University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

We did not delay, having now put ourselves in
readiness, but, after a few brief words of parting, we
left Foster and the emissary, whose searching eyes
I was truly anxious to escape from. That fellow's
stare gave me more uneasiness, and a greater idea
of the danger that I ran, than any other one circumstance
since my connection with the ruffians. Foster
did not let me leave him without giving me
some expressive glances. I could see that he was
desirous of saying something to me, which, I fancied,
must concern Eberly; but we had no opportunity
for a private word after Webber joined us, and to
make an opportunity was wishing far more than I
desired or Foster was prepared for. Off we went
at full gallop, and we were soon out of sight of the

encampment, and rough hills were momently rising
between us. In the course of a quarter of an hour I
found myself going once more over the very spot
where we found the body of William Carrington.
I shuddered involuntarily as my eyes rested upon it:
the next moment I saw the glance of Webber fixed
curiously on the same spot, and a slight smile played
upon his lips, as he caught my look of inquiry.

“A tall fellow was tumbled here only the other
day,” he said with an air of indifference that vexed
me, “who might have been alive and kicking now, if
his heels had been less active.”

I now drew nigher, and pretended a curiosity to
hear the story, but he baffled my desire as he replied—

“Not now—another time, when we are more at
leisure I'll tell you stories of what I've seen and
know, to make you open your eyes much wider
than you do now. But here we reach the road, the
`Day Blind' as they call it, for it's so deep and narrow
that there's always a shade over it. This road,
taking the left hand fork, when you get on a mile
farther, takes you direct to Grafton's. You'll see
the avenue leading to the Lodge, to the right, and a
pretty place enough it is. You can lie to-night at a
house which you'll see two miles after you pass
Grafton's, where you'll find two of our people.
Give them the two first signs, and they'll know who

you are, and provide you with any help you may
call for. But the places which you must watch in
particular, are the two avenues to the Lodge—the
front and rear. There is a thick wood before the
back avenue, where we've got one of our men
watching now. You must relieve him and send him
to me instantly. He will not need you to urge him
to full speed if you will only remember to tell him
that the saddle wants nothing but the stirrups, he'll
understand that, and come.”

“But what does that mean?” I demanded.

“Oh, nothing much—it's a little matter between
us, that doesn't at all concern the fraternity.”

“What! have you secrets which the club is not
permitted to share?”

“Yes—when they do not conflict with our laws.
An affair with a petticoat is a matter of this sort.”

“And yet such is Eberly's affair.”

“True! But Eberly would sacrifice all to the petticoat,
and for that we punish him. He might go
after a dozen women if he pleased, and have a seraglio
like the Grand Turk, and none of us would
say him nay, if he did not allow them to play Dalilah
with him and get his secret. But listen now,
while I give you the necessary information.”

Here we stopped awhile, and he led me into the
woods, where he gave me a brief account of Grafton
family and Lodge, informed of one or two hiding

places of Eberly, and even told me at what hour I
might look to see him arriving at the avenue. So
keen had been his watch, and that of his creatures,
upon the doomed fugitive, that, as I afterwards discovered,
he was not only correct to the very letter
in what he told me, but he also knew every movement
which his victim made; and there had not
been a day, for the three months preceding, in which
he had not been able at any time to lay hands upon
him. Indeed, had the directions of Webber been
followed while in the Sipsy swamp, Eberly could
not by any possibility have escaped, unless through
my evasion of the murderous task which had been
then assigned me. I need not add that such would
have been the case. Regarding the unhappy youth as
not undeserving of punishment, I had yet no desire to
become his executioner. I had taken enough of this
duty on my hands already, and my late discovery,
touching John Hurdis, had increased the solemnity
of the task to a degree which put the intensity of
my excitement beyond all my powers of description.
I could now only reflect that I had sworn in
the chamber of death, and in the presence of the
dead, to execute the eternal sentence of justice upon
the person of my own brother. When Webber left
me in that wood, I renewed the terrible oath before
Heaven.

