The man paused, drew his sleeve across his eyes, and then timidly looked at me. Seeing nothing in my face, doubtless, but an expression of the profoundest commiseration, he remarked, with a more assured voice, as if in self-justification:
“It was a pretty hard thing for a man to go through with, now, wasn’t it?”
“You may well say that,” said I. “Your story is not yet finished, however. This Rachel Emmons you say she is still living. In what way does she cause the disturbances?”
“I’ll tell you all I know about it,” said he “an’ if you understand it then, you’re wiser ’n I am. After they carried her home, she had a long spell o’ sickness—come near dyin’, they said; but they brought her through at last, an’ she got about ag’in, lookin’ ten year older. I kep’ out of her sight, though. I lived awhile at Old Jones’s, till I could find a good farm to rent, or a cheap ’un to buy. I wanted to git out o’ the neighborhood. I was uneasy all the time, bein’ so near Rachel. Her mother was worse, an’ her father failin’-like, too. Mother seen ’em often; she was as good a neighbor to ’em as she dared be. Well, I got sort o’ tired, an’ went out to Michigan an’ bought a likely farm. Old Jones give me a start. I took Mary Ann out, an’ we got along well enough, a matter o’ two year. We heerd from home now an’ then. Rachel’s father and mother both died, about the time we had our first boy—him that you seen—an’ she went off to Toledo, we heerd, an’ hired out to do sewin’. She was always a mighty good hand at it, an’ could cut out as nice as a born manty-maker. She’d had another fit after the funerals, an’ was older-lookin’ an’ more serious than ever, they said.
“Well, Jimmy was six months old, or so, when we begun to be woke up every night by his cryin’. Nothin’ seemed to be the matter with him; he was only frightened-like, an’ couldn’t be quieted. I heerd noises sometimes—nothin’ like what come afterwards, but sort o’ crackin’ an’ snappin’, sich as you hear in new furnitur’, an’ it seemed like somebody was in the room; but I couldn’t find nothin’. It got worse and worse. Mary Ann was sure the house was haunted, an’ I had to let her go home for a whole winter.
“When she was away, it went on the same as ever—not every night, sometimes not more ’n once a week, but so loud as to wake me up, reg’lar. I sent word to Mary Ann to come on, an’ I’d sell out an’ go to Illinois. Good prarie land was cheap then, an’ I’d ruther go further off, for the sake o’ quiet.
“So we pulled up stakes an’ come out here, but it weren’t long afore the noise follered us, worse ’n ever, an’ we found out at last what it was. One night I woke up, with my hair standin’ on end, an’ heerd Rachel Emmons’s voice, just as you heared it last night. Mary Ann heared it too, an’ it’s little peace she’s giv’ me since that time. An’ so it’s been goin’ on an’ on, these eight or nine year.”
“But,” I asked, “are you sure she is alive? Have you seen her since? Have you asked her to be merciful and not disturb you?”
“Yes,” said he, with a bitterness of tone which seemed quite to obliterate the softer memories of his love, “I’ve seen her, an’ I’ve begged her on my knees to let me alone; but it’s no use. When it got to be so bad I couldn’t stan’ it, I sent her a letter, but I never got no answer. Next year, when our second boy died, frightened and worried to death, I believe, though he was scrawny enough when he was born, I took some money I’d saved to buy a yoke of oxen, an’ went to Toledo o’ purpose to see Rachel. It cut me awful to do it, but I was desperate. I found her livin’ in a little house, with a bit o’ garden she’d bought. I s’pose she must ’a’ had five or six hundred dollars when the farm was sold, an’ she made a good deal by sewin’, besides. She was settin’ at her work when I went in, an’ knowed me at once, though I don’t believe I’d ever ’a’ knowed her. She was old, an’ thin, an’ hard-lookin’; her mouth was pale an’ set, like she was bitin’ somethin’ all the time; an’ her eyes, though they was sunk into her head, seemed to look through an’ through an’ away out th’ other side o’ you.
