The Crossing [22]
and we did the very worst thing we could possibly have done,--we took the ladder away.
There was little sleep for me that night. I had first of all besought Nick to go up into the drawing-room and give the money back. But some strange obstinacy in him resisted.
`` 'Twill serve Harry well for what he did to-day,'' said he.
My next thought was to find Mr. Mason, but he was gone up the river to visit a sick parishioner. I had seen enough of the world to know that gentlemen fought for less than what had occurred in the drawing-room that evening. And though I had neither love nor admiration for Mr. Riddle, and though the stout gentleman was no friend of mine, I cared not to see either of them killed for a prank. But Nick would not listen to me, and went to sleep in the midst of my urgings.
``Davy,'' said he, pinching me, ``do you know what you are?''
``No,'' said I.
``You're a granny,'' he said. And that was the last word I could get out of him. But I lay awake a long time, thinking. Breed had whiled away for me one hot morning in Charlestown with an account of the gentry and their doings, many of which he related in an awed whisper that I could not understand. They were wild doings indeed to me. But strangest of all seemed the duels, conducted with a decorum and ceremony as rigorous as the law.
``Did you ever see a duel, Breed?'' I had asked.
``Yessah,'' said Breed, dramatically, rolling the whites of his eyes.
``Where?''
``Whah? Down on de riveh bank at Temple Bow in de ea'ly mo'nin'! Dey mos' commonly fights at de dawn.
Breed had also told me where he was in hiding at the time, and that was what troubled me. Try as I would, I could not remember. It had sounded like Clam Shell. That I recalled, and how Breed had looked out at the sword-play through the cracks of the closed shutters, agonized between fear of ghosts within and the drama without. At the first faint light that came into our window I awakened Nick.
``Listen,'' I said; ``do you know a place called Clam Shell?''
He turned over, but I punched him persistently until he sat up.
``What the deuce ails you, Davy?'' he asked, rubbing his eyes. ``Have you nightmare?''
``Do you know a place called Clam Shell, down on the river bank, Nick?''
``Why,'' he replied, ``you must be thinking of Cram's Hell.''
``What's that?'' I asked.
``It's a house that used to belong to Cram, who was an overseer. The niggers hated him, and he was killed in bed by a big black nigger chief from Africa. The niggers won't go near the place. They say it's haunted.''
``Get up,'' said I; ``we're going there now.''
Nick sprang out of bed and began to get into his clothes.
``Is it a game?'' he asked.
``Yes.'' He was always ready for a game.
We climbed out of the window, and made our way in the mist through the long, wet grass, Nick leading. He took a path through a dark forest swamp, over logs that spanned the stagnant waters, and at length, just as the mist was growing pearly in the light, we came out at a tumble-down house that stood in an open glade by the river's bank.
``What's to do now?'' said Nick.
``We must get into the house,'' I answered. But I confess I didn't care for the looks of it.
Nick stared at me.
``Very good, Davy,'' he said; ``I'll follow where you go.''
It was a Saturday morning. Why I recall this I do not know. It has no special significance.
I tried the door. With a groan and a shriek it gave way, disclosing the blackness inside. We started back involuntarily. I looked at Nick, and Nick at me. He was very pale, and so must I have been. But such was the respect we each held for the other's courage that neither dared flinch. And so I walked in, although it seemed as if my shirt was made of needle points and my hair stood on end. The crackings of the old floor were to me like the shots in Charlestown Bay. Our hearts beating wildly, we made our way into a farther room. It was like walking into the beyond.
``Is there a window here?'' I asked Nick, my voice sounding
There was little sleep for me that night. I had first of all besought Nick to go up into the drawing-room and give the money back. But some strange obstinacy in him resisted.
`` 'Twill serve Harry well for what he did to-day,'' said he.
My next thought was to find Mr. Mason, but he was gone up the river to visit a sick parishioner. I had seen enough of the world to know that gentlemen fought for less than what had occurred in the drawing-room that evening. And though I had neither love nor admiration for Mr. Riddle, and though the stout gentleman was no friend of mine, I cared not to see either of them killed for a prank. But Nick would not listen to me, and went to sleep in the midst of my urgings.
``Davy,'' said he, pinching me, ``do you know what you are?''
``No,'' said I.
``You're a granny,'' he said. And that was the last word I could get out of him. But I lay awake a long time, thinking. Breed had whiled away for me one hot morning in Charlestown with an account of the gentry and their doings, many of which he related in an awed whisper that I could not understand. They were wild doings indeed to me. But strangest of all seemed the duels, conducted with a decorum and ceremony as rigorous as the law.
``Did you ever see a duel, Breed?'' I had asked.
``Yessah,'' said Breed, dramatically, rolling the whites of his eyes.
``Where?''
``Whah? Down on de riveh bank at Temple Bow in de ea'ly mo'nin'! Dey mos' commonly fights at de dawn.
Breed had also told me where he was in hiding at the time, and that was what troubled me. Try as I would, I could not remember. It had sounded like Clam Shell. That I recalled, and how Breed had looked out at the sword-play through the cracks of the closed shutters, agonized between fear of ghosts within and the drama without. At the first faint light that came into our window I awakened Nick.
``Listen,'' I said; ``do you know a place called Clam Shell?''
He turned over, but I punched him persistently until he sat up.
``What the deuce ails you, Davy?'' he asked, rubbing his eyes. ``Have you nightmare?''
``Do you know a place called Clam Shell, down on the river bank, Nick?''
``Why,'' he replied, ``you must be thinking of Cram's Hell.''
``What's that?'' I asked.
``It's a house that used to belong to Cram, who was an overseer. The niggers hated him, and he was killed in bed by a big black nigger chief from Africa. The niggers won't go near the place. They say it's haunted.''
``Get up,'' said I; ``we're going there now.''
Nick sprang out of bed and began to get into his clothes.
``Is it a game?'' he asked.
``Yes.'' He was always ready for a game.
We climbed out of the window, and made our way in the mist through the long, wet grass, Nick leading. He took a path through a dark forest swamp, over logs that spanned the stagnant waters, and at length, just as the mist was growing pearly in the light, we came out at a tumble-down house that stood in an open glade by the river's bank.
``What's to do now?'' said Nick.
``We must get into the house,'' I answered. But I confess I didn't care for the looks of it.
Nick stared at me.
``Very good, Davy,'' he said; ``I'll follow where you go.''
It was a Saturday morning. Why I recall this I do not know. It has no special significance.
I tried the door. With a groan and a shriek it gave way, disclosing the blackness inside. We started back involuntarily. I looked at Nick, and Nick at me. He was very pale, and so must I have been. But such was the respect we each held for the other's courage that neither dared flinch. And so I walked in, although it seemed as if my shirt was made of needle points and my hair stood on end. The crackings of the old floor were to me like the shots in Charlestown Bay. Our hearts beating wildly, we made our way into a farther room. It was like walking into the beyond.
``Is there a window here?'' I asked Nick, my voice sounding