บทที่ บทที่ 26 · MIDNIGHT

It could not have been far from midnight when I came beneath

Hollingsworth's window, and, finding it open, flung in a tuft of grass

with earth at the roots, and heard it fall upon the floor. He was

either awake or sleeping very lightly; for scarcely a moment had gone

by before he looked out and discerned me standing in the moonlight.

"Is it you, Coverdale?" he asked. "What is the matter?"

"Come down to me, Hollingsworth!" I answered. "I am anxious to speak

with you."

The strange tone of my own voice startled me, and him, probably, no

less. He lost no time, and soon issued from the house-door, with his

dress half arranged.

"Again, what is the matter?" he asked impatiently.

"Have you seen Zenobia," said I, "since you parted from her at Eliot's

pulpit?"

"No," answered Hollingsworth; "nor did I expect it."

His voice was deep, but had a tremor in it,

Hardly had he spoken, when Silas Foster thrust his head, done up in a

cotton handkerchief, out of another window, and took what he called as

it literally was--a squint at us.

"Well, folks, what are ye about here?" he demanded. "Aha! are you

there, Miles Coverdale? You have been turning night into day since you

left us, I reckon; and so you find it quite natural to come prowling

about the house at this time o' night, frightening my old woman out of

her wits, and making her disturb a tired man out of his best nap. In

with you, you vagabond, and to bed!"

"Dress yourself quickly, Foster," said I. "We want your assistance."

I could not, for the life of me, keep that strange tone out of my

voice. Silas Foster, obtuse as were his sensibilities, seemed to feel

the ghastly earnestness that was conveyed in it as well as

Hollingsworth did. He immediately withdrew his head, and I heard him

yawning, muttering to his wife, and again yawning heavily, while he

hurried on his clothes. Meanwhile I showed Hollingsworth a delicate

handkerchief, marked with a well-known cipher, and told where I had

found it, and other circumstances, which had filled me with a suspicion

so terrible that I left him, if he dared, to shape it out for himself.

By the time my brief explanation was finished, we were joined by Silas

Foster in his blue woollen frock.

"Well, boys," cried he peevishly, "what is to pay now?"

"Tell him, Hollingsworth," said I.

Hollingsworth shivered perceptibly, and drew in a hard breath betwixt

his teeth. He steadied himself, however, and, looking the matter more

firmly in the face than I had done, explained to Foster my suspicions,

and the grounds of them, with a distinctness from which, in spite of my

utmost efforts, my words had swerved aside. The tough-nerved yeoman,

in his comment, put a finish on the business, and brought out the

hideous idea in its full terror, as if he were removing the napkin from

the face of a corpse.

"And so you think she's drowned herself?" he cried. I turned away my

face.

"What on earth should the young woman do that for?" exclaimed Silas,

his eyes half out of his head with mere surprise. "Why, she has more

means than she can use or waste, and lacks nothing to make her

comfortable, but a husband, and that's an article she could have, any

day. There's some mistake about this, I tell you!"

"Come," said I, shuddering; "let us go and ascertain the truth."

"Well, well," answered Silas Foster; "just as you say. We'll take the

long pole, with the hook at the end, that serves to get the bucket out

of the draw-well when the rope is broken. With that, and a couple of

long-handled hay-rakes, I'll answer for finding her, if she's anywhere

to be found. Strange enough! Zenobia drown herself! No, no; I don't

believe it. She had too much sense, and too much means, and enjoyed

life a great deal too well."

When our few preparations were completed, we hastened, by a shorter

than the customary route, through fields and pastures, and across a

portion of the meadow, to the particular spot on the river-bank which I

had paused to contemplate in the course of my afternoon's ramble. A

nameless presentiment had again drawn me thither, after leaving Eliot's

pulpit. I showed my companions where I had found the handkerchief, and

pointed to two or three footsteps, impressed into the clayey margin,

and tending towards the water. Beneath its shallow verge, among the

water-weeds, there were further traces, as yet unobliterated by the

sluggish current, which was there almost at a standstill. Silas Foster

thrust his face down close to these footsteps, and picked up a shoe

that had escaped my observation, being half imbedded in the mud.

"There's a kid shoe that never was made on a Yankee last," observed he.

"I know enough of shoemaker's craft to tell that. French manufacture;

and see what a high instep! and how evenly she trod in it! There never

was a woman that stept handsomer in her shoes than Zenobia did. Here,"

he added, addressing Hollingsworth, "would you like to keep the shoe?"

Hollingsworth started back.

"Give it to me, Foster," said I.

