Cruel as the grave
coarsely, with two lumps of liquorice in his mouth, which he had taken
to disguise his voice.
"And what might your name be, farmer?" inquired the landlady.
"My name's Howe," answered Lyon, truly, giving his own patronymic, now
his middle name.
"Well, farmer, I reckon we can accommodate you. Going to market?"
"Yes, we're on our way to market."
"You come from far?"
"From the other side of the mountain."
"Well, I reckon we can accommodate you. You must excuse me asking you
so many questions; but the truth is you're a perfect stranger to me, and
it is very late for you to come here, you know; which I wouldn't think
so much of that nyther, only since that horrid murder at Black Hall I
have mistrusted every stranger I see."
Sybil's heart gave a bound, and then sank like lead in her bosom, at
hearing this allusion. Lyon also felt an increased uneasiness. Luckily
they were sitting with their backs to the light, so that the gossiping
landlady could not read the expression of their faces, which indeed she
was too much absorbed in her subject to attempt to do. So she went
straight on without stopping to take breath:
"Not that I mistrust you now, sir, which I see exactly what you are; and
which likewise your having of your darter with you is a rickymindation;
for men don't go about a taking of their darters with them when they are
up to robbery and murder, do they now, sir?"
"I should judge not, though I am not familiar enough with the habits of
such gentry to give a decided opinion," said farmer Howe.
"You'll excuse me, sir; but I'm a lone widow living here, and not used
to seeing much of anybody but my old neighbors, which come occasionally
to enjoy of themselves; and I do mistrust most strangers--though not
you, sir, with your darter, as I said before--but most other strangers,
because they _do_ say hereabouts that it was a stranger to the place, a
red-headed man, as put up at the inn at Blackville that night, and never
was seen afterwards, as did that murder at Black Hall."
"Ah! do they say that? I thought they laid it on a lady," observed
farmer Howe.
"La, sir! the idee of a lady doing such a thing! and a rale high-born
lady of quality like Mrs. Burns, or whatever her name was, and doing of
it to one she had took in for charity too; 'tan't likely, sir."
"But you know, I suppose, that they did accuse a lady?"
"Oh, yes; I know they did, and that the poor lady had to ran away and go
to Annapolis. But that was that Blackville set, that an't got no sense;
but as for us, over this side, _we_ believe it was that red-headed
stranger as did it."
"There's no doubt of it in the world," said farmer Howe, recklessly,
feeling that he was expected to say something.
And at this moment he looked towards Sybil, and saw that she could not
endure the subject of discussion for one moment longer, so he turned to
the landlady, and said:
"We have travelled some distance, and feel very tired and hungry. Would
you oblige us with supper as soon as possible? We do not need much, only
let it be nice and warm."
"Surely, sir, it is late; but we will do the best we can for you," said
the landlady, hurrying away.
Mr. Berners stooped to whisper to his wife.
"Sybil, darling, I hail this woman's faith as a good omen. Keep up your
courage, and--remain in that shady corner until I come back. I am going
out to the stable to see that our horses are properly attended to."
And then Lyon left the room.
By the time he returned a table was set in that parlor, and a good
supper spread for the travellers.
When it was over, the landlady showed them to a couple of communicating
rooms up stairs, where they passed a very comfortable night.
At daybreak the next morning they arose and breakfasted, and resumed
their journey.
Lyon Berners again consulted his map of the State and his pocket
compass, and laid out his road. It lay for all that day up and down, in
and out, among the wildest passes of the Allegheny Mountains. At noon
they stopped for an hour, to rest and refresh themselves and their
horses, and then again went forward. At night they reached another
hamlet at the foot of the mountain range. They put up at this hamlet,
which was called Dunville, and which boasted one tavern kept by an old
Revolutionary pensioner called Purley.
Here also Lyon Berners gave his name as Howe, and here again he and his
wife were destined to be told all about the murder.
"You see, sir, a little below us there, on the other side of the
mountain, they do say as the murder was done by the woman's husband, as
she had run away from; but they are a set of poor ignorant folks out
there! Now it stand to reason, sir, it couldn't have been done by him,
and it must have been done by some member of that band of burglars that
they say is lurking somewhere there-a-way by Black Hall."
"Band of burglars!" echoed Farmer Howe, in astonishment. And he was
almost about to betray himself by saying that there could be no such
band there, when he recollected his position, and held his tongue.
Farmer Howe and his daughter spent a refreshing night at old Purley's
tavern at Dunville, and at daybreak next morning, after a very early
breakfast, they resumed their journey.
And again, as usual, Lyon Berners consulted his map and his compass. He
now found that his most direct route lay through a thick forest, between
two mountain ridges.
They travelled all the morning, and as usual stopped at noon for rest
and food for themselves and their four-footed friends. In the afternoon
they set forth again, and travelled until they reached Iceville, a
considerable village situated high upon one of the table-lands of the
Blue Ridge. In this town there were three taverns. Farmer Howe and his
daughter put up at the most humble of the trio. And here too the talk of
the hour was the homicide at Black Hall.
"They say about here that it was one of the lady's admirers who killed
her in a fit of desperation from love and jealousy; for the lady was
well beknown to be a great coquette," said one village authority to
another, in the presence of Farmer Howe.