“It just shut me up when she looked at me. She was so corpse-like I was afraid she’d drop dead, then and there, but I made out at last to say, ‘Rachel, I’ve come all the way from Illinois to see you.’ She kep’ lookin’ straight at me, never sayin’ a word. ‘Rachel,’ says I, ‘I know I’ve acted bad towards you. God knows I didn’t mean to do it. I don’t blame you for payin’ it back to me the way you’re doin’, but Mary Ann an’ the boy never done you no harm. I’ve come all the way to ask your forgiveness, hopin’ you’ll be satisfied with what’s been done, an’ leave off bearin’ malice agin’ us.’ She looked kind o’ sorrowful-like, but drawed a deep breath, an’ shook her head. ‘Oh. Rachel,’ says I an’ afore I knowed it, I was right down on my knees at her feet. ‘Rachel, don’t be so hard on me. I’m the unhappiest man that lives. I can’t stan’ it no longer. Rachel, you didn’t used to be so cruel, when we was boys an’ girls together. Do forgive me, an’ leave off hauntin’ me so.’
“Then she spoke up at last, an’ says she:
“‘Eber Nicholson, I was married to you, in the sight o’ God!’
“‘I know it,’ says I; ‘you say it to me every night, an’ it wasn’t my doin’s that you’re not my wife now. But, Rachel, if I’d ’a’ betrayed you, an’ ruined you, an’ killed you, God couldn’t ’a’ punished me worse than you’re a-punishin’ me.’
“She giv’ a kind o’ groan, an’ two tears run down her white face. ‘Eber Nicholson,’ says she, ‘ask God to help you, for I can’t. There might ’a’ been a time,’ says she, ‘when I could ’a’ done it, but it’s too late now.’
“‘Don’t say that, Rachel,’ says I; ‘it’s never too late to be merciful an’ forgivin’.’
“‘It doesn’t depend on myself,’ says she; ‘I’m sent to you. It’s th’ only comfort I have in life to be near you; but I’d give up that if I could. Pray to God to let me die, for then we shall both have rest.’
“An’ that was all I could git out of her.
“I come home ag’in, knowin’ I’d spent my money for nothin’. Since then, it’s been just the same as before, not reg’lar every night, but sort o’ comes on by spells, an’ then stops three or four days, an’ then comes on ag’in. Fact is, what’s the use o’ livin’ in this way? We can’t be neighborly; we’re afeard to have anybody come to see us; we’ve get no peace, no comfort o’ bein’ together, an’ no heart to work an’ git ahead, like other folks. It’s just killin’ me, body an’ soul.”
Here the poor wretch fairly broke down, bursting suddenly into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. I waited quietly until the violence of his passion had subsided. A misery so strange, so completely out of the range of human experience, so hopeless apparently, was not to be reached by the ordinary utterances of consolation. I had seen enough to enable me fully to understand the fearful nature of the retribution which had been visited upon him—for what was, at worst, a weakness to be pitied, rather than a sin to be chastised. “Never was a man worse punished,” he had truly said. But I was as far as ever from comprehending the secret of those nightly visitations. The statement of Rachel Emmons, that they were now produced without her will, overturned supposing it to be true the conjecture which I might otherwise have adopted. However, it was now plain that the unhappy victim sobbing at my side could throw no further light on the mystery. He had told me all he knew.
“My friend,” said I, when he had become calmer, “I do not wonder at your desperation. Such continual torment as you must have endured is enough to drive a man to madness. It seems to me to spring from the malice of some infernal power, rather than the righteous justice of God. Have you never tried to resist it? Have you never called aloud, in your heart, for Divine help, and gathered up your strength to meet and defy it, as you would to meet a man who threatened your life?”
“Not in the right way, I’m afeared,” said he. “Fact is, I always took it as a judgment hangin’ over me, an’ never thought o’ nothin’ els
e than just to grin and bear it.”
“Enough of that,” I urged, for a hope of relief had suggested itself to me; “you have suffered enough, and more than enough. Now stand up to meet it like a man. “When the noises come again, think of what you have endured, and let it make you indignant and determined. Decide in your heart that you will be free from it, and perhaps you may be so. If not, build another shanty and sleep away from your wife and boy, so that they may escape, at least. Give yourself this claim to your wife’s gratitude, and she will be kind and forbearing.”
