The partisan a tale of the revolution |
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| 7. | CHAPTER VII. |
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 | CHAPTER VII. The partisan |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
With a strange beauty—and now, dim for ever.”
And two opposing and mighty principles were at
fearful strife in that chamber. Death was there with
power not to be withstood, and there life vainly endeavoured
to combat him. Yet there were no shows
of terror or of violence—no exhibition of the torturing
pain, and of the spirit vainly resisting and striving to
escape. All was gentleness, even in the murmurs
which occasionally fell from the lips of the dying girl.
Her cheek was transparent—her eye wore a sublimated
light, as it quivered in its socket, and flickering
in changing directions, seemed in search of some expected
presence. Her pale lips were parted, and
the even tops of the pearly teeth below were just perceptible.
The gauze of her drapery was scarcely
lifted by the heave of her bosom; and as her hand lay
partially upon it, you might even trace out the smallest
of her blue veins, like so many fibres, shining through
the delicate skin. She was dying—dying without
seeming pain; and well might her brother fancy, from
the pleasant smile upon her countenance, that the
whispering sound which reached his ears on entering
the apartment, had fallen from the sister angels already
busy around her.
He sat beside her, took her hand, pressed his lips
upon her forehead, and for a few seconds remained
without attracting her notice. Her eye at length
glanced wildly upon him, and the lips, which had
fallen apart, were reclosed as she recognised him. At
last a faint smile enlivened them—a fond effulgence
filled her eye—she laid one of her hands upon that
something faintly which he could not understand.
It was a strong effort which her mind had
made to concentrate itself upon a single object, and
some minutes elapsed before it was quite successful.
At length she spake:—“Oh, Robert, I sent for you.
I'm so glad you were not yet gone, for I feel that I am
dying. I am not mistaken now. I know it to be
death. This darkness—these shades that come across
my eyes are its cloud, and it presses momently closer
and closer upon them. It is so; and I have been
afraid—very much afraid since you left me, that my
thoughts were crowding and confused. They were
strangely mixed up together—very strangely; and
once I felt that they were escaping me; and then I
grew terrified. I would not lose my senses—I would
have them to the last; for I would speak to you and
to Kate, even with my parting breath. It is sweet to
die so; I could bear it then: but not to know, not to
say farewell, and pray for you in the moment of parting,
would be terrible indeed—terrible, terrible!”
Her eyes closed, and her hands were clasped, as
she concluded the sentence, while her lips separated,
and her voice was heard in whispers, as if in prayer.
When they were again opened, there was a wildness in
their expression—a misty gleaming, that completely
confirmed her fear. The mind was evidently wandering;
but the strong will, still pre-eminent, enabled her
to bring back the forgetting thoughts, and to bind them
to the spot. Her words now were in broken murmurs.
“Not my will, not my will, but thine, Father—yet
for him—for Robert, my poor brother—could it only
be—for him—for Robert!”
The name recalled her more vividly to him who sat
beside her, and her eyes were again fixed upon his
face.
“Old mommer—is she here, Robert—where?”
He shook his head negatively, but made no other
reply.
“Be good to her for me; tell her—ah!”
She closed her eyes, and a slight distortion of the
lips declared the pang which she felt at that moment,
and from which it was several minutes before she was
so far recovered as to be able to speak again. When
she did, it was with a sweet smile of patient resignation.
“Strange that death cannot take his prey without
inflicting pain! I am willing to go with him. I offer
no resistance; yet he strikes and rends, the same as
if I did. Life struggles still, even when you desire it
not; but it does its duty—it holds on to its trust, and
I must not complain. But, dear Robert, forget not old
mommer. Give her all my things; and there is a new
frock which I have made for her myself. Kate will
give you the message that is to go along with it. And,
Robert—the garden—the—ah, how cloudy, cloudy—
so very dark; and that is through sin—sin—”
The lips continued to mutter, though the words grew
indistinct. The mind was again wandering—the soul
was anxiously seeking to escape its earthly tabernacle;
but the flesh struggled obstinately to detain its
prisoner. Singleton on one side, and Kate upon the
other, bent speechlessly over the dying maiden. The
eyes of Kate were full of tears; but Singleton choked
with the grief to which tears could give no utterance.
