Twice-told tales
mill-men and the factory-girls, “I can assure you that some
unaccountable mistake—or, more probably, a wilful falsehood maliciously
contrived to injure Mr. Higginbotham’s credit—has excited this singular
uproar. We passed through Kimballton at three o’clock this morning, and
most certainly should have been informed of the murder had any been
perpetrated. But I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. Higginbotham’s
own oral testimony in the negative. Here is a note relating to a suit
of his in the Connecticut courts which was delivered me from that
gentleman himself. I find it dated at ten o’clock last evening.”
So saying, the lawyer, exhibited the date and signature of the note,
which irrefragably proved either that this perverse Mr. Higginbotham
was alive when he wrote it, or, as some deemed the more probable case
of two doubtful ones, that he was so absorbed in worldly business as to
continue to transact it even after his death. But unexpected evidence
was forthcoming. The young lady, after listening to the pedler’s
explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth her gown and put her
curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern door, making a modest
signal to be heard.
“Good people,” said she, “I am Mr. Higginbotham’s niece.”
A wondering murmur passed through the crowd on beholding her so rosy
and bright—that same unhappy niece whom they had supposed, on the
authority of the Parker’s Falls _Gazette_, to be lying at death’s door
in a fainting-fit. But some shrewd fellows had doubted all along
whether a young lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a
rich old uncle.
“You see,” continued Miss Higginbotham, with a smile, “that this
strange story is quite unfounded as to myself, and I believe I may
affirm it to be equally so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He
has the kindness to give me a home in his house, though I contribute to
my own support by teaching a school. I left Kimballton this morning to
spend the vacation of commencement-week with a friend about five miles
from Parker’s Falls. My generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs,
called me to his bedside and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay
my stage-fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. He then laid
his pocketbook under his pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to
take some biscuit in my bag instead of breakfasting on the road. I feel
confident, therefore, that I left my beloved relative alive, and trust
that I shall find him so on my return.”
The young lady courtesied at the close of her speech, which was so
sensible and well worded, and delivered with such grace and propriety,
that everybody thought her fit to be preceptress of the best academy in
the State. But a stranger would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was
an object of abhorrence at Parker’s Falls and that a thanksgiving had
been proclaimed for his murder, so excessive was the wrath of the
inhabitants on learning their mistake. The mill-men resolved to bestow
public honors on Dominicus Pike, only hesitating whether to tar and
feather him, ride him on a rail or refresh him with an ablution at the
town-pump, on the top of which he had declared himself the bearer of
the news. The selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, spoke of prosecuting
him for a misdemeanor in circulating unfounded reports, to the great
disturbance of the peace of the commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus
either from mob-law or a court of justice but an eloquent appeal made
by the young lady in his behalf. Addressing a few words of heartfelt
gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green cart and rode out
of town under a discharge of artillery from the schoolboys, who found
plenty of ammunition in the neighboring clay-pits and mud-holes. As he
turned his head to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. Higginbotham’s
niece a ball of the consistence of hasty-pudding hit him slap in the
mouth, giving him a most grim aspect. His whole person was so
bespattered with the like filthy missiles that he had almost a mind to
ride back and supplicate for the threatened ablution at the town-pump;
for, though not meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed of
charity.
However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, and the mud—an emblem
of all stains of undeserved opprobrium—was easily brushed off when dry.
Being a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain
from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his story had excited. The
handbills of the selectmen would cause the commitment of all the
vagabonds in the State, the paragraph in the Parker’s Falls _Gazette_
would be reprinted from Maine to Florida, and perhaps form an item in
the London newspapers, and many a miser would tremble for his moneybags
and life on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham. The pedler
meditated with much fervor on the charms of the young schoolmistress,
and swore that Daniel Webster never spoke nor looked so like an angel
as Miss Higginbotham while defending him from the wrathful populace at
Parker’s Falls.
Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, having all along
determined to visit that place, though business had drawn, him out of
the most direct road from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the
supposed murder he continued to revolve the circumstances in his mind,
and was astonished at the aspect which the whole case assumed. Had
nothing occurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it
might now have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow man was
evidently acquainted either with the report or the fact, and there was
a mystery in his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned.