“I don’t know but you’re more ’n half right, stranger,” he replied, in a more cheerful tone. “Fact is, I never thought on it that way. It’s lightened my heart a heap, tellin’ you; an’ if I’m not too broke an’ used-up-like, I’ll try to foller your advice. I couldn’t marry Rachel now, if Mary Ann was dead, we’ve been drove so far apart. I don’t know how it’ll be when we’re all dead. I s’pose them’ll go together that belongs together; leastways, it ought to be so.”
Here we struck the Bloomington road, and I no longer needed a guide. When we pulled our horses around, facing each other, I noticed that the flush of excitement still burned on the man’s sallow cheek, and his eyes, washed by probably the first freshet of feeling which had moistened them for years, shone with a faint luster of courage.
“No, no none o’ that!” said he, as I was taking out my porte-monnaie; “you’ve done me a mighty sight more good than I’ve done you, let alone payin’ me to boot. Don’t forgit the turn to the left, after crossin’ Jackson’s Hill. Good-bye, stranger! Take good care o’ yourself!”
And with a strong, clinging, lingering grasp of the hand, in which the poor fellow expressed the gratitude which he was too shy and awkward to put into words, we parted. He turned his horse’s head, and slowly plodded back through the mud towards the lonely shanty.
* * * *
On my way to Bloomington, I went over and over the man’s story in memory. The facts were tolerably clear and coherent: his narrative was simple and credible enough, after my own personal experience of the mysterious noises, and the secret, whatever it was, must be sought for in Rachel Emmons. She was still living in Toledo, Ohio, and earned her living as a seamstress; it would, therefore, not be difficult to find her.
I confess, after Eber’s own unsatisfactory interview, I had little hope of penetrating her singular reserve; but I felt the strongest desire to see her, at least, and thus test the complete reality of a story which surpassed the wildest fiction. After visiting Terre Haute, the next point to which business called me, on the homeward route, was Cleveland; and by giving an additional day to the journey, I could easily take Toledo on my way. Between memory and expectation the time passed rapidly, and a week later I registered my name at the Island House, Toledo.
After wandering about for an hour or two, the next morning, I finally discovered the residence of Rachel Emmons. It was a small story-and-a-half frame building, on the western edge of the town, with a locust-tree in front, two lilacs and a wilderness of cabbagestalks and currant-bushes in the rear. After much cogitation, I had not been able to decide upon any plan of action, and the interval between my knock and the opening of the door was one of considerable embarrassment to me. A small, plumpish woman of forty, with peaked nose, black eyes, and but two upper teeth, confronted me. She, certainly, was not the one I sought.
“Is your name Rachel Emmons?” I asked, nevertheless.
“No, I’m not her. This is her house, though.”
“Will you tell her a gentleman wants to see her?” said I, putting my foot inside the door as I spoke. The room, I saw, was plainly, but neatly furnished. A rag-carpet covered the floor; green rush-bottomed chairs, a settee with chintz cover, and a straight-backed rocking-chair were distributed around the walls; and for ornament there was an alphabetical sampler in a frame, over the low wooden mantel-piece.
The woman, however, still held the door-knob inher hand, saying, “Miss Emmons is busy. She can’t well leave her work. Did you want some sewin’ done?”
“No,” said I. “I wish to speak with her. It’s on private and particular business.”
“Well,” she answered with some hesitation, “I’ll tell her. Take a chair.”
She disappeared through a door into a back room, and I sat down. In another minute the door noiselessly reopened, and Rachel Emmons came softly into the room. I believe I should have known her anywhere. Though from Eber Nicholson’s narrative she could not have been much over thirty, she appeared to be at least forty-five. Her hair was streaked with gray, her face thin and of an unnatural waxy pallor, her lips of a whitish-blue color and tightly pressed together, and her eyes, seemingly sunken far back in their orbits, burned with a strange, ghastly—I almost said phosphorescent—light. I remember thinking they must shine like touch-wood in the dark. I have come in contact with too many persons, passed through too wide a range of experience, to lose my self-possession easily; but I could not meet the cold, steady gaze of those eyes without a strong internal trepidation. It would have been the same if I had known nothing about her.
She was probably surprised at seeing a stranger, but I could discern no trace of it in her face. She advanced but a few steps into the room, and then stopped, waiting for me to speak.
“You are Rachel Emmons?” I asked, since a commencement of some sort must be made.