She started while he lay in this position, and her head,
with unusual vigour, was lifted from the pillow; while
her eye, glancing with a strong light, looked down
upon him with a bewildered glance, as if terror and
astonishment prompted its expression. He was roused
less by her movement, of which, as his face was buried
in the pillow, he had been unconscious, than by the
words which followed it.
“Oh, you are here? Well, take it; but it's a sin, and
you know that it is sin. There were but two, and they
both died; and—yes, they both died—one in the
morning and the other in the evening, but all on the
same day, and that was God's blessing. It's—”
She shook her head, as she checked herself in her
upon it—
“It is so—I feel it—I feel how uncertain my
thoughts are; they are continually going from me, or
putting on strange forms, and I only get them back
with an effort which is painful.”
She raised her right hand as she concluded, gazed
upon it attentively, and then begged Kate to hand her
a mirror. She looked in it for a few moments, and
then put it away from her, with a melancholy but sweet
smile.
“I shall not look in it again, I think. I do not wish
it; for it tells me how young I am—how very young
to die: but the less sorrow, the less sin! I have loved
you all—you, Robert—you, and you, Kate—you—
dear aunt—forgive me all, if I have said a cross word,
or done any thing unkindly. Forgive me—will you
not?—for I would not thinkingly have pained you.”
“Forgive you! ay, that we do, my child; if there
be any thing you have done needing forgiveness from
us, or anybody, which I believe not, I forgive you
from my soul, my blessed angel—God Almighty bless
and forgive you!”
Her aunt was the only one about her who could reply;
she understood the speechless sorrow in the
faces of her brother and cousin, and the pressure of
her hand in theirs had a sufficient answer. This
pressure seemed to prompt a new feeling and desire;
and with an eye turned pleadingly to Kate, she strove
to carry her hand towards that of her brother. Without
scruple, Kate freely extended it, and the hands of
the cousins were clasped above the form of the sufferer.
She nodded her head, and smiled in approbation.
At this moment a servant from below beckoned
Kate away, and she left the room. A sudden stir—a
commotion, rather louder than usual, and certainly not
desirable at such a place and hour, reached the ears
of Singleton; and while he was wondering, Kate reappeared.
Her face was full of alarm, and, hurriedly,
she informed Singleton of the approach of enemies.
“Oh, Robert, you must fly! A troop is below from
the garrison, with Colonel Proctor at their head. They
are now moving rapidly down the avenue, and will
soon be here. Fly to the back balcony, while I keep
the door closed in front.”
He bowed his head slightly in reply, but took no
other heed of her information; while, proceeding to do
as she had said, Kate descended to the hall below.
With head bent down upon the pillow, Singleton gave
way to that abstraction of soul which belonged to a
sorrow so trying as his own. He seemed utterly to
have forgotten the words of his cousin, and made no
movement, and showed no disposition to regard them.
Seeing this, his aunt now came towards him, and endeavoured
to arouse him to a sense of his danger.
“You waste time, Robert, that is precious. For
God's sake fly, my son! Fly, while the chance is allowed
you.”
“I cannot—I will not.”
“Why, Robert, why? It will soon be too late.
Why not do as Kate has advised you? Take the back
piazza, and delay no longer.”
“And leave her?” was the melancholy reply, as he
gazed down with a look of self-abandonment upon the
scarce conscious girl before him.
“What is it—what is it, aunt?” she cried, starting
up from the pillow, as the entreaties of the old lady,
rather loudly expressed, reached her senses, and
aroused them.
“He is in danger—the British are coming; and he
won't fly, though he knows they will hang him without
judge or jury.”
“Robert, Robert!” said the girl, turning to him
quickly—all her thoughts coming back to their proper
activity. “Delay not an instant, my dear brother.
