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Mystery of the Locks

<h2>CHAPTER XX.</h2> <h3>THE SEARCH IN THE WOODS.</h3> From noon until twilight Annie Dorris watched the point on the other shore of the river, where her husband had promised to wave the signal of his return long before nightfall, but nothing did she see save the floating debris of the flood, which looked like tired travellers hurrying forward to find a night's shelter. Great trees came floating down, with their arms outstretched as if for help, and occasionally these disappeared in the angry water, as human floaters might disappear after giving up in despair, believing it to be impossible to reach the shore. Boats carrying parties of men came back, one by one, to the town, as the afternoon wore away, and the ferry came in later in the evening, panting like a thing of life after its hard day's work; but no boat with a single, strong rower appeared to cheer the gaze of the faithful watcher. Everything seemed to be hurrying away from her, and from Davy's Bend, and from the gathering darkness under the trees, save the returning boats, and she thought their occupants appeared to be anxious to reach their own homes, and tell of some horror in the woods. Perhaps some of the rowers had a message to be delivered at The Locks; and when they did not come, the fear found its way to her throbbing heart that the news was dreadful, and that they delayed until they could muster up more courage. While it was yet light on the water, an ugly night-shade collected under the trees where her husband's boat had disappeared, reaching out with long arms to capture those in the boats, who were hurrying away from it,—a black monster it seemed, fat with prey, watching the town with stealthy care until its people were sleeping after the day's work, and unsuspicious of attack. As Annie Dorris watched this black shadow grow larger and larger, and become so bold as to approach still nearer to the town, it seemed to her that no one within it could ever escape; and though an occasional boat did come out, it hurried toward the town rapidly, as if in fright, and this encouraged her to hope that her husband had been delayed in some way, and would safely return with wonderful adventures to relate. So she kept up the vigil, and saw the shadow grow blacker as the afternoon became night. When it was too dark to see even the river, Annie Dorris stood looking out into the night, hoping that her husband had returned another way, and that his footstep would soon be heard on the stair; for she could think of no danger that could befall him, since rowing in the flood was safe, in spite of the strong current. Once she heard a light step on the stair, and she was sure that it was her husband coming up to surprise her, and there was a pause of long duration on the landing; but when she threw open the door in joyful expectation, the quiet darkness looked at her in pity. More than once the footstep on the stair was heard by the anxious and terrified wife, and more than once she hurried to the door to look into the hall; but hope seemed to be leaving the house, and she imagined she heard it in the lower hall, hurrying away. Returning to the window, she saw such fearful phantoms in the darkness that she ran, bareheaded, into the street, and up the hill to her father's house. "Annie!" Thompson Benton said, as she ran into his room with starting eyes and dishevelled hair. "Annie, what has happened?" "Oh, father," she replied, bursting into tears, "my husband has not returned from the bottoms!" Thompson Benton had been expecting a calamity to befall Allan Dorris; for, while he had grown to honestly admire him, there was always something in his manner which indicated that he was in danger. Perhaps this suspicious dread grew out of the keen relish with which Allan Dorris enjoyed his home; as if every day were to be his last. It may have been the result of the general belief that he remained in the town to hide away from malicious enemies, or knowledge of the pathetic sadness which always distinguished his manner; but, whatever it was, Thompson Benton put on his coat and boots, which he had just taken off, precisely as a man might do who had been summoned on a long-expected errand. He had no explanations of the absence to offer to the weeping wife, but became grave at once, and made his preparations to go out in nervous haste. So, without speaking an encouraging word to his daughter, who had sunk down on her knees beside her father's chair, he left the house and hurried down to the town. With long strides he reached the river's brink, where a number of boats were tied, and spoke to a few trusty men who were there, some of whom at once put oars into two of the boats, while others hurried back into the town after lanterns and torches. While they were gone Thompson Benton walked up and down the bank, pausing frequently to look toward the woods, but he said nothing, and paid no attention to those who looked at him curiously for an explanation; for the absence of this grim old man from his home at night was important; it was particularly important now, since it was known that he was only waiting for the return of the men with the torches, to go over into the bottoms. The news spread rapidly that something unusual was in the air, and when the two boats, rowed by four men each, pushed out into the stream, half of the town was left on the bank to talk of their mission in low whispers, and hope that Allan Dorris would be found safe and well. Among those who watched the lights in the boats as they were rowed away and finally disappeared under the trees, was Silas Davy, who felt that his neglect to warn Allan Dorris of the shadow which followed him so persistently had resulted in a tragedy at last. The departure of the men at that hour to look for him, and the preparations they had made for the search, were dreadfully significant,—there could be no mistake of that; and Silas wandered along the shore for an hour, hoping to see the boats return, and hear the men talking cheerfully on the water, indicating that his friend had been found. But the longer he watched the woods, the darker they became, and