University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

At the time of which we write, the unsettled
state of the country required every settler to be as
much as possible on his guard, and for this purpose
Webber had provided his house with a heavy
oaken door, strengthened still more by cross bars
of iron, through which passed bolts of the same
solid material. The windows were protected by
shutters similar to the door, and when closed,
which could be done almost at a moment's notice,
the house, manned by a few within, seemed of
sufficient strength to withstand a regular seige.
A few loop-holes, cut here and there, would enable
those within to fire on an attacking party,
with but little danger to themselves. The main,
in fact the only entrance to the house, was by the
door already mentioned, which opened into a hall
running through the centre of the building, on
either side of which was a door, opening in turn
into other apartments. To the right of the entrance
was a room of good dimensions, comfortably
furnished, containing an old fashioned fire-place,
where the meals were cooked and served,
and where the family generally assembled. From
this apartment was a stair-case leading to a floor
above, which ran along under the roof, forming a
place of deposit for old rubbish, and which, if necessary,
could be used as a sleeping room. The
cottage was well furnished throughout, better
than could reasonably have been expected in this
part of the country—Webber having brought
much of the furniture with him from the East.

In the apartment to the right, just spoken of,
on the evening of the day which opens our tale,
were assembled Webber, his wife and younger
son. In the middle of the floor stood a table,
covered with a clean white cloth, on which were
ranged various dishes, some evidently used, while
others remained untouched in their places, indicating
that a part of the family, and a part only, had
partaken of the evening's repast. A candle placed
on the table, served to light the apartment and
exhibit the features of the occupants, all of whom
seemed to wear an air of gloomy apprehension.—
The doors and windows being thrown open, admitted
the breeze, which came with a cool and
invigorating effect. For some minutes the silence
remained unbroken, while Webber arose
from his seat, and paced with anxious strides the
floor of the apartment.

“I wonder they do not arrive!” at length he
exclaimed; “they surely have had time enough
since the shower!” and as he spoke he strode to
the door.

The moon had sufficiently risen to throw light
upon a scene, where the work of devastation had
been carried on to a remarkable degree. As Webber
gazed around him, he beheld in every direction
tall, lofty trees torn from their foundations—
limbs torn from the trunks of others—fences leveled
to the ground, and the crops, the toil of a
season, beat to the earth as though trampled by
a caravan. But with this it was evident his mind
was but little occupied; for after casting a hasty
glance over the scene, he turned in another direction,
and his eye followed the road, which at some
little distance to the east wound over the brow of
a hill. Here he gazed intently for a few moments,
while the gloom which had been settling over his
features, gradually deepened. As he stood gazing
thus, a sigh, which seemed to come from the
heart, caused him to turn his head, when he beheld
Rufus—who had noiselessly followed him to
the door—with his eyes fixed in the same direction,
his features pale, almost ghastly—while the
workings of his countenance, and the quivering
of his lips, denoted a strange nervous excitability.

“Rufus! Rufus!” cried Webber, taking hold of
his arm; “what means this, my son?—why are
you so agitated?”

The young man started, passed his hand across
his eyes, looked hurriedly around, as one suddenly
awakened from a dream; and then, while a
slight flush tinged his handsome features, quietly
withdrew without deigning a reply.

At another time such singularity of conduct
on the part of his son, would have attracted the
attention of Webber to know the cause; but under
the present circumstances, his own mind was

too much occupied to give it heed. For a moment
longer, he stood, his eyes fixed in the direction
mentioned, and then, as if sadly disappointed, with
slow and musing pace returned to the apartment.

“Strange!” said he, “that they do not return.
I fear they have met with some serious accident;
for this storm has been most alarming in its consequences.”

“Had we not better go in search?” enquired
Rufus, his voice trembling with emotion.

“True, my son, we must!” replied Webber,
with decision. “Can the horses be found conveniently?”

“I observed two, but a few paces distant,” rejoined
Rufus.

“But you will not both leave?” said Mrs. Webber,
enquiringly.

“Why, no,” answered Webber, thoughtfully;
“one I think will be sufficient.”

“Then I will go,” said Rufus, with energy.

“Why so, my son?”

“Ask me not, father; I have reasons,” replied
he, confusedly.

“Well, be it so; but be speedy.” As he spoke,
he started, for he fancied he heard voices in conversation;
and moving quickly to the door, both
father and son listened attentively.

“Ha! they come!” exclaimed Webber, as some
figures were descried descending the hill.

“She is not there!” cried Rufus, quickly.

“How know you that?” enquired Webber!
“With my eyes I cannot distinguish individuals
at that distance. How know you Emily is not
there, Rufus?”

But Rufus was gone; and his father discerned
his figure, at some little distance, gliding swiftly
on in the direction of the horses. A moment or
two later, he heard the clattering of hoofs, and
his son rode quickly past. He called to him, but
in vain. He heard not, heeded not, but urged his
horse to his utmost speed.

“Why the youth is insane!” remarked Webber,
to himself. “Ha! he stops!—he has met
them returning. But no! on he goes again!—
now he dashes over the hill!—surely, something
has happened, or he would have returned;” and
with an agitated step, he moved on in the same
direction.