“Yes.”
“I come from Eber Nicholson,” said I, fixing my eyes on her face.
Not a muscle moved, not a nerve quivered, but I fancied that a faint purple flush played for an instant under the white mask. If I were correct, it was but momentary. She lifted her left hand slowly, pressed it on her heart, and then let it fall. The motion was so calm that I should not have noticed it, if I had not been watching her so steadily.
“Well?” she said, after a pause.
“Rachel Ernmons,” said I, and more than one cause conspired to make my voice earnest and authoritative, “I know all. I come to you not to meddle with the sorrow—let me say, the sin—which has blighted your life; not because Eber Nicholson sent me; not to defend him or to accuse you; but from that solemn sense of duty which makes every man responsible to God for what he does or leaves undone. An equal pity for him and for you forces me to speak. He cannot plead his cause; you cannot understand his misery. I will not ask by what wonderful power you continue to torment his life; I will not even doubt that you pity while you afflict him; but I ask you to reflect whether the selfishness of your sorrow may not have hardened your heart and blinded you to that consolation which God offers to those who humbly seek it. You say that you are married to Eber Nicholson, in His sight. Think, Rachel Emmons, think of that moment when you will stand before His awful bar, and the poor, broken, suffering soul, whom your forgiveness might still make yours in the holy marriage of heaven, shrinks from you with fear and pain, as in the remembered persecutions of Earth!”
The words came hot from my very heart, and the ice-crust of years under which hers lay benumbed gave way before them. She trembled slightly; and the same sad, hopeless moan which I had heard at midnight in the Illinois shanty came from her lips. She sank into a chair, letting her hands fall heavily at her side. There was no more merit of her features, yet I saw that her waxy cheeks were moist, as with the slow ooze of tears so long unshed that they had forgotten their natural flow.
“I do pity him,” she murmured at last, “and I believe I forgive him; but, oh! I’ve become an instrument of wrath for the punishment of both.”
If any feeling of reproof still lingered in my mind, her appearance disarmed me at once. I felt nothing but pity for her forlorn, helpless state. It was the apathy of despair, rather than the coldness of cherished malice, which had so frozen her life. Still, the mystery of those nightly persecutions!
“Rachel Emmons,” I said, “you certainly know that you still continue to destroy the peace of Eber Nicholson and his family. Do you mean to say that you cannot cease to do so, if you would?”<
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“It is too late,” said she, shaking her head slowly, as she clasped both hands hard against her breast. “Do you think I would suffer, night after night, if I could help it? Haven’t I stayed awake for days, till my strength gave way, rather than fall asleep, for his sake? Wouldn’t I give my life to be free? And I would have taken it, long ago, with my own hands, but for the sin!”
She spoke in a low voice, but with a wild earnestness which startled me. She, then, was equally a victim!
“But,” said I, “this thing had a beginning. Why did you visit him in the first place when, perhaps, you might have prevented it?”
“I am afraid that was my sin,” she replied, “and this is the punishment. When father and mother died, and I was layin’ sick and weak, with nothin’ to do but think of him, and me all alone in the world, and not knowin’ how to live without him because I had nobody left, that’s when it begun. When the deadly kind o’ sleeps came on, they used to think I was dead, or faintin’, at first and I could go where my heart drawed me, and look at him away off where he lived. ’Twas consolin’, and I didn’t try to stop it. I used to long for the night, so I could go and be near him for an hour or two. I don’t know how I went; it seemed to come of itself. After a while I felt I was troublin’ him and doin’ no good to myself, but the sleeps came just the same as ever, and then I couldn’t help myself. They’re only a sorrow to me now, but I s’pose I shall have ’em till I’m laid in my grave.”
This was all the explanation she could give. It was evidently one of those mysterious cases of spiritual disease which completely baffle our reason. Although compelled to accept her statement, I felt incapable of suggesting any remedy. I could only hope that the abnormal condition into which she had fallen might speedily wear out her vital energies, already seriously shattered. She informed me, further, that each attack was succeeded by great exhaustion, and that she felt herself growing feebler from year to year. The immediate result, I suspected, was a disease of the heart, which might give her the blessing of death sooner than she hoped.
The Occult Detective Megapack Page 7