The Cuban heiress. A novel

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CHAPTER II. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE SQUIRE’s

Apparently Davy Drew knew the way of the squire’s household well, for without hesitation he passed around the front of the dwelling, and whistling to the great watch dog, who came from his kennel at the sound of his footsteps, rapped at a low door which opened into the garden, and was furnished with a heavy knocker in the shape of an iron claw.

Waiting a moment or two, he heard the token of some one’s approach, and soon a tremulous voice called through the key- hole :

Who’s that?”

^Ht’s Davy Drew,” replied the watchman ; and if that ain’t Hepsibah, I’m mistaken.”

There came no answer to this ; but in a minute the door was opened, and he stood face to face with a woman whose strange likeness to himself betokened near relationship. There was the same eccentric nose, the same light blue eyes, the same long, prominent upper lip, and the same low, deeply marked forehead. But, while the watchman was as rosy as a pippin, this woman was, at that moment at least, pallid to the very lips.

THE CUBAN HEIRESS.

II

^^Why, Hepsibah, what ails you, woman?’* said the watchman, as his eyes rested on the face illuminated by the rays of the lamp she bore. ^‘You look as though you’d seen a ghost ! ”

‘‘You don’t expect anybody to look merry in this house to-night, do you?” asked Hepsibah.

“To-night! Why, what’s the matter?” The watchman lowered his voice, and glanced up the stairs and down the dark passage, as though expecting to see something which might answer his question, and then back again to the woman waiting to speak.

She made an effort to answer, groped blindly with her hands, as one does when struggling against a swoon, and then clutched his arm with a grip that made him wince, and all the while no audible sound reached him, though her lips moved.

“ Hepsibah ! woman 1 ” said the watchman, in a horrified, husky whisper, “are you a goin’ mad? Tell me, what is the matter ? ”

Then she found voice, such a one as we might expect a ghost to speak in.

“ I’ll tell you, Davy,” she said ; “ come up-stairs with me. Don’t make a noise. They’re too busy to care much who comes in or out. Keep quiet, for my sake,” and turning, she ascended the stairs, and opening a door, led the way into a room curtained and carpeted, and cheerful with fire and candle light.

There she locked the door, and crouched down before the grate, with her back to the old watchman.

“ She’s very bad. Brother Dave,” she said ; “ quite low. The surgeon is with her now. There’s just the faintest chance for her now.”

“ The squire’s wife, you mean ? ” asked old Davy.

“ Who else should I? That’s no one coming, is it? ”

“ No. Sally, what ails you?”

“ I’m going mad, Davy.”

“ You’ve seen a many die dearer to you, and never went mad through it. The fiend’s abroad to-night, and after all the women.”

“ He’ll have me soon,” said the woman.

“ Oh, Davy 1 you’re my brother ; you’re all I’ve got in

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the wide world. We’re two old people together. Can’t you help me somehow ? ’ ’

Help you ! ” cried the watchman. Fd do all I could to help you if I knew what ailed you. Come, tell me, or I’ll believe you crazy in earnest. Tell me, Hepsibah.”

The woman arose and went toward the bed, turning down the sheet, so that the light fell full upon the form of a little infant, lying there in its embroidered robes.

It’s the squire’s baby,” she said.

Ay,” said the watchman ; and a purty little critter, too. How still it sleeps.”

It sleeps so sound that it will never wake again until the judgment day,” said the woman. Oh, Davy, Brother Davy ! it’s dead, stone dead — and I’ve killed it ! I, miserable wretch, I have killed it ! ”

Killed it ! ” the watchman repeated the words dreamily, as though not comprehending them. Killed it ! What does it mean, Hepsibah?”