I dabbled it in the water, to rinse off the mud, and have kept it ever

since. Not far from this spot lay an old, leaky punt, drawn up on the

oozy river-side, and generally half full of water. It served the

angler to go in quest of pickerel, or the sportsman to pick up his wild

ducks. Setting this crazy bark afloat, I seated myself in the stern

with the paddle, while Hollingsworth sat in the bows with the hooked

pole, and Silas Foster amidships with a hay-rake.

"It puts me in mind of my young days," remarked Silas, "when I used to

steal out of bed to go bobbing for hornpouts and eels.

Heigh-ho!--well, life and death together make sad work for us all!

Then I was a boy, bobbing for fish; and now I am getting to be an old

fellow, and here I be, groping for a dead body! I tell you what, lads;

if I thought anything had really happened to Zenobia, I should feel

kind o' sorrowful."

"I wish, at least, you would hold your tongue," muttered I.

The moon, that night, though past the full, was still large and oval,

and having risen between eight and nine o'clock, now shone aslantwise

over the river, throwing the high, opposite bank, with its woods, into

deep shadow, but lighting up the hither shore pretty effectually. Not a

ray appeared to fall on the river itself. It lapsed imperceptibly

away, a broad, black, inscrutable depth, keeping its own secrets from

the eye of man, as impenetrably as mid-ocean could.

"Well, Miles Coverdale," said Foster, "you are the helmsman. How do

you mean to manage this business?"

"I shall let the boat drift, broadside foremost, past that stump," I

replied. "I know the bottom, having sounded it in fishing. The shore,

on this side, after the first step or two, goes off very abruptly; and

there is a pool, just by the stump, twelve or fifteen feet deep. The

current could not have force enough to sweep any sunken object, even if

partially buoyant, out of that hollow."

"Come, then," said Silas; "but I doubt whether I can touch bottom with

this hay-rake, if it's as deep as you say. Mr. Hollingsworth, I think

you'll be the lucky man to-night, such luck as it is."

We floated past the stump. Silas Foster plied his rake manfully,

poking it as far as he could into the water, and immersing the whole

length of his arm besides. Hollingsworth at first sat motionless, with

the hooked pole elevated in the air. But, by and by, with a nervous

and jerky movement, he began to plunge it into the blackness that

upbore us, setting his teeth, and making precisely such thrusts,

methought, as if he were stabbing at a deadly enemy. I bent over the

side of the boat. So obscure, however, so awfully mysterious, was that

dark stream, that--and the thought made me shiver like a leaf--I might

as well have tried to look into the enigma of the eternal world, to

discover what had become of Zenobia's soul, as into the river's depths,

to find her body. And there, perhaps, she lay, with her face upward,

while the shadow of the boat, and my own pale face peering downward,

passed slowly betwixt her and the sky!

Once, twice, thrice, I paddled the boat upstream, and again suffered it

to glide, with the river's slow, funereal motion, downward. Silas

Foster had raked up a large mass of stuff, which, as it came towards

the surface, looked somewhat like a flowing garment, but proved to be a

monstrous tuft of water-weeds. Hollingsworth, with a gigantic effort,

upheaved a sunken log. When once free of the bottom, it rose partly

out of water,--all weedy and slimy, a devilish-looking object, which

the moon had not shone upon for half a hundred years,--then plunged

again, and sullenly returned to its old resting-place, for the remnant

of the century.

"That looked ugly!" quoth Silas. "I half thought it was the Evil One,

on the same errand as ourselves,--searching for Zenobia."

"He shall never get her," said I, giving the boat a strong impulse.

"That's not for you to say, my boy," retorted the yeoman. "Pray God he

never has, and never may. Slow work this, however! I should really be

glad to find something! Pshaw! What a notion that is, when the only

good luck would be to paddle, and drift, and poke, and grope,

hereabouts, till morning, and have our labor for our pains! For my

part, I shouldn't wonder if the creature had only lost her shoe in the

mud, and saved her soul alive, after all. My stars! how she will laugh

at us, to-morrow morning!"

It is indescribable what an image of Zenobia--at the breakfast-table,

full of warm and mirthful life--this surmise of Silas Foster's brought

before my mind. The terrible phantasm of her death was thrown by it

into the remotest and dimmest background, where it seemed to grow as

improbable as a myth.

"Yes, Silas, it may be as you say," cried I. The drift of the stream

had again borne us a little below the stump, when I felt--yes, felt,

for it was as if the iron hook had smote my breast--felt

Hollingsworth's pole strike some object at the bottom of the river!

He started up, and almost overset the boat.

"Hold on!" cried Foster; "you have her!"

