University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

My unexpected return, of course, brought the family
together. John Hurdis could not well be absent,
and he was a pale and silent listener to my melancholy
narrative. The story was soon told, and
a dumb horror seized upon all. I saw that he was
palsied—that he shivered—that a spasmodic emotion
had fastened upon all his limbs, but even had he
not been guilty, such emotion, at such a narrative,
would have been natural enough. He rose to leave
the room, but staggered in such a manner that he
was forced once more to take his seat. My account
of the murder had confirmed the story of the emissary.
He had a vain, vague hope before, that the
clan—the Mystic Confederacy—was a fable of the
stranger, got up for purposes yet unexplained, or, if
true, that its purposes and power, had been alike
exaggerated. The history of my seizure, and of the

pursuit of William Carrington, however, was attended
with so many circumstances of bold atrocity,
that he could deceive himself no longer as to the
strength and audacity of the clan. Still, his guilty
soul, could draw some consolation, even from a fate
so dreadful. He breathed with more freedom, when
he found that I unhesitatingly ascribed the murder
of my friend to the robbers, and had no suspicion in
any other quarter. His own common sense sufficiently
taught him that such a belief was the most
reasonable and natural to one who did not know the
truth; and with a consciousness of increased security,
from one quarter at least, he did not afflict himself
much with the reflection that he had been the
murderer of one unoffending person, and the cruel
destroyer of another's dearest hopes. So long as he
was himself safe, these considerations were of small
importance. And, yet let us not suppose that they
did not trouble him. He had not slept in peace from
the moment that he despatched Pickett on his
bloody mission. He was doomed never to sleep in
peace again—no, nor to wake in peace. Forms of
threatening followed his footsteps by day, and images
of terror haunted his dreams by night. He
might escape from human justice, but he soon felt
how idle was any hope to escape from that worst
presence of all—the constant consciousness of crime.

But I must not forget my own trobles in surveying

those of John Hurdis. Of his woes I had no
thought at this moment. My only thought was of
that fearful interview with Katharine. What would
I not have given could I have escaped it. But such
wishes were foolish enough. I had undertaken the
task, regarding it as a solemn duty, as well to the dead,
as to the living, and, sooner or later, the task was
to be executed. Delay was proof of weakness, and
that afternoon I set out for the house of the poor
maiden, widowed ere a wife. During the solitary
ride, I thought in vain of the words which I should
use in telling her the story. How should I break
its abruptness—how soften the severity of the
stroke. The more I thought of this—as is most
usually the case in such matters with most persons,
the more difficult and impracticable did the labour
seem, and, but for the shame of such a movement, I
could have turned my bridle, and trusted to a letter
to do that, which I felt it impossible that my lips
should do well. I had seen preachers, otherwise sagacious
enough, undertake to console the afflicted,
by trite maxims, which taught them—strangely
enough—to forbear grief for the very reason which
makes them grieve—namely, because their loss is
irreparable. “Your tears are vain,” says the book-man.—“Therefore
I weep,” replied the man. How
to avoid such wanton folly was the question with me,
yet it was a question not so easy to answer. The
mind runs upon commonplaces in the matter of human
consolation, and we prate of resignation to the
end of the chapter to those who never hear us.
This, of course, assumes the grief to be sincere.
There is a conventional sort of sorrow which is relieved
by conventional language; and the heir finds
obedience to the will of providence, a very natural
lesson. But the love of Katharine Walton seemed
to me a thing all earnestness. I had seen enough of
her to know that she could freely have risked life
for William Carrington—to tell her that no risk of
life could save him now, I felt convinced would almost
be at the peril of hers. Yet the irksome labour
must be taken—the risk must be met. I had that
sort of pride which always sent me forward when
the trial appeared a great one; and the very extremity
of the necessity, awakened in me an intensity
of feeling, which enabled me to effect my object.
And I did effect it—how it will be seen hereafter.
Enough, that I shared deeply in the suffering I was
unavoidably compelled to inflict.

It was quite dark when I reached her dwelling.
My progress towards it had been slow, yet I felt it
too fast for my feelings. I entered the house with
the desperate haste of one who distrusts his own resolution,
and leaps forward in order that it may not
leave him. My task was increased in difficulty, by
the manner in which Katharine met me. The

happy heart, confident in its hope, shone out in
her kindling eye, and in the buoyant tones of her
voice.

“Ah, Mr. Hurdis—back so soon! I did not look
for you for a whole month. What brought you—
but why do I ask, when I can guess so readily?
Have you seen Mary yet?”

