Short Fiction · Aaron Trow (2/5)

“I am proud of you, Anastasia⁠—” on hearing which she got up and courtesied to him. “I am proud of you; so proud of you that I feel you should not be left here all alone, with no one to help you if you were in trouble.”

“Women don’t get into trouble as men do, and do not want anyone to help them. If you were alone in the house you would have to go to bed without your supper, because you could not make a basin of boiled milk ready for your own meal. Now, when your reverence has gone, I shall go to work and have my tea comfortably.” And then he did go, bidding God bless her as he left her. Three hours after that he was disturbed in his own lodgings by one of the negro girls from the cottage rushing to his door, and begging him in Heaven’s name to come down to the assistance of her mistress.

When Morton left her, Anastasia did not proceed to do as she had said, and seemed to have forgotten her evening meal. She had been working sedulously with her needle during all that last conversation; but when her lover was gone, she allowed the work to fall from her hands, and sat motionless for awhile, gazing at the last streak of colour left by the setting sun; but there was no longer a sign of its glory to be traced in the heavens around her. The twilight in Bermuda is not long and enduring as it is with us, though the daylight does not depart suddenly, leaving the darkness of night behind it without any intermediate time of warning, as is the case farther south, down among the islands of the tropics. But the soft, sweet light of the evening had waned and gone, and night had absolutely come upon her, while Anastasia was still seated before the cottage with her eyes fixed upon the white streak of motionless sea which was still visible through the gloom. She was thinking of him, of his ways of life, of his happiness, and of her duty towards him. She had told him, with her pretty feminine falseness, that she could wait without impatience; but now she said to herself that it would not be good for him to wait longer. He lived alone and without comfort, working very hard for his poor pittance, and she could see, and feel, and understand that a companion in his life was to him almost a necessity. She would tell her father that all this must be brought to an end. She would not ask him for money, but she would make him understand that her services must, at any rate in part, be transferred. Why should not she and Morton still live at the cottage when they were married? And so thinking, and at last resolving, she sat there till the dark night fell upon her.

She was at last disturbed by feeling a man’s hand upon her shoulder. She jumped from her chair and faced him⁠—not screaming, for it was especially within her power to control herself, and to make no utterance except with forethought. Perhaps it might have been better for her had she screamed, and sent a shrill shriek down the shore of that inland sea. She was silent, however, and with awestruck face and outstretched hands gazed into the face of him who still held her by the shoulder. The night was dark; but her eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, and she could see indistinctly something of his features. He was a low-sized man, dressed in a suit of sailor’s blue clothing, with a rough cap of hair on his head, and a beard that had not been clipped for many weeks. His eyes were large, and hollow, and frightfully bright, so that she seemed to see nothing else of him; but she felt the strength of his fingers as he grasped her tighter and more tightly by the arm.

“Who are you?” she said, after a moment’s pause.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

“Know you! No.” But the words were hardly out of her mouth before it struck her that the man was Aaron Trow, of whom everyone in Bermuda had been talking.

“Come into the house,” he said, “and give me food.” And he still held her with his hand as though he would compel her to follow him.

She stood for a moment thinking what she would say to him; for even then, with that terrible man standing close to her in the darkness, her presence of mind did not desert her. “Surely,” she said, “I will give you food if you are hungry. But take your hand from me. No man would lay his hands on a woman.”

“A woman!” said the stranger. “What does the starved wolf care for that? A woman’s blood is as sweet to him as that of a man. Come into the house, I tell you.” And then she preceded him through the open door into the narrow passage, and thence to the kitchen. There she saw that the back door, leading out on the other side of the house, was open, and she knew that he had come down from the road and entered on that side. She threw her eyes around, looking for the negro girls; but they were away, and she remembered that there was no human being within sound of her voice but this man who had told her that he was as a wolf thirsty after her blood!

“Give me food at once,” he said.

“And will you go if I give it you?” she asked.

“I will knock out your brains if you do not,” he replied, lifting from the grate a short, thick poker which lay there. “Do as I bid you at once. You also would be like a tiger if you had fasted for two days, as I have done.”