^‘What I say,” replied the woman. Oh, Davy, I loved it so, and I loved her so, yet I’ve killed it ! This is how it was : Missus, from the time she began to make the little dresses for that darling, used to complain of a pain in her chest ; and lately, since the child came, it has been a deal worse so a great doctor from New York came down, and he and more of ’em have decided that there was a cancer, or a tumor, or something, which must be cut out, or she’d die. They put it off as long as they could, but yesterday they said it must be done ; and master said to me, ^ Hepsibah, there’ll be plenty to take care of her ; you only see to the baby and keep it from her. ’ I was glad to do it, Dave, for I was too nervous to bear to see them torturing my dear missus, poor lamb ; so I shut myself up with baby here, where I couldn’t hear her scream. I don’t know what it was — nervousness, may be; but I hadn’t been here three hours before I took the toothache, and most went mad with it. Cook came in, and says she, ‘ I tell you, laudanum in the ear is the best thing for it, and I’ve got some,’ and up she went and brought down a bottle, and gave it to me. I put it on the shelf when I’d used it, meaning to give it back when she came in again. Poor baby never was so cross ; it cried all the time — milk did it no good, nor anything else ;

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and, at last, master came to the door, and says he, ‘ Hepsibah, keep the child quiet. She’ll hear it, and worry.’ It’s against my rules to do it often, but being such a case, I thought I’d give the dear some drops, and so I did. That was at eight in the evening. He went to sleep like a lamb, and I went to sleep, too ; but, oh, David, half an hour ago I waked up and looked at him. He was as cold as a piece of ice ! I got frightened, and tried to wake him ; it was no use. In three minutes I knew the child was dead, and how it happened, for the bottle of drops stood there full, and the laudanum bottle was almost empty. I’ve poisoned my darling lady’s child, Davy ; and if there’d been enough left I’d done the same to myself. Oh, what’s that ? what’s that?”

In pressing against the bundle in his arms as he leant over the bed, Davy Drew aroused the child, and it began to cry.

It’s the child, Hepsibah,” said the watchman. That was what brought me here. The devil has been abroad to catch the women-folks this wretched night, I do believe. You won’t care about hearing my story now, you feel so bad, Hepsy.”

‘‘Yes, I will ! ” cried the woman. “ Speak ! you don’t know what may come of it.’l

She had taken the infant from the watchman’s arms as she spoke, and was soothing it to silence, and in much the sort of terror one might feel in an awful dream.

Davy Drew told his story to his sister. She was too much astonished already to feel any more surprise.

When the tale ended, she dropped upon her knees before him, clasping her hands, and praying him to save her, as he could, from disgrace and misery.

“ What can I do, Hepsibah? ” he said. “ Tain’t in me to bring the dead to life, or I would, I’m sure. That’s all ’ud help you now.”

“ All 1 ” cried Hepsibah, with a strange laugh. “ Don’t you see, Dave ? There’s a way to keep me from being disgraced — punished, maybe ! There’s a way to keep in the house, instead of being turned out like a dog ; and who’d have me afterward, I’d like to know, in their nurseries ? Poisoned a baby — Squire Shelbourne’s baby — they’d say ;

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and I might starve afore they’d have me ! Who’d blame ’em? Oh, Dave, promise me ye’ll do it afore I tell ye how.”

She’s crazy ! ” mumbled Davy. Why, old gal, I’d be willing to cut my right hand off if ’twould get ye out of this scrape ! ”

Give me the baby, then,” said the woman.

The baby ? ” David only stared.

‘^Look ye, Davy Drew,” said his sister, ^^they are as like as two peas. This one has black eyes, so has that. They’re the same size ; likely the same age. Who’d know them, if I changed their clothes? Not you.”

‘‘You’re right there, Hepsy,” said the watchman.

“ Nor the squire nor my lady,” said Hepsibah. “ D’ye understand me now, Davy ? Speak, man ! ”

“I do begin to,” muttered the watchman. “But it can’t be done. I’ve tried to live a Christian life. You’d not ask it if ye think a minute — you’re crazy like now ! ”

“ What harm would it be, Dave ? ” said the woman.

“Great harm,” said the watchman. “ There’s squire, he’d be deceived, and the missus, too; and think of the lies I’d have to tell, and you, too ! ”

“ We would neither of us have to speak a word, good or bad,” said the woman.

