Twice-Told Tales (14 page)

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.

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
town and will receive all visitors who choose to wait upon them.
Perhaps little Annie would like to go? Yes, and I can see that the
pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street with the green
trees flinging their shade across the quiet sunshine and the pavements
and the sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept them
with her broom. She feels that impulse to go strolling away—that
longing after the mystery of the great world—which many children
feel, and which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take a
ramble with me. See! I do but hold out my hand, and like some bright
bird in the sunny air, with her blue silk frock fluttering upward from
her white pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the street.

Smooth back your brown curls, Annie, and let me tie on your bonnet,
and we will set forth. What a strange couple to go on their rambles
together! One walks in black attire, with a measured step and a heavy
brow and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little girl
trips lightly along as if she were forced to keep hold of my hand lest
her feet should dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy
between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is because I have a
smile that children love; and, on the other hand, there are few grown
ladies that could entice me from the side of little Annie, for I
delight to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinless
child. So come, Annie; but if I moralize as we go, do not listen to
me: only look about you and be merry.

Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horses and
stage-coaches with four thundering to meet each other, and trucks and
carts moving at a slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from
the wharves; and here are rattling gigs which perhaps will be smashed
to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a
wheelbarrow along the pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a
tumult? No; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but passes on
with fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a great throng of grown
people who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they would to
extreme old age. Nobody jostles her: all turn aside to make way for
little Annie; and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of her
claim to such respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure. A
street-musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder church and
pours forth his strains to the busy town—a melody that has gone
astray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices and the war of
passing wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None but myself and
little Annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the lively tune,
as if she were loth that music should be wasted without a dance. But
where would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in their toes or
the rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with age, some feeble
with disease; some are so lean that their bones would rattle, and
others of such ponderous size that their agility would crack the
flagstones; but many, many have leaden feet because their hearts are
far heavier than lead. It is a sad thought that I have chanced upon.
What a company of dancers should we be! For I too am a gentleman of
sober footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let us walk sedately on.