Delay not—delay not—but fly.”
“Urge me not, Emily; there is little danger, and
I would much rather remain here with you.”
“Deceive me not, brother—I warn you, deceive
me not!” she exclaimed, with a sterner tone of expression
stay involves your safety. Do I not know the doom
which they hold for him whom they call rebel—do I
not? Leave me, and go at once—I implore—I command
you.”
“I cannot—”
“You must vex me not—chafe me not, dearest
brother, in these moments which should be sacred to
peace. Do not imbitter my thoughts by uselessly exposing
yourself to danger. Ha! they come—they
come! Fly, I command you—fly—fly from me, or I
will leave you in anger. Fly, fly!”
He turned to press his lips to her forehead, but she
turned from him away.
“Say that you will go—yes?” was her brief sentence.
“I will—I will!”
She turned to him with affectionate fondness, gave
him her hand, and his lips were glued to her own.
“God bless you—God bless you, and keep you safe.
Fly now, and delay not.”
A noise from below of approaching feet, warned
him of the necessity of a quick flight; but as he was
about to leave the chamber, the little black girl who
attended upon it, informed him that a guard had been
posted at both the doors in the front and rear of the
dwelling. There was but one resource, and that was
suggested by his aunt. She pointed to the chamber
window, against which the shrouding branches of the
thick oak from below had lifted themselves, as with a
friendly offer of succour. He returned to the chamber
—his lips were once more pressed to those of his
sister, who continued to urge his flight impatiently;
and tearing himself at length away, he was soon descending
the tree, which fortunately stood on the side
of the dwelling, remote from either end, and hid in the
deepest shadow.
“Look, look down, aunt, and say if he is safe,” said
Emily, panting with the impatient effort. The old
his progress down.
“He is now at the bottom, my child. He is safe
down.”
“And he flies unseen?”
“No, my child, he stands at the bottom.”
“Oh, call to him to fly—bid him delay not—does
he go?”
“Now he moves; he moves towards the big walnut-tree.”
“Oh heavens! he will be seen, if you can see him
so far. Say, dear aunt, where is he now?”
“He moves from tree to tree, my child. Be patient,
they see him not. Now I lose him, he goes behind
the kitchen. Now he moves along the fence—he is
over it, and in the shadow. They cannot see him
now, and he will soon be at the river. He is safe—
he must be safe!”
“Thank God, thank God—mercy!—What is that,
what is that?—they have slain him, they have slain
him!”
A sudden rush of feet, loud voices in dispute, and
the discharge of a pistol, were the sounds which had
so acted upon the senses of the dying girl. These
circumstances require an attention to the progress of
the party under Proctor, and their success in entering
the house before the doors could be closed against
them, according to the original design of Katharine.
Finding her purpose hopeless when she descended to
the hall, she met Colonel Proctor at the threshold.
His manner was studiously respectful; how could it be
otherwise, when met by the majestic form of a woman
like the one who stood before him?—her figure erect
—her high forehead seeming to expand with the swelling
veins upon it—her eye kindling with intensest
light, and the whole expression of her face that of
dignified rebuke.
“Colonel Proctor chooses strange hours for doing
honour to my father's household; but when he learns
that the master of the house is from home, I trust that,
the privacy of ladies. I doubt not that my father will
freely see him in any seasonable visit he may think
fit to make.”
She stood directly before him in the passage-way,
and it was not so easy to pass by her. He had previously
given orders to a couple of soldiers to secure
the back entrance; and feeling himself, accordingly,
perfectly secure in his hold upon his prey, having
himself the command of the front, there was no necessity
for any precipitance calculated to diminish his
respectful deportment towards her who addressed him,
and whom he was so desirous to conciliate. Lifting
his cap, which for a moment after he held in his hand,
he replied—
“The hour is certainly an unseasonable one, Miss
Walton, and nothing but an imperative sense of duty
to my king and command could prompt me, in this
manner, to any trespass upon the privacy of those
whom I so much respect as the family of Colonel
Walton. It is my deep regret that any thing should
occur rendering such an assurance on my part necessary.”