The voices of the approaching party were, in
the meanwhile, growing louder as they neared
him, and Webber was soon enabled to hear their
conversation. He paused to listen, for he fancied
he heard a voice with which he was not unfamiliar.

“Now jest keep right on, Mr. Jack; you haint
got a great ways furder to go, no how; and I
kind o' guess you'll git rested by the time you'll
be wanted to travel agin. Now ye needn't look
so tarnal cross about it;—I don't much like the idea
o' bragging over a chap that's hampered, but I'll
jest tell ye what 'tis, Mr. Jack Curdish, I jest think
I could lick you in a fair rough and tumble fight
in about two minutes; I do, I swow!”

“Hush!” said another voice. “Be not too over-bearing—remember
the man is your prisoner.”

“Wal so I do, Mark; but the feller won't say
nothing. He's as stuffey as a mule, and I's jest
trying to see if I could'nt brag something out o'
him.”

“Why, Harvey Bernard!” cried Webber, springing
forward, as he fully recognised the speaker,
and grasping his hand,—“welcome, most welcome,
friend Harvey.”

“Jest the same old Webber yit,” returned Bernard,
giving his hand a hearty shake. “Why you
look jest as naternal as life. This ere's Marcus
Tyrone, a friend o' mine.”

“Welcome, Tyrone,” said Webber, cordially
extending his hand.

“This other chap's name's Jack Curdish. You
needn't shake hands with him; for he's jest as
big a rascal as ever run.”

“Why, what mean you?” enquired Webber, in
surprise.

“Tell him, Mark; you can git at it a great
deal quicker than I can.”

Tyrone accordingly explained, in as few words
as possible, how matters stood.

“Gods!” exclaimed Webber, as he heard of
Emily's capture, his features working with the
most powerful emotion; and for a moment he
buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame
shook convulsively. Again resuming his outward
calmness, he walked close to the side of
Curdish, who glanced uneasily about him, and in
a voice of suppressed passion, between his clenched
teeth, said: “Curdish, by the living God above
us! if that girl come to harm, I will make such
an example of you, that it shall find a place on
history's page for its atrocity! Tell me, where
is the girl? and if I succeed in finding her, unharmed,
it shall go much better with you.”

“I'll tell you nothing to-night,” growled Curdish;
who fearful of consequences, if they went
in pursuit, thought he would gain time by delaying
the search.

“Why not to-night?”

“'Cause I won't—that's why!—hang me, if
I'm goin' to give ye any more explanations.”

“Then your blood be on your own head!” rejoined
Webber, sternly. “To the house with
him, as fast as possible! I will hurry forward
and prepare a place for his reception.”

In a few minutes Curdish was placed in the
room on the left of the hall, the door and windows
made fast, and there left to pass the remainder
of the night, in communion with his own
dark thoughts. And dark and dreadful are the
thoughts of the guilty!—for their conscience is
a hell, from which there is no escape.

After a brief consultation, Webber and his
friends concluded it were better to wait till morning,
ere they set out in search of Emily; the
more so, as both Edward and Rufus had already
gone in pursuit, and perchance, by awaiting,
tidings might be gained of her. But little was
said, for all felt a heaviness of heart; and wearied
by traveling, Bernard and Tyrone partook of the
food set before them, in gloomy silence.

“This is a sad meeting!” began Webber, after
a long pause, in a voice so changed that both
Bernard and Tyrone involuntarily started. “A
sad meeting! If this girl comes to harm, I fear
my reason will desert me.”

“Why, William!” cried his wife; “are your
thoughts more bound up in the child of a stranger,
than in your own flesh and blood?”

“Yes, Sarah, I confess it is even so. I have
struggled hard against it—I have sought to share
my affection alike with each member of my family;
but why, I know not—perhaps by her angel
disposition—the gentle forsaken has been the
idol of my secret thoughts. But enough of this,
Sarah; the subject is painful to me;” and he
pressed his hands against his heated temples, as
though to still their throbbing.

“What course do you intend to pursue with

your prisoner?” enquired Tyrone, anxious to
draw his thoughts into another channel.

“Death!” exclaimed Webber, quickly and fiercely,
while his teeth clenched, and his brow contracted
into a frown of unshaken resolve.

“Death!” cried all at once.

“Ay, death! there must be an example made!”
said Webber, in a deep, stern tone.

“William!” cried his wife, rushing to him:—
“You are not yourself,—do not talk thus!”

“Sarah,” returned Webber, gently pushing her
from him, while the frown grew darker on his
brow, “seek not to alter it; I have said.”

“But why not appeal to the law for redress?”
asked Tyrone.

“You overlook, Tyrone, that our laws here
are almost ineffective, and force us, in a measure,
to make our own.”

“True! I did not think of that.”