She could see, as she moved across the kitchen, that he had already searched there for something that he might eat, but that he had searched in vain. With the close economy common among his class in the islands, all comestibles were kept under close lock and key in the house of Mr. Bergen. Their daily allowance was given day by day to the negro servants, and even the fragments were then gathered up and locked away in safety. She moved across the kitchen to the accustomed cupboard, taking the keys from her pocket, and he followed close upon her. There was a small oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling which just gave them light to see each other. She lifted her hand to this to take it from its hook, but he prevented her. “No, by Heaven!” he said, “you don’t touch that till I’ve done with it. There’s light enough for you to drag out your scraps.”

She did drag out her scraps and a bowl of milk, which might hold perhaps a quart. There was a fragment of bread, a morsel of cold potato-cake, and the bone of a leg of kid. “And is that all?” said he. But as he spoke he fleshed his teeth against the bone as a dog would have done.

“It is the best I have,” she said; “I wish it were better, and you should have had it without violence, as you have suffered so long from hunger.”

“Bah! Better; yes! You would give the best no doubt, and set the hell hounds on my track the moment I am gone. I know how much I might expect from your charity.”

“I would have fed you for pity’s sake,” she answered.

“Pity! Who are you, that you should dare to pity me! By ⸻, my young woman, it is I that pity you. I must cut your throat unless you give me money. Do you know that?”

“Money! I have got no money.”

“I’ll make you have some before I go. Come; don’t move till I have done.” And as he spoke to her he went on tugging at the bone, and swallowing the lumps of stale bread. He had already finished the bowl of milk, “And, now,” said he, “tell me who I am.”

“I suppose you are Aaron Trow,” she answered, very slowly.

He said nothing on hearing this, but continued his meal, standing close to her so that she might not possibly escape from him out into the darkness. Twice or thrice in those few minutes she made up her mind to make such an attempt, feeling that it would be better to leave him in possession of the house, and make sure, if possible, of her own life. There was no money there; not a dollar! What money her father kept in his possession was locked up in his safe at Hamilton. And might he not keep to his threat, and murder her, when he found that she could give him nothing? She did not tremble outwardly, as she stood there watching him as he ate, but she thought how probable it might be that her last moments were very near. And yet she could scrutinise his features, form, and garments, so as to carry away in her mind a perfect picture of them. Aaron Trow⁠—for of course it was the escaped convict⁠—was not a man of frightful, hideous aspect. Had the world used him well, giving him when he was young ample wages and separating him from turbulent spirits, he also might have used the world well; and then women would have praised the brightness of his eye and the manly vigour of his brow. But things had not gone well with him. He had been separated from the wife he had loved, and the children who had been raised at his knee⁠—separated by his own violence; and now, as he had said of himself, he was a wolf rather than a man. As he stood there satisfying the craving of his appetite, breaking up the large morsels of food, he was an object very sad to be seen. Hunger had made him gaunt and yellow, he was squalid with the dirt of his hidden lair, and he had the look of a beast;⁠—that look to which men fall when they live like the brutes of prey, as outcasts from their brethren. But still there was that about his brow which might have redeemed him⁠—which might have turned her horror into pity, had he been willing that it should be so.

“And now give me some brandy,” he said.

There was brandy in the house⁠—in the sitting-room which was close at their hand, and the key of the little press which held it was in her pocket. It was useless, she thought, to refuse him; and so she told him that there was a bottle partly full, but that she must go to the next room to fetch it him.

“We’ll go together, my darling,” he said. “There’s nothing like good company.” And he again put his hand upon her arm as they passed into the family sitting-room.

“I must take the light,” she said. But he unhooked it himself, and carried it in his own hand.

Again she went to work without trembling. She found the key of the side cupboard, and unlocking the door, handed him a bottle which might contain about half-a-pint of spirits. “And is that all?” he said.

“There is a full bottle here,” she answered, handing him another; “but if you drink it, you will be drunk, and they will catch you.”

“By Heavens, yes; and you would be the first to help them; would you not?”