“Mere compliment, Colonel Proctor, contrasts oddly
with the violation of that sacred privacy which should
be conceded to our sex, when unprotected by the
presence of any one of yours.”
“I knew not of your father's absence, Miss Walton,”
returned the Englishman, quickly. Her reply was
instant.
“And the knowledge of it now, sir, secures us, I
trust, from any farther intrusion?”
The retort annoyed him, since his previous remark
led obviously to the inference which she had made
from it. There was a flush upon Proctor's cheek as
he replied, with an air of decision—
“I am sorry, Miss Walton, to say that it does not.
I know the unamiable light in which I must appear to
you from such a declaration, but I must be content to
rely for my justification on your own knowledge of
duty.”
“You are imperative, Colonel Proctor—but I am
yet to know what part of your duty it is that brings
you to our poor abode at midnight.”
“The arrest, Miss Walton, of a rebel—a traitor to
his king and country—a disloyal citizen, who has been
skulking about the swamps, coming forth only to
murder, and who, I am informed on good authority, is
even now in this building.”
The epithets conferred so freely upon her cousin,
awakened all the indignation of the high-spirited maid
—her eye shot forth deeper and brighter fires, and the
curling hauteur of her lip looked a volume of contempt
upon the speaker. She suppressed much of this in
her language, and subdued the fever of her fierce
thought to something like a quiet expression of unconcern.
“Your rebel has a name, Colonel Proctor?”
“He has, Miss Walton; regard for your family has
alone prevented me from giving it utterance.”
“Ha! indeed—you are considerate. But, sir, you
will please me not to constrain yourself too far. I
would know this brave rebel who gives you so much
annoyance. Thank God! there are some still in
Carolina, like myself, who owe no allegiance to the
king of England: who hate his rule as they despise
the slaves who obey it.”
Colonel Proctor simply bowed as he replied—
“The rebel, Miss Walton, now supposed to be in
this house, is one Robert Singleton, one of Marion's
men, and ranking as a major in the army of rebellion.
You will suffer me, I hope, to proceed in searching for
him, since it is my duty, and one that I am resolute to
perform. Your language, Miss Walton, is such as to
render any scruples unnecessary; but I was a gentleman,
Miss Walton, before I became a soldier. As a
lady, I cannot be your enemy, whatever may be the
wrong which I may suffer at your hands.”
The respectful, manly deportment of Colonel Proctor
so much character as Katharine Walton. She replied
almost instantly, making at once a dignified acknowledgment
of the undue severity of her speech, yet insisting
upon the provocation which she had received.
“Robert Singleton is my relative, my friend,
Colonel Proctor—one whom I dearly love. You knew
much of this, if not all, yet your epithets were unscrupulous
and unqualified in connection with his name.
I am a Southron, sir; one of a people not apt to suffer
wrong to their friends and kindred, without resenting
and resisting it; and though a woman, sir—a weak
woman—I feel, sir, that I have the will and the spirit,
though I may lack the skill and the strength, to endeavour
to do both.”
“It is a spirit which I honour, Miss Walton, and my
speech to you in reference to your relative, my own
sense of propriety has already taught me was highly
unbecoming. You will forgive me, if I rightly understand
your nature, Miss Walton, much more readily
than I will forgive myself for the error. Meanwhile,
I trust that you will permit me to pursue this search,
since you have not assured me that its object is not
here.”
“I trust that Colonel Proctor, aware of my father's
absence, will leave us unmolested until his return.”
“I cannot—I dare not, Miss Walton—my duty forbids
it.”
“Your duty gives you no command here, Colonel
Proctor, and your troops must be withdrawn, though I
call upon my father's slaves for that purpose.”
“Will they obey you, Miss Walton?”
“Ay, sir, to the last! I have but to say the words
and they will rush upon your bayonets.”
