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_ 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. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXVIII - BLITHEDALE PASTURE
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