When our travellers found themselves alone that night, in one of the two
small adjoining rooms that had been assigned to them, Lyon Berners
turned to Sybil, and said;
"You see, my dear Sybil, how it is: 'A prophet hath honor except in his
own city.' No one out of the Black Valley thinks of accusing you."
"All the world might accuse me, so that my own old friends and neighbors
would justify me," said Sybil, sadly.
They passed another night in peace, and the next morning, at daybreak as
usual, they breakfasted, and then set out on their fourth and last day's
journey.
Again the map and the pocket compass was called into requisition, and
Mr. Berners laid out their route for the day.
Their way lay all that forenoon through the beautifully undulating,
heavily wooded, and well-watered country lying east of the Blue Ridge.
As before, they broke their journey by an hour's repose at noon, and
then re-commenced it. And at twelve, midnight, they arrived safely at
Norfolk.
CHAPTER XXX
FLIGHT AND PURSUIT.
Oh, death were welcome!--COLERIDGE.
On reaching Norfolk, Lyon Berners drove at once to an obscure tavern
down by the wharves, and near the market. Here he found good stabling
for his horses and wagon, and decent accommodation for himself and wife.
"Come to market, I reckon, father?" suggested the landlord, taking the
stump of an old pipe from his mouth for the purpose.
"Yes," answered Lyon Berners, as "farmer Howe," taking off his
broad-brimmed hat, handing it to Sybil, and then sinking slowly and
heavily into a chair, like a very weary old man.
"Your daughter, I reckon, farmer?" continued the landlord, pointing to
Sybil with the stem of his pipe.
"My only girl," answered Lyon Berners, evasively.
"And no boys?" inquired the landlord.
"No boys," replied Lyon.
"That's a pity; on a farm too. But you must try to get a good husband
for the girl, and that will be all one as a boy of your own! Never had
any children but this, farmer, or did you have the misfortune to lose
'em?"
"I never had but this one girl," answered Lyon Berners still evasively.
"Then you must be very fond of that girl, I reckon."
"She is all the world to me," said Lyon, truly.
"Then he ought to be all the world to you, honey."
"And so I am," said Lyon, answering for Sybil, whom he could not yet
trust to act a part; though he saw, the instant he glanced at her, that
he might have done so; for Sybil, as soon as she saw attention drawn to
herself, began to turn her head down upon one shoulder and simper shyly
like an awkward rustic.
"You must excuse _me_ for asking so many questions, farmer; but when I
see a father and daughter together, like you and your girl, I think of
myself, for I have an only daughter of my own. All the rest of my
children--and I had a whole passel of boys and girls--are with their
dear mother in heaven. So you see, farmer, I am a widower, with one gal
like yourself--for I reckon, from what you said, you are a widower?"
"My girl's mother has been dead many years," answered Lyon, with a drawl
and a sigh.
"Pappy, I'm so hungry and so sleepy I don't know what to do," said
Sybil, in a low, fretful tone, frowning and pouting.
"Yes, yes, honey; I reckon you are sure enough. So landlord, if you have
got a couple of little rooms joining onto each other, I wish you'd let
us have 'em. And we'd like a bit of supper besides," said Lyon Berners,
with a sigh and a grunt.
"To be sure. I'll go and call my girl directly, and she'll walk up to
your rooms while I have the supper got ready. Where would you like to
have it? down here, or in your room?" inquired the landlord.
"In your room, Pappy. I hate a place like this a-smellin' of liquor and
inyuns and things, and men coming in and out," said Sybil, digging her
elbow into her "Pappy's" ribs, and turning up her nose at the little
tavern sitting-room.
"Well, then, honey, we'll have it up there. Up there, landlord, if it
won't be putting of you to too much trouble."
"Oh, not at all, farmer; it's all one to me. Now I'll go and call
Rachel."
And the inquisitive and communicative host went out, and soon returned
with a young woman of about Sybil's own age.
"This is my daughter, my Rachel, as I was telling you about, farmer.
Rachel, honey, you just go long of the farmer and his daughter and show
them where they've got to sleep, that's a good girl. Put 'em in the two
little rooms over the bar, you know."
"Yes, father. Come, sir; come, miss," said the landlord's daughter,
leading the way from the smoky parlor.
Lyon and Sybil followed her. Lyon walking slowly like a weary old man,
and pausing at the head of the stairs, as if to recover his wind.
"Pappy, you look tired to death," said Sybil, in a rough sympathetic
voice.
"Ay, ay; it is weary work for an old man to get up-stairs," grunted Lyon.
"The stairs are very steep, but here you are," said the landlord's
daughter, opening the door leading into two little communicating rooms.
She entered, followed by Sybil and Lyon. She set the candle down on the
top of the old chest of drawers, and turned around. And then the
travellers noticed, for the first time, how beautiful the daughter of
their host was.
Rachel's face was of the purest type of beauty, combining the physical,
intellectual, and spiritual. Her form was of medium height and perfect
grace; her head was finely shaped, and covered with dark brown hair,
parted in the middle and carried over the temples, and arranged in a
knot behind; her forehead broad and full; her eyebrows were gently