While she spoke, her eyes peered behind me as if
seeking for another; and the pleasant and arch smile
which accompanied her words, was mingled with a
look of fondest expectation. I could not answer
her—I could not look upon her when I beheld this
glance. I went forward to a chair, and sank down
within it.

She arose and came hurriedly towards me.

“What is the matter—are you sick, Mr. Hurdis?”
And, though approaching me, her eyes reverted
to the entrance as if still seeking another. Involuntarily,
I shook my head as if in denial. She saw
the movement and seemed to comprehend it. Quick
as lightning, she demanded—

“You come alone?—Where's William—where's
Mr. Carrington?”

“He did not come with me, Katharine. He could
not.”

“Ha! could not—could not! Tell me why he could
not come, Mr. Hurdis. He is sick!—where did you

leave him? He is ill, perhaps—dangerously ill.
Tell me—speak, Richard Hurdis—your looks frighten
me.”

“They should, Katharine.”

I could not then speak more. My face was averted
from her. Trembling with half-suppressed emotion,
she hastened to confront me. Her voice grew thick
and hoarse as she again spoke.

“You have come for me, Richard.—You have
come for me to go to him. He must be ill, indeed,
when he sends for me. I will go to him at once—
let us set out instantly. Where did you leave him?
Is it far?”

I availed myself of the assistance which she thus
furnished me, and replied—

Near Tuscaloosa—a two days' journey.”

“Then the less time have we to spare, Richard.
Let us go at once. I fear not to travel by night—I
have done it before. But tell me, Mr. Hurdis, what
is his sickness. From what does he suffer?”

“An accident—a hurt.”

“Ha! a hurt—”

“A wound!”

“God be merciful—a wound—a wound. Out
with it, Richard Hurdis, and tell me all, if you be a
man. I am a woman, it is true, but I can bear the
worst, rather than the doubt which apprehends it.

How came he by a wound—how was he hurt—what
accident?”

“He was shot!”

“Shot! shot! By what—by whom? Tell me,
Richard, dear Richard—his friend—my friend—
tell me not that he is hurt dangerously—that he will
recover—that there are hopes. Tell me, tell me, if
you love me and would have me live.”

I shook my head mournfully. Her hand grasped
my arm, and her gripe though trembling, was firm
as steel.

“You do not say it—you cannot tell me, Richard—
that his wound is mortal. That William—I cannot
think it—I dare not, though you may tell me so—
that he will die!”

“Be calm, awhile, dear Katharine, and hear me.”
I answered retreatingly, while I took her hand,
with which she still continued to grasp my arm, in
my own. She released her hold instantly.

“There! I am calm. I am patient. I listen.
Speak now, Richard—fear not for me, but tell me
what I must hear, and what, if my apprehensions be
true, I shall never be better prepared to hear than
now. William Carrington is hurt—by an accident
you say. He sends for me. Well—I will go to him—
go this instant. But you have not told me that there
is hope—that he is not dangerously—not mortally
hurt. Tell me that. It is for that I wait.”

Wonderful woman! She had recovered her stature—her
firmness—her voice—all, in a single instant.
And never had she looked so beautiful as
now, when her eyes were shining with a fearful
light—when doubt and apprehension had imparted
to their natural fire, an expression of wildness, such
as the moon shows when mocked on her march, by
clouds, that flit over her disk, yet leave no impression
on its surface. When her small and rosy mouth,
the lips slightly parted and occasionally quivering,
exhibited the emotion, which she was only able to
subdue by assuming one of a higher character, and
putting on the aspect of command. Full, finely
formed in person, with a carriage in which grace
and dignity seemed twins, neither taking precedence
of the other, but both harmoniously co-operating,
the one to win, the other to sway; she seemed, indeed,
intended by nature to command. And she
did command. Seeing that I hesitated, she repeated
her injunction to me to proceed; but with a voice
and words that evidently proved her to have lost
some of her most sanguine hopes, by reason of my
reluctant and hesitating manner.

“Tell me one thing only—tell me that I am in
time to see him! That he will not be utterly lost—
that I may again hear his voice—that he may hear
mine—that I may tell him, I come to be with him
to the last—if need be, to die with him. Say, Richard—say,

my brother, for he called you his—say that
I will be in time for this.”

My answer was spoken almost without my own
consciousness, and it seemed as instantaneously, to
deprive her of all hers.

“You will not!”

With one wild, piercing shrick, she rent the air,
while tossing her arms above her head, she rushed
out of the room and into the passage. Then I heard
a dead, heavy fall; and, rushing after her, I found her
prostrate at the foot of the stairs, as utterly lifeless
as if a cleaving bolt had been driven through her
heart.