the less prospect there seemed to be that the lights the men had carried would ever reappear, so he resolved to walk up to The Locks, hoping to find Dorris there, and be the first to give the news to the town. But at the gate he met Mrs. Wedge, who anxiously asked him for information of the missing man; there was nothing cheerful in her pale, anxious face, nor in the stillness which hung about the place like a pall. Silas was compelled to acknowledge that there was so little hope in the town that he had come there for encouragement. He then told her in a whisper of the departure of the men in the boats, and of their carrying lanterns and torches, but Mrs. Wedge did not give him the encouragement he expected, for she put her hands to her face, and Silas was certain that she was crying. When she had recovered her composure, she motioned the little man to follow her, and they walked together up the broad walk, and up the stone steps until they entered the door. There were no lights in the house, and the great mass of stone seemed to be a part of the darkness from the woods. When they were on the inside, Mrs. Wedge carefully closed the door, and said to him softly,— "Listen!" A timid step on the stair, going up and coming down in unceasing monotony. Occasionally it stopped on going up, as if it were of no use to look again; on coming down, as if fearing some corner had been overlooked in the search, but it soon went on again, up and down the stair, into the room which was sacred to the empty cradle, and out of it again,—the step on the stair which always gave warning of trouble. Once it came so near them that Silas half expected, as he stood trembling in the darkness, that the ghost of poor Helen would lay hands on him, and inquire in pitiful tones for the little girl who seemed to be lost in the house. But it passed by, and wearily ascended the stairs, only to come wearily down again after a short absence in the room where the light and the life had gone out. Mrs. Wedge led Silas back to the gate, and, after crying softly to herself awhile, said to him in a voice so agitated that he could scarcely understand her,— "It has not been heard before since they were married. I had hoped that poor Helen had found rest at last, but her footstep on the stair this night means—I won't say the word! It might be carried by some evil spirit to his wife. The poor girl is at her father's, and I am afraid to look at her. O Annie, Annie!" <hr style="width: 45%;" /> Meanwhile the boats pursued their journey into the woods; a man in the bow of each with a torch to direct the rowers. The underbrush was submerged, and they made fair progress toward the line of hills opposite the town, though they drifted about a good deal, for sometimes they were in doubt as to their bearings, as there was nothing to guide them. Occasionally they stopped to listen, hoping that Dorris had disabled his boat, and was safe in some of the trees, but, hearing nothing, they hallooed themselves, each one taking his turn until they were all hoarse. But the rippling water laughed with joy because their voices sounded dead in the forest lake, and seemed afraid to venture out into the damp, noisome darkness. Finding a place where the current was not so strong, they pulled to a point which they believed to be above the town, calling "Halloo! Halloo!" at every boat's length; but the devilish gurgle in the water continued, and their voices came back to them, like hounds ordered to enter a dangerous lair. Occasionally a waterfowl resting for the night was disturbed, and went crashing through the branches of the trees, but no other sound came to them, and as the hours wore away they looked at each other in grave apprehension. A few times, in the middle of clearings, they came upon deserted houses, with vagrant water pouring in at the windows, only to creep out at other windows after making a search in the rooms for lives to destroy. But most of the people had escaped to the hills with their farm animals, leaving their household effects to be covered with the reptiles which had been frightened out of the thickets and tall grass, and which clung to whatever offered them safety. Under the trees they frequently found drifts composed of household furniture, bridges, fences, out-houses, logs, stumps, and what not, and the desolation which reigned supreme in that dark, damp place was relieved but little by the glare of the torches, which made the men look like pale-faced spirits rowing about in an eternal effort to escape. If the men wearied in the search, a look at the earnest, gray-haired old man in the largest boat, who was always straining his eyes in attempting to penetrate the darkness, revived them, and they floated on, pulling to the right or to the left, as Thompson Benton directed, and crying, "Halloo! Halloo!" in tones which sounded plaintive, and sad, and hopeless. Always an earnest man, Thompson Benton had never before been as earnest as he was this night, and he had called "Halloo! Halloo!" so frequently that when he spoke it was either in a hoarse voice, or in a soft whisper. At the lower point of the bend in the hills which gave the town its name, a sluggish lake was found, the main current striking diagonally across the river to shorten the distance in its hurry to do mischief below, and the boats found their way into this. While floating around not far from the base of the hills, those who were in the smaller boat suddenly came upon a gravestone, the top of which was only a foot out of water. "We are floating over Hedgepath graveyard," the man who was in front carrying the torch said to the others. The stone which had attracted his attention seemed to be taller than the others, for it was the only one appearing above the surface; the water covered everything except this rounded piece of stone, which alone remained to mark the resting-place of the dead, providing the dead had not been seized with the universal desire for floating off, and gone away to visit graveyards in the lower country. He caught hold of the stone to steady the boat, and, throwing his light upon the other side of it, read:— "Sacred to the memory of—" The name in whose honor the slab