“ We should tell no lies? ”

“Not one, Davy; they’d ask no questions; and, as for you, who^s to tell ? You met the woman in the dark of the night ; and she, poor soul, is under the water by this time. Let me have that baby, and I’ll dress this in its clothes, and you may lay it at any door in the place, and it will find a grave. That’s all it’s own father could give it ; and you’ll save that one from the poor-house. You’ll do good, and no harm, Davy.”

“It’s a wrong act,” said the watchman. “ I’ll have nought to do with it.”

“ Then take a knife and kill me, Davy. You might as well.”

“ Oh, Hepsy, Hepsy ! ”

“You might, Davy. Mother never thought you’d turn your back on me when trouble came. When she was dying we stood beside her, and says she, ‘Be good to Sister

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IS

Hepsy, you’re all she has to look to.’ And says you, ‘ When I forsake her, may Heaven forsake me ! ’ I mind it well.”

‘‘Haven’t I been a brother to you, girl?” said the old man, his eyes filling with tears. “ I’ve tried to be.”

“ I know you have till now, Davy,” said the old woman. “ I don’t deny it ; but you don’t care for me now, or you’d save me. It’s only whether yonder poor baby shall lie in Shelbourne vault or in a little grave, without a stone, amongst the poor. That will do it no harm, Davy. The same sod will be above it, and its soul is in Heaven already. Oh, Davy, have pity on me ! ”

She went down on her knees again as she spoke, and clung to him desperately. “ I couldn’t bear that shame,” she said. “ The whole place to know it — mistress that has thought so much of me, and all ! I shall die ! Oh, Davy, I willy if the disgrace comes to me ! Save me ! save me 1 ”

The old man was crying like a baby by this time. Tears chased each other down the deep wrinkled grooves plowed in his brown cheeks by the hand of time. All he could say was: “Hepsy, girl ! oh, Hepsy, girl! ” over and over again.

“ Davy, say yes 1 ” pleaded the woman.

“No, no!” replied the watchman. “No; you’ll not ask me to-morrow yourself — you’re about crazy now ! ”

At these words the old woman arose slowly, and looked at her brother with eyes full of terrible meaning.

“I’ll ask you no more,” she said; “but, mark you. I’ll never see the light of black to-morrow ! I’ll kill myself to-night ! Davy, I’ve the means in my power, and I’ll use them. I’ll never live to be disgraced, and dragged before a court of justice, and hanged, maybe ! No, I’ll kill myself to-night ! ”

The old watchman saw that she was in earnest, and her last words had brought an awful picture before his mind. He dropped his head upon his hands, and said no more ; and old Hepsibah knew that she had gained her object !

She lifted the dead child in her arms, and handed it to her brother.

“Changing its clothes would do no good,” she said. “All babies’ night-slips are about alike, and its things are i6

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not marked. I’ve taken no pains dressing it in fine robes, while no one but me was to see it ; and I can’t bear to see the little creature as I’ve often bathed and fixed so pretty. Oh, Dave ! I loved the darling so, as I might a grandchild of my own, if I’d a had one. What shall I do? My heart’ll break ! Only to think on it lying in its little grave, without a flower or a stone ! ” and she began to weep.

Don’t do it, Hepsibah; don’t do it,” said the watchman. ‘‘Come, there’s time yet; and no one will think that you’d do harm to the babby o’ purpose. Come, Hepsibah, now ; you’ll be a happier woman for it.”

But there was no command in his voice, only persuasion, and Hepsibah rallied at his words.

“ No,” she said, wiping her eyes with her apron. “I’ll not live to be hooted through the streets, or to be shut up in prison, or mayhap hung ! "No, no. God knows it’s not my fault. I’d lie dead this minute rather than have that dear creature a corpse, a thing I’ve been more a mother to than its own. And at the judgment-day He will not write me down a murderess ; but people would, wicked sinners like myself. Dave, take the little love away, and God bless you for lifting part of my burden on your shoulders. I’ll pray for you when I’m past words, for that act. Good-by, Dave ; good-by, good-by ! ”

She opened the door, and half led, half pushed the watchman into the entry.