“Now, Bill Webber, I'll jest tell you what 'tis,”
began Bernard: “I know my opinion aint o' no
great account, any how; but I've known you
ever since I was a leetle boy, and somehow I kind
o' feel I have a right to say something; and I'm
jest agoing to say, if you could manage to punish
this ere infernal scoundrel some way, without
taking his life, you'll feel a great deal better when
you come to die yourself. I haint the least doubt
but the feller oughter die, to get his deserts; but
ye see, the Almighty made him, and has kept him
alive, so far, and will undoubtedly punish him,
some day or other; and now the question is,
whether you hadn't better let the Almighty take
his own way about it, instead of taking all o' the
responsibility yourself?”

“I know your honest heart, Bernard,” said
Webber, approaching and grasping his hand; “I
know in all you say, you aim for my own good;
but in this I am resolved, and must have my own
way, therefore seek not to alter me.”

“Wal, if your mind's made up,” rejoined Bernard,
“I aint the chap to say anything furder;
only if you want any help, Harvey Bernard's right
here, and he haint never been known to refuse a
friend assistance yit. I jest spoke, 'cause I kind
o' considered it a duty to do it, and bein' as how
I've eased my mind, I haint nothing furder to
say about the matter.”

Just at this instant was heard the clatter of a
horse's hoofs, and all sprang eagerly to the door.
“What news, my son?” cried Webber, as Rufus,
pale and breathless, leaped from his panting steed.

“She—they are safe and coming!” replied he,
almost wildly.

“Thank God, and you!” exclaimed Webber,
clasping him in his arms, as though he were a
child. “You have relieved my brain of a weight
of anguish. But what is the matter, my son?”—
added he in alarm, as he became aware of an increasing
languor on the part of Rufus.

“Father, I am ill!” sighed Rufus, faintly.

“You are indeed, my son!” and he bore him
into the house.

Cordials, such as they had, were administered,
but to no effect. He grew wild, delirious, and
was finally placed in bed, in a high state of fever.
His mother, whose whole soul seemed bound up
in him, paced the room, wringing her hands in an
agony of grief, and crying: “Oh, my God! my
God! spare me this!”

There are some people so constituted by nature,
that they possess no feelings in common with the
rest of mankind. With those around them they
have no kindred ties, no sympathetic chord that
vibrates at the slightest touch, linking soul with
soul in the holy bond of friendship. They live
in, yet separate as it were, from the world; and
are thought by the rest of mankind to be cold, unsocial,
unfeeling. Perhaps in a great measure
they are so; yet notwithstanding, they have their
objects of affection, for the heart must cling to
something, and in proportion as they isolate
themselves from the many, so does their soul embrace
the few, or the one, with a violence of passion
others deem not they possess. Such was, in
part, the case with Mrs. Webber. 'Tis true she
liked her husband, she liked her family, her
friends, but Rufus was the idol, the only idol of
her soul. In him were her hopes, fears and joys
centered. A woman that said very little, she
was not one to make an outward show of affection,
by a thousand little demonstrations that
count so much in the eyes of the world, and a
stranger might have thought she felt alike toward
all. She would steal away unseen, and hour by
hour watch, concentrating her very soul on him,
with all the deep, holy devotion of a mother's love.
And well was he worthy—for within his breast
beat a pure, a high-minded, noble heart. What
then were her feelings when she saw him stretched
on a bed of sickness—pain—with reason, the
immortal endowment of God, tottering upon its
throne? Who shall tell—who describe a mother's
anguish in a scene like this? when she beholds
the beloved of her soul in the jaws of earth's mightiest
foe, Death! Words fail, the pen droops, and
we veil the feelings from the eyes of all but imagination.

An hour or two later Merton and Emily arrived.
They were warmly greeted, but there
was no rejoicing. Over all hung the cold icy
gloom which pervades the house of mourning.—
Words were said in whispers, and each glided
stealthily about, with that mysterious air which
reminds one of the fabled spectres of tradition.—
Emily, like a ministering spirit, immediately took
her place at the bedside of the sufferer. She felt
grieved to the heart, for she loved him with a
sister's love. Both herself and Merton were surprised
to learn he had been in pursuit of them.—
They had never seen him. Once they had fancied
they heard the sound of a horse somewhat
distant, but nothing further. This annunciation
surprised all, for it was evident that he had seen
them, as he had told of their coming. Webber
mused on the singular conduct of Rufus, prior to
his departure, which now struck him with force,
shook his head gravely, but said nothing. As
soon as Merton had partaken of some refreshment,
he mounted another horse and rode swiftly to St.
Louis for a physician, who arrived toward night
of the following day. He felt of the sufferer's
pulse—looked grave—felt of his pulse again—shook
his head, and pronounced it a severe case of intermittent
fever.

On opening the door of the apartment where
Curdish had been confined, to the astonishment of
all it was found empty, which was the more unaccountable,
as everything was fast just as it had
been left the evening before. Webber was both
vexed and perplexed that the villain had thus escaped;
but after reasoning awhile with himself,
he came to the conclusion that under the present
circumstances it was all for the best; and his
thoughts of vengeance gradually emerged into
fears for the life of his youngest born.

We must now leave all for the present, and turn
to another scene.