Putting a fury of strength into the effort, Hollingsworth heaved amain,

and up came a white swash to the surface of the river. It was the flow

of a woman's garments. A little higher, and we saw her dark hair

streaming down the current. Black River of Death, thou hadst yielded

up thy victim! Zenobia was found!

Silas Foster laid hold of the body; Hollingsworth likewise grappled

with it; and I steered towards the bank, gazing all the while at

Zenobia, whose limbs were swaying in the current close at the boat's

side. Arriving near the shore, we all three stept into the water, bore

her out, and laid her on the ground beneath a tree.

"Poor child!" said Foster,--and his dry old heart, I verily believe,

vouchsafed a tear, "I'm sorry for her!"

Were I to describe the perfect horror of the spectacle, the reader

might justly reckon it to me for a sin and shame. For more than twelve

long years I have borne it in my memory, and could now reproduce it as

freshly as if it were still before my eyes. Of all modes of death,

methinks it is the ugliest. Her wet garments swathed limbs of terrible

inflexibility. She was the marble image of a death-agony. Her arms

had grown rigid in the act of struggling, and were bent before her with

clenched hands; her knees, too, were bent, and--thank God for it!--in

the attitude of prayer. Ah, that rigidity! It is impossible to bear

the terror of it. It seemed,--I must needs impart so much of my own

miserable idea,--it seemed as if her body must keep the same position

in the coffin, and that her skeleton would keep it in the grave; and

that when Zenobia rose at the day of judgment, it would be in just the

same attitude as now!

One hope I had, and that too was mingled half with fear. She knelt as

if in prayer. With the last, choking consciousness, her soul, bubbling

out through her lips, it may be, had given itself up to the Father,

reconciled and penitent. But her arms! They were bent before her, as

if she struggled against Providence in never-ending hostility. Her

hands! They were clenched in immitigable defiance. Away with the

hideous thought. The flitting moment after Zenobia sank into the dark

pool--when her breath was gone, and her soul at her lips was as long,

in its capacity of God's infinite forgiveness, as the lifetime of the

world!

Foster bent over the body, and carefully examined it.

"You have wounded the poor thing's breast," said he to Hollingsworth,

"close by her heart, too!"

"Ha!" cried Hollingsworth with a start.

And so he had, indeed, both before and after death!

"See!" said Foster. "That's the place where the iron struck her. It

looks cruelly, but she never felt it!"

He endeavored to arrange the arms of the corpse decently by its side.

His utmost strength, however, scarcely sufficed to bring them down; and

rising again, the next instant, they bade him defiance, exactly as

before. He made another effort, with the same result.

"In God's name, Silas Foster," cried I with bitter indignation, "let

that dead woman alone!"

"Why, man, it's not decent!" answered he, staring at me in amazement.

"I can't bear to see her looking so! Well, well," added he, after a

third effort, "'tis of no use, sure enough; and we must leave the women

to do their best with her, after we get to the house. The sooner

that's done, the better."

We took two rails from a neighboring fence, and formed a bier by laying

across some boards from the bottom of the boat. And thus we bore

Zenobia homeward. Six hours before, how beautiful! At midnight, what

a horror! A reflection occurs to me that will show ludicrously, I

doubt not, on my page, but must come in for its sterling truth. Being

the woman that she was, could Zenobia have foreseen all these ugly

circumstances of death,--how ill it would become her, the altogether

unseemly aspect which she must put on, and especially old Silas

Foster's efforts to improve the matter,--she would no more have

committed the dreadful act than have exhibited herself to a public

assembly in a badly fitting garment! Zenobia, I have often thought,

was not quite simple in her death. She had seen pictures, I suppose,

of drowned persons in lithe and graceful attitudes. And she deemed it

well and decorous to die as so many village maidens have, wronged in

their first love, and seeking peace in the bosom of the old familiar

stream,--so familiar that they could not dread it,--where, in

childhood, they used to bathe their little feet, wading mid-leg deep,

unmindful of wet skirts. But in Zenobia's case there was some tint of

the Arcadian affectation that had been visible enough in all our lives

for a few months past.

This, however, to my conception, takes nothing from the tragedy. For,

has not the world come to an awfully sophisticated pass, when, after a

certain degree of acquaintance with it, we cannot even put ourselves to

death in whole-hearted simplicity? Slowly, slowly, with many a dreary

pause,--resting the bier often on some rock or balancing it across a

mossy log, to take fresh hold,--we bore our burden onward through the

moonlight, and at last laid Zenobia on the floor of the old farmhouse.

By and by came three or four withered women and stood whispering around

the corpse, peering at it through their spectacles, holding up their

skinny hands, shaking their night-capped heads, and taking counsel of

one another's experience what was to be done.

With those tire-women we left Zenobia.

XXVIII.