“Look here,” she answered. “If you will go now, I will not say a word to anyone of your coming, nor set them on your track to follow you. There, take the full bottle with you. If you will go, you shall be safe from me.”

“What, and go without money!”

“I have none to give you. You may believe me when I say so. I have not a dollar in the house.”

Before he spoke again he raised the half empty bottle to his mouth, and drank as long as there was a drop to drink. “There,” said he, putting the bottle down, “I am better after that. As to the other, you are right, and I will take it with me. And now, young woman, about the money?”

“I tell you that I have not a dollar.”

“Look here,” said he, and he spoke now in a softer voice, as though he would be on friendly terms with her. “Give me ten sovereigns, and I will go. I know you have it, and with ten sovereigns it is possible that I may save my life. You are good, and would not wish that a man should die so horrid a death. I know you are good. Come, give me the money.” And he put his hands up, beseeching her, and looked into her face with imploring eyes.

“On the word of a Christian woman I have not got money to give you,” she replied.

“Nonsense!” And as he spoke he took her by the arm and shook her. He shook her violently so that he hurt her, and her breath for a moment was all but gone from her. “I tell you you must make dollars before I leave you, or I will so handle you that it would have been better for you to coin your very blood.”

“May God help me at my need,” she said, “as I have not above a few penny pieces in the house.”

“And you expect me to believe that! Look here! I will shake the teeth out of your head, but I will have it from you.” And he did shake her again, using both his hands and striking her against the wall.

“Would you⁠—murder me?” she said, hardly able now to utter the words.

“Murder you, yes; why not? I cannot be worse than I am, were I to murder you ten times over. But with money I may possibly be better.”

“I have it not.”

“Then I will do worse than murder you. I will make you such an object that all the world shall loathe to look on you.” And so saying he took her by the arm and dragged her forth from the wall against which she had stood.

Then there came from her a shriek that was heard far down the shore of that silent sea, and away across to the solitary houses of those living on the other side⁠—a shriek, very sad, sharp, and prolonged⁠—which told plainly to those who heard it of woman’s woe when in her extremest peril. That sound was spoken of in Bermuda for many a day after that, as something which had been terrible to hear. But then, at that moment, as it came wailing through the dark, it sounded as though it were not human. Of those who heard it, not one guessed from whence it came, nor was the hand of any brother put forward to help that woman at her need.

“Did you hear that?” said the young wife to her husband, from the far side of the arm of the sea.

“Hear it! Oh Heaven, yes! Whence did it come?” The young wife could not say from whence it came, but clung close to her husband’s breast, comforting herself with the knowledge that that terrible sorrow was not hers.

But aid did come at last, or rather that which seemed as aid. Long and terrible was the fight between that human beast of prey and the poor victim which had fallen into his talons. Anastasia Bergen was a strong, well-built woman, and now that the time had come to her when a struggle was necessary, a struggle for life, for honour, for the happiness of him who was more to her than herself, she fought like a tigress attacked in her own lair. At such a moment as this she also could become wild and savage as the beast of the forest. When he pinioned her arms with one of his, as he pressed her down upon the floor, she caught the first joint of the forefinger of his other hand between her teeth till he yelled in agony, and another sound was heard across the silent water. And then, when one hand was loosed in the struggle, she twisted it through his long hair, and dragged back his head till his eyes were nearly starting from their sockets. Anastasia Bergen had hitherto been a sheer woman, all feminine in her nature. But now the foam came to her mouth, and fire sprang from her eyes, and the muscles of her body worked as though she had been trained to deeds of violence. Of violence, Aaron Trow had known much in his rough life, but never had he combated with harder antagonist than her whom he now held beneath his breast.

“By ⸻ I will put an end to you,” he exclaimed, in his wrath, as he struck her violently across the face with his elbow. His hand was occupied, and he could not use it for a blow, but, nevertheless, the violence was so great that the blood gushed from her nostrils, while the back of her head was driven with violence against the floor. But she did not lose her hold of him. Her hand was still twined closely through his thick hair, and in every move he made she clung to him with all her might. “Leave go my hair,” he shouted at her, but she still kept her hold, though he again dashed her head against the floor.