“ I’ll light you down,” she said. “ Come, now, don’t linger ; any minute master may come up the stairs. It’s done, now, you know. Good-by. Go softly. Dave you’re a good brother to me in my trouble.”

And the bewildered watchman found himself upon the road, without the great mansion, with the dead child a cold burden in his arms, before he could collect his senses sufficiently to make any remonstrance.

“There is a fate in it,” he muttered. “I said as how the devil was abroad to catch the women folks ; but I reckon he has eye to the men folks, too. Who’d ever have thought o’ me. — Honest Dave the watchman, as some calls me — turning knave at my time o’ life ! The Lord bless us. He knows ’twill be a weight on my soul as long as I live; and only for Hepsibah I’d never have done it. But the gal

THE CUBAN HE /BESS, was left to my care when mammy died, and was a pretty young critter, then ; and even now we are both old, it seems as if she ought to look to me for protection like. Lord bless us ! I wish she’d asked me to chop off my right hand, or put out my right eye, and I’d a done it willingly compared to this. Well, I must go to the poor-house with it, I reckon. As well first as last. She don’t repent, I s’ pose ; she’d have had time to call me back. I’ve done it, and I must abide by it.” So saying, the watchman trotted away, folding his coat about the form of the dead infant, as though it could feel the piercing blasts or the cold drenching of the rain, and made his way toward the long gray building devoted to charitable purposes, which was the pride of Carltonville.

It was a night to make the pleasantest road wretched, and the most cheerful dwelling gloomy in its outward aspect. As the road which led to Carltonville poor-house was at any time desolate and lonely, an irregular, badly cut affair, full of miniature mountains and valleys, broken stones, and traps of all kinds for the feet of unwary travelers; so hedged in, moreover, by banks of rocks and tangled trees and bushes that even summer moonlight could not light it up ; and upon such a night as this the watchman’s lantern alone prevented him from being lost, or stumbling into some deep hole or mud pond.

As for the poor-house itself, it was a low gray prison-like affair, with barred windows, and no vestige of verdure about its little yards covered with hard gravel, rolled smooth by aged paupers at regular intervals. Perhaps it was to show how cold charity could be, that it had been built upon the very spot where the keenest winds swept in upon the town at winter time. There were public lands in sheltered dells, farther from the wild seaside, amid woods, or where bright gardens might have cheered the scene ; but this spot had seemed to the wise authorities a very God-send for the site of an alms-house, and there it was erected. Not even a pine-tree flung its shadow over it.

As the watchman approached the building, his heart sank within him, and vague apprehensions wrought upon his mind. For the first time in his life he was called upon to utter and act a falsehood. That in itself was sufficient to 2 i8

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make him wretched to the last degree. Then, he had a reverence for death, which made him feel a sort of horror in being the instrument by which the little corpse in his arms was deprived of burial in the great family vault in which the Shelbournes had lain for three generations. And, in his simple mind, thoughts of dread stories told of evil spirits which hovered on men's footsteps, and stood before them at last, white and horrible, to drive them mad, were faintly combatted by the religious feelings he had cherished in his humble heart for many years.

Over the grim, black door of the poor-house an oil lamp swung, just showing the iron knocker with a lion’s head pendant from the panels. Far up in one of the long and narrow windows, a gleam fell upon the uncurtained windowpane, to tell that some one was watching, perhaps beside a sick bed. All else was dark and quiet as the grave.

The watchman stood gazing upward, seemingly unable to move either backward or forward. A damp moisture bathed his brow, and his limbs trembled under him. For one moment he gazed sea-ward — with the temptation strong upon him to cast the little body thither, and escape the ordeal of question and answer which awaited him, but the next he asked God to forgive him for the wicked thought.

I should be worse than I am,” he said. No, I’ll not do it ! And I’ll try to keep from lying, if I can, right out and out in words; ” and thus speaking, he stepped forward, and gave the iron knocker two such raps upon the door as brought an answer in the shortest possible space of time.