had been raised was below the water, and the man put his hand down into it to read, as a blind man reads raised letters. "The first letter is A," he said, rubbing the face of the stone with his fingers, "like the alphabet; and the next is L." The fellow continued rubbing the face of the stone with the tips of his fingers, while his lips moved as he tried letter after letter, and gave them up. "Hello! Another L!" he said in surprise, at last, drawing up his hand hurriedly on making the discovery, and shaking it violently to throw off the water, but there remained on his wrist a sickening scum, which he hurriedly transferred to the side of the boat. "I'll read no further," he said, with a frightened look. "I'm afraid it will turn out to be Allan, with a space and a big 'D' following it." The torch-bearer still held on to the stone while the rowers rested, but the other boat, in which Thompson Benton sat, was busy a short distance beyond them; from one clump of debris to another, as if he only hoped now to find the lifeless body of the one he sought. "Strange people are buried here," the torch-bearer said, speaking softly to his panting companions, while they rested from their hard work. "Suicides, and those who have died violent deaths; Hedgepath is devoted to them. I've heard it said that this is a rough neighborhood, but the best of their dead are put away further up the hill. If the flood has not drowned out the ghosts, we will see one to-night." The suggestion of ghosts was not a pleasant one to the rowers, particularly to those who were farthest from the torch, for they looked timidly about as though they were likely to be approached from behind by spirits riding on headstones. "There is a road running along the edge of Hedgepath, leading from the ferry into the hills," the torch-bearer said, who was the bravest of the lot, because he was directly under the light, "and those who have travelled it at night say that the inhabitants of this place sit on stumps beside the road and want to argue with the passers-by. One fellow who was hanged,—he has a great deal to say about the perjured witnesses; and another who was accused of poisoning himself,—he says he found it in his coffee, though he does not tell who put it there; and so many others have horrible stories to tell that travellers usually hurry by this place as fast as they can." It was not a cheerful subject, but his companions listened with close attention, occasionally casting glances behind them. "The unknown people who are found floating in the river; they are buried here, and those who travel the Hedgepath road at night say these offer them letters, and ask that they be posted. I have forgotten who it was, but somebody told me that he received one of these letters in his own hand, and mailed it, and that soon after one of the bodies was taken up by friends from a distance, and carried away." The grim joker was interrupted by a hail from the other boat, and the men dipped their oars into the water, and pulled toward it. Thompson Benton and those who were with him were looking with eager eyes at a boat which was floating a short distance beyond them, within the rays of their torch, and which was rising and falling with the ripples, with both oars hanging helplessly out in the water. The men were waiting in fear for their companions to come up to keep them company before approaching it, and when the two boats were side by side, they were held together, and the outside oars of each were used to row toward the deserted craft, as a party of men who discover a suspicious object in a strange locality might move toward it together. As they drew nearer, the form of a prostrate man was seen seen— Dismiss thy husband into the shadows from whence he came, O pretty wife, for he is murdered. In the bottom of the boat, lying easily on his back, the rowers found Allan Dorris, dead; his eyes closed as if in disturbed sleep, and his face upturned to the heavens. His right hand was gripped on the side of the boat, as if his last wish had been to pull himself into a sitting posture, and look toward the town where his faithful wife was watching for his return. The flash of the torches made the face look ghastly and white, and there was a stain of blood on his lips. Those who looked upon the face saw in it an expression of regret to die, which remained with them as long as they lived; they spoke of it tenderly to their children, who grew up and gave their own children descriptions of Allan Dorris's pitiful face as he lay dead in his boat on the night when the waters of the great flood began to recede. It is said that the face of a sorrowing man looks peaceful in death; it may be equally true that death stamps unmistakable regret on the face of its victim who is not ready. O, pitiless Death, you might have spared this man, who was just beginning, and taken one of the mourning thousands who watch for you through the night, and are sad because of your long delay. This man desired so much to live that his white face seems to say now: "I cannot die; I dread it—Oh, how terrible it would be to die now!" And his eyes are wet with tears; a touching monument of his dread of thee! The rough men reverently uncovered their heads as Thompson Benton looked at the dead man in stupefaction, but when he had recovered, he lifted the body gently up, and made a hasty examination. Laying it down again, he looked at the men, and said in a tone which indicated that he had long expected it,— "Shot in the back." Lashing their boats together, the rowers gulled back to town without speaking a word; that containing the body of Allan Dorris towing behind, the pathetic face looking up to heaven, as if asking forgiveness. The stars came out as the rowers pursued their journey back to the town, and the storm was over. Peace to the pathetic dust! In the town on the hill, where the twinkling lights mingle with the stars, waits a weeping woman who knew Allan Dorris well; let her opinion of the dead prevail, and not that of the gossiping winds which have been whispering into the ears of the people. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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