When to this singular combination of incidents it was added that the
rumor tallied exactly with Mr. Higginbotham’s character and habits of
life, and that he had an orchard and a St. Michael’s pear tree, near
which he always passed at nightfall, the circumstantial evidence
appeared so strong that Dominicus doubted whether the autograph
produced by the lawyer, or even the niece’s direct testimony, ought to
be equivalent. Making cautious inquiries along the road, the pedler
further learned that Mr. Higginbotham had in his service an Irishman of
doubtful character whom he had hired without a recommendation, on the
score of economy.
“May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Dominicus Pike, aloud, on reaching
the top of a lonely hill, “if I’ll believe old Higginbotham is unhanged
till I see him with my own eyes and hear it from his own mouth. And, as
he’s a real shaver, I’ll have the minister, or some other responsible
man, for an endorser.”
It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on Kimballton
turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name. His
little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback who
trotted through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the
toll-gatherer and kept on towards the village. Dominicus was acquainted
with the toll-man, and while making change the usual remarks on the
weather passed between them.
“I suppose,” said the pedler, throwing back his whiplash to bring it
down like a feather on the mare’s flank, “you have not seen anything of
old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?”
“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer; “he passed the gate just before you
drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the dusk.
He’s been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff’s sale
there. The old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with
me, but to-night he nodded, as if to say, ‘Charge my toll,’ and jogged
on; for, wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o’clock.”
“So they tell me,” said Dominicus.
“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does,”
continued the toll-gatherer. “Says I to myself tonight, ‘He’s more like
a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood.’”
The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just
discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road. He seemed to
recognize the rear of Mr. Higginbotham, but through the evening shadows
and amid the dust from the horse’s feet the figure appeared dim and
unsubstantial, as if the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly
moulded of darkness and gray light.
Dominicus shivered. “Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other
world by way of the Kimballton turnpike,” thought he. He shook the
reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in the rear of
the gray old shadow till the latter was concealed by a bend of the
road. On reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the man on
horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far
from a number of stores and two taverns clustered round the
meeting-house steeple. On his left was a stone wall and a gate, the
boundary of a wood-lot beyond which lay an orchard, farther still a
mowing-field, and last of all a house. These were the premises of Mr.
Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been
left in the background by the Kimballton turnpike.
Dominicus knew the place, and the little mare stopped short by
instinct, for he was not conscious of tightening the reins. “For the
soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!” said he, trembling. “I never
shall be my own man again till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is
hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree.” He leaped from the cart, gave
the rein a turn round the gate-post, and ran along the green path of
the wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing behind. Just then the village
clock tolled eight, and as each deep stroke fell Dominicus gave a fresh
bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of
the orchard, he saw the fated pear tree. One great branch stretched
from the old contorted trunk across the path and threw the darkest
shadow on that one spot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the
branch.
The pedler had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of
peaceable occupation, nor could he account for his valor on this awful
emergency. Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a
sturdy Irishman with the butt-end of his whip, and found—not, indeed,
hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree, but trembling beneath it with a
halter round his neck—the old identical Mr. Higginbotham.
“Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominicus, tremulously, “you’re an honest man,
and I’ll take your word for it. Have you been hanged, or not?”
If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the
simple machinery by which this “coming event” was made to cast its
“shadow before.” Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of Mr.
Higginbotham; two of them successively lost courage and fled, each
delaying the crime one night by their disappearance; the third was in
the act of perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of
fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of
Dominicus Pike.
It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham took the pedler into high
favor, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty schoolmistress and
settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the
interest. In due time the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors
by dying a Christian death in bed; since which melancholy event,
Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton and established a large
tobacco-manufactory in my native village.
LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
The town-crier has rung his bell at a distant corner, and little Annie
stands on her father’s doorsteps trying to hear what the man with the
loud voice is talking about. Let me listen too. Oh, he is telling the
people that an elephant and a lion and a royal tiger and a horse with
horns, and other strange beasts from foreign countries, have come to