Old David blessed his stars that the man with whom he had to deal was only an old pauper, trembling with age, and half blind to boot, and who was also too much aggrieved by being called from his bed at such an hour to pay much heed to the manner of his disturber.

It’s you, is it?” he muttered. ‘‘I thought as I was gettin’ out o’ my warm bed ’twere either a watchman, or a doctor from the hangin’ ! As if a body was ready to hop out o’ their warm bed like a flea, at a minute’s warning ! What’s wantin’ ?”

‘‘I’ve a babby here,” said the watchman. “ Tell ’em that as Davy Drew was walking his beat to-night, he spied a woman with a babby, and followed her to the wharf.

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There she tried to jump in, and he stopped her and coaxed her away ; but soon she got him to take the babby, and then cut and run/'

‘‘ Got who? " asked the pauper.

Me — Davy Drew, the watchman."

Lor', I know who you be well enough," said the pauper. ‘‘ So this is the babby ? "

‘^You don’t think it’s another un, do you?" asked Davy.

Lor', no, to be sure," said the pauper, with a giggle, which instantly subsided as he muttered, Couldn’t you ha' kep’ it somewheres, and not took people out of their v;arm beds afore morning? "

‘‘ You see, I’m a bachelor," said David. If I'd had a woman, I might. Good-bye. Shall I be wanted again? ’'

^‘They’ll send for you if they do," said the pauper.

But I hope they’ll be reasonable enough not to do it in the middle of the night, takin’ you out o' your warm bed ; as you don't mind doin to other folks, I do ! "

And with these words the door was banged to again in the watchman's face.

With that cold burden lifted from his arms, part of the weight was taken from old Davy’s heart. Yet it was heavy still, and those who met him in the dawn, going homeward, shook their heads, and said that such nights as those were too much for an old man, and that Davy was breaking down fast.

Chapter III. Alone With The Secret

After her brother’s departure, Hepsibah sat beside the fire, with the babe upon her knee, staring at the glowing coals with all her might, and feeling that she had passed safely through a terrible ordeal.

I shall have a weight upon my mind all my life long," she said; and it will be hard to bear, I know. But I shan’t be hung, or I shan’t be hooted through the town for

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a woman that has been to court for murdering a child, which would be worse ; and missus will be happy, and master and this poor creature, bless it ! — ah ! what’s that ? what’s that? Mercy upon us, what’s that?

She might well ask. Through the house swept a terrible sound, that curdled the blood of the listener. Was it that of a human voice ? — could it be ? Then a heavy fall shook the house, and set the glasses jingling upon a little table in the corner ; then feet came flying down the stairs, and the nursery door was shaken from without.

“ Hepsy, Hepsy ! for de love of Heaven open dis door ! Oh, Lord ! dis awful night ! Oh, Hepsy !

The old woman covered the baby hastily with a quilt as she laid it down upon the bed and opened the door. Black Deborah, the cook, stood there, her eyes rolling from side to side in terror.

‘‘Oh, Hepsy,” she moaned, “poor young missus stone dead, and massa has fell down in a fit alongside of her bed ! ”

“Dead?” said Hepsy. “Oh, no, she^s only fainted ! Nobody talked of her being in any danger ! ”

“ Hepsy, she’s clean dead ; dere ain’t no more life in her nor in a stone. Oh, dat lubly, dear pretty lady. Dey killed her wid sleepin’ stuff, Hepsy.”

“ Laudanum? ” gasped Hepsibah.

