his small hand
almost touch'd my face. I could not bear it, and fled."
The miserable man bent his head down upon his bosom; convulsive
rattlings shook his throat; and his whole frame waver'd to and fro
like a tree in a storm. Bewilder'd and shock'd, Gills look'd at his
apparently deranged guest, and knew not what answer to make, or what
course of conduct to pursue.
Thrusting out his arms and his extended fingers, and bending down
his eyes, as men do when shading them from a glare of lightning, the
stranger stagger'd from the door, and, in a moment further, dash'd madly
through the passage which led through the kitchen into the outer road.
The old man heard the noise of his falling footsteps, sounding fainter
and fainter in the distance, and then, retreating, dropp'd his own
exhausted limbs into the chair from which he had been arous'd so
terribly. It was many minutes before his energies recover'd their
accustomed tone again. Strangely enough, his wife, unawaken'd by the
stranger's ravings, still slumber'd on as profoundly as ever.
Pass we on to a far different scene--the embarkation of the British
troops for the distant land whose monarch was never more to wield the
sceptre over a kingdom lost by his imprudence and tyranny. With frowning
brow and sullen pace the martial ranks moved on. Boat after boat was
filled, and, as each discharged its complement in the ships that lay
heaving their anchors in the stream, it return'd, and was soon filled
with another load. And at length it became time for the last soldier
to lift his eye and take a last glance at the broad banner of England's
pride, which flapp'd its folds from the top of the highest staff on the
Battery.
As the warning sound of a trumpet called together all who were
laggards--those taking leave of friends, and those who were arranging
their own private affairs, left until the last moment--a single
horseman was seen furiously dashing down the street. A red scarf tightly
encircled his waist. He made directly for the shore, and the crowd
there gather'd started back in wonderment as they beheld his dishevel'd
appearance and ghastly face. Throwing himself violently from his saddle,
he flung the bridle over the animal's neck, and gave him a sharp cut
with a small riding whip. He made for the boat; one minute later, and he
had been left. They were pushing the keel from the landing--the stranger
sprang--a space of two or three feet already intervened--he struck on
the gunwale--and the Last Soldier of King George had left the American
shores.
WILD FRANK'S RETURN
As the sun, one August day some fifty years ago, had just pass'd the
meridian of a country town in the eastern section of Long Island, a
single traveler came up to the quaint low-roof'd village tavern, open'd
its half-door, and enter'd the common room. Dust cover'd the clothes of
the wayfarer, and his brow was moist with sweat. He trod in a lagging,
weary way; though his form and features told of an age not more than
nineteen or twenty years. Over one shoulder was slung a sailor's jacket,
and in his hand he carried a little bundle. Sitting down on a rude
bench, he told a female who made her appearance behind the bar, that
he would have a glass of brandy and sugar. He took off the liquor at a
draught: after which he lit and began to smoke a cigar, with which he
supplied himself from his pocket--stretching out one leg, and leaning
his elbow down on the bench, in the attitude of a man who takes an
indolent lounge.
"Do you know one Richard Hall that lives somewhere here among you?" said
he.
"Mr. Hall's is down the lane that turns off by that big locust tree,"
answer'd the woman, pointing to the direction through the open door;
"it's about half a mile from here to his house."