“I am wasting time, Miss Walton—permit me to
pass onward.”
And he advanced as he spoke. She stood resolutely
fixed in the spot where she had first encountered him,
and he saw that he would be compelled to employ
some gentle force to put her aside. Annoyed and
by farther exhortation to gain his object, but she refused
to hear him. At length, as a last resort, he
said—
“Miss Walton, I have no desire to press this matter.
Give me your word that the person I seek is not here,
and I withdraw my men instantly.”
“Withdraw your men, sir—you keep them here at
your peril—I give no assurances.”
Finding his efforts unavailing, Proctor at once advanced,
and, resolute to put her aside and proceed in
his search, his hands were already extended for that
purpose, when, seeing his object, she hastily drew
back.
“Touch me not, I pray you, if you please. If you
are resolute to intrude upon us, you do so at your own
risk.”
And before he could pass she had withdrawn herself
from his presence, and hastily ascended the staircase.
Placing a guard at the entrance, he quickly followed
her, and as he entered the upper passage-way he found
her standing firmly in front of the door leading to
Emily's chamber.
“Colonel Proctor,” she said, solemnly, “this is the
chamber of sickness—soon to be the chamber of death!
I charge you not to approach it.”
“Miss Walton, I will do my duty, if you will allow
me, with as much forbearance as possible; but I must
do it.”
“At your peril, sir;” and as he approached she presented
one of the pistols of Singleton which she had
seized from a neighbouring table. The sight of it
only impelled the soldier in his forward progress.
“Back, sir! I command—I implore you. I would
not use this weapon if I could avoid it; but I certainly
shall if you approach. Force me not to do so, I pray
you.”
“I cannot hesitate—I cannot hear you;” and with
the word he resolutely advanced. She thrust the
upon him, and with the single words—
“God forgive me, if I err in this,” resolutely drew
the trigger.
In the next moment Proctor put her aside with the
utmost gentleness.
“You are spared a crime, Miss Walton: the spilling
of blood is not always grateful to man; what should
it be to woman?”
He turned from her to the handle of the chamber
door, and she was too much stunned to seek to arrest
him farther. But, as he entered the apartment, he
started back in horror. The picture that met his sight
was too unexpected—too imposing—too unlike any
thing he had ever looked upon or seen. He had seen
the field of battle, strewed with dead and wounded, but
the sublimer powers of death, in which he effects his
conquest without visible stroke or weapon, had never
met his eyes till now; and he gazed with something
like stupefaction upon his features, as they now rose
vividly before him.
There, rising from her couch, and partially erect
under the sudden convulsion, as well of physical pang
as of mental excitement, Emily Singleton met the
first glance of the intruder. Her face was ghastly
pale, but still how beautiful! her eye was glazing fast,
but still how expressive! and the look which she addressed
to the intruder—a look which seemed to signify
that she understood his purpose—was that of some
angry ghost rising from its shroud for the purposes of
solemn rebuke. A wan, spectral light from her eye,
seemed to fall in rays about the wasted cheek below
it; and the slight exhibition of her teeth, which the
lips, parting as in speech, had developed, contributed
still more strongly to the awful, spell-like expression
which her whole countenance wore to his eyes. She
murmured, but incoherently—it might be an imprecation,
and so the Englishman thought it. Her arm was
slightly moved, and her fingers divided, as she strove
to lift them, but they sank back again into their places.
Kate took her place beside her, and her hand adjusted
the pillows while supporting her. A sweet smile now
overspread her features, and her head sank upon one
shoulder. Gradually the glaze overspread her eyes, as
a cloud shutting in the blue skies, and she fell into the
sacred slumber.
“Go up, go up, my blessed angel!—the heavens are
opening for you!”
These were the words of the aunt, while Kate lay
beside the lifeless girl immersed in all the silence of
the deepest wo. The spirit had gone for ever from the
trying and the troubling earth; the silver cord had
been loosed—the golden bowl was broken.
| CHAPTER VII. The partisan | |