“ No, chloroform, dat’s it, Hepsy. Dey had to cut her lily-white bosom wid cruel knives, and dey gabe her dat stuff so she shouldn’t feel no pain ; an’ she didn’t — she won’t never feel no more, Hepsy. When dere butcherin’ was ober dey tried to wake her up ; but she neber stirred, do all dey could An’ de doctors, dey looked pale an’ ’changed looks wid each other. Says massa, says he, ‘ Is anything the matter?’ Says dey, ‘ We hopes not.’ But, Hepsy, I seen den jess what dey was afeard on. I know’d my missus ’ud neber wake agin. Den dey was all standin’ dere with dere eyes on her, and massa says, ‘ Dis unconscious lasts too long. Do something,’ says he. An’ says dey, ‘Speak to her, sah.’ An’ says he, ‘Oh, mydarlin’, look up! — one word — one look — only one!’ an’ oh! Hepsy, she what lubs de berry ground he walks on neber stirred. Den says he, ‘ My dear, ’member your baby; lib

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for our boy’s sake ! ’ an’ she laid just as still as eber. Oh,

I dunno what come after dat, Hepsy. I just went onto my knees, prayin’ Lord Jesus, what hears eben ole niggers’ prayers, to take dat white soul up to Heaben. An’ den I heard a scream, and massa he fell down on the floor in a swoond. Dat chloroform stuff has killed my pretty lady ! Dat baby has got no mother now, Hepsy,” and the faithful negress bent her head upon her knees and wept aloud in the passionate and child-like fashion of her race.

Hepsibah wept also.

“ Is the squire in any danger, Deborah ? ” she asked.

“ Itink not,” said Deb. “ Dedoctor genplenien isdom’ eberyting for him. Better he die, dough, an’ go to Heaben.

I knows what he’s got to bear. When I ’longed to Massa Peyton down in Georgy, an’ was a young, good -lookin’ gal, dey sold my man an’ my chile from me ; ’peared like ’twas parting soul and body._ Only for dat baby I d say better

let him die.” , , u j

Hepsibah shook her head and glanced toward the bed, where a little hand was tossing restlessly. She had not dressed the babe yet, and there were splashes of mud upon its garments, despite the thick shawl which had enveloped it while out of doors The garments must be changed, if she would avoid detection, though with the emotion consequent on the events of that awful night. Hepsibah’s hands trembled so as to render her almost incapable of accomplishing the task. Yet time was passing, and detection yet possible. She longed to be rid of the poor negress.

At last she thought of an expedient.

“ Deborah,” she said, “it’s most broad day. They’ll be wanting breakfast, those doctors, and the servants, too, who have been up all of this long night.”

“Yes, I s’ pose dey will,” said Deb, rising. “ But I can’t help feelin’ as if dey had murdered missus, and sort o’ hate ’em. No matter what ole Deb tink, dough. I’ll go make breaktwist. Oh, Hepsy, we won’t neber hear her cornin’ down to sit at de long table any more ! Dat poor, pretty lady.”

Away she went into the dark hall, huddling her shoulders in a shawl she wore, and sobbing as she hurried on, half frightened by the shadows.

Hepsy locked the door behind her, with a feeling of relief, and .proceeded at once to execute the task of changing the babe’s garments.

Opening a bureau drawer, she drew forth dainty cambric and soft, fleecy flannel, tiny golden chains to loop back the little sleeves from the dimpled arms, soft scarlet socks for the plump feet, and so carefully laid aside by the young mother, now lying shrouded in the room above.

Hepsibah Drew remembered her very wojrds, as she sat before the fire with the last-finished garment on her knee, seeming to look into the future with her great blue eyes, and with a happy blush upon her soft, round cheek.

‘ ‘ And that I should deceive her ; that I should do what I have done ! I’d never have believed it if an angel had told me ! ” said Hepsibah. I wonder whether she watches me from Heaven, and forgives me ! ”

The old woman’s tears fell fast, yet she bustled about, continuing her preparations steadily.

^‘No use o’ stoppin’ now,” she said; ^H’ve gone too far ; it ’ud only do harm, nothin’ else, to me or anybody.”

There was a bright little nursery kettle, of burnished copper, on the grate, steaming and puffing merrily. From this Hepsibah half filled the porcelain bath, tempering it with cold water from the ewer ; then she brought one by one all the dainty accessories of a child’s toilette — powderbox and puff ; soap, like a ball of compressed snow ; cologne water, and towels of the finest fabric. Next she drew a low chair to the spot, and brought the babe thither from the bed.