But to my present task. I rode forwards as I

had been counselled, and soon came in sight of the
well known Lodge, which, whatever might be my
wish, I did not dare to enter, until I had first got out
of the way of the spy whom Webber kept upon it,
and whom he requested me to send to him. Avoiding
the entrance accordingly I fell into a by-path,
which ran round the estate, and whistling a prescribed
tune, as I approached the back avenue, I had
the satisfaction to hear the responsive note from the
wood opposite. Who should present himself at my
summons, but my ancient foe, the Tuscaloosa gambler
whom they called George. I felt the strongest
disposition to take the scoundrel by the throat, in a
mood betwixt merriment and anger; but there was
a stake of too much importance yet to be played for;
and with praiseworthy patience I forbore. Subduing
my voice, and restraining my mood to the
proper pitch, I introduced myself to him in the prescribed
form. I showed him the two first signs of
the club, the sign of the striker, and the sign of the
feeler—the first being that of the common horse-thief
or mail robber—the other that which empowers
a member to probe the nature of the man he
meets and secure him, if he thinks he can, to the
uses of the brotherhood. I gave him my assumed
name, and the history of my membership, and then
sent him on his way—happy to get him out of mine—
to the brothers in the encampment. I waited with
impatience till he had gone fairly out of sight, then,
with a full heart, and a bosom bounding once more
with freedom, I entered the avenue, and hurried forwards
to the dwelling of my friend.

My disguise was quite as complete in concealing
me from Col. Grafton, as it had been in hiding me
from my foes. It was with difficulty I persuaded
him to know me. His first words, after he became
convinced of my identity, were—

“And the poor girl Katharine? How did she
stand your tidings?”

“She is dead.” I told him all the particulars;
and accounted for the disguise in which I appeared,
by telling him what were the novel duties which I
had undertaken.

“You are a bold man—a very bold man, Mr. Hurdis—and
how far have you been successful?”

Briefly, I related to him my meeting with Foster
—the success of my plans—his revelations to me—
and the progress of events until I came to the encampment
in the Sipsy swamp. These he listened
to with an intense interest, and frequently interrupted
me to relate little incidents within his own
knowledge, which, strange and unaccountable before,
found an easy solution when coupled with such
as I related. When I had told him thus far, I came
to an uneasy halt. He had evidently no apprehension
that he could be interested farther in such a narrative,

than as a good citizen and a public magistrate.
Finding me at a pause, he thus spoke:

“And you left these rascals in the Sipsy—you
have come now for assistance, have you not?”

“You are right, Colonel—I have come to get
what assistance I can to bring them to punishment.
But I left them not in the Sipsy—they are nigher
than you think for; and much more conveniently
situated for a surprise.”

“Ha!—in the `Day Blind'—is it so? That has
long been a suspicious place—and if my conjecture
is right, I will do my best to ferret them out, and
clear it for good and all.”

“They are near it, if not in it,” was my reply. I
proceeded to describe the place which he very well
knew.

“In three days more, Hurdis, I shall be ready
for the hunt. We cannot conveniently have it
sooner; since a little domestic matter will, for the
next day or two, take up all my attention; and I
must forget the magistrate for a brief period in the
father. You are come in season, my friend, for our
family festivities. My daughter, you must know,
—”

“Let me stop you, Colonel Grafton—I do know;
and I trust you will not regard the bearer of ill
tidings as responsible for the sorrow which he brings.

Your daughter, you would tell me, is to be married
to Mr. Clifton—”

“Yes—it is that. But what ill tidings?”

“Mr. Clifton is with these ruffians—I saw him in
the Sipsy swamp.”

“What! a prisoner?”

I shook my head.

“Nothing worse, I trust. They have not murdered
him, Mr Hurdis? He lives?”

“He lives, but is no prisoner, Colonel Grafton.
It is my sorrow to be compelled to say, that he was
with them voluntarily when I saw him.”

“How! I really do not understand you.”

I hurried over the painful recital, which he heard
in speechless consternation. The strong man failed
before me. He leaned with a convulsive shudder
against the mantel place, and covered his face with
his hands. While he stood thus, his daughter entered
the room, with a timid and sweet smile upon
her lips, but shrunk back the moment that she saw
me. As yet, none of the family but Colonel Grafton
himself, knew who I was. The father turned as he
heard her voice.

“Julia,” he said, “my daughter,”—go to your
chamber—remain there till I send for you. Do not
leave it.”

His voice was mournful and husky, though he
strove to hide his emotion. She saw it, and prepared

to obey. He led her by the hand to the door,
looking back at me the while; and when there, she
whispered something in his ears. He strove to
smile as he heard it, but the effort was a feeble and
ineffectual one.

“Go to your mother, my child—tell her that it
matters nothing. And do you keep your chamber.
Do not come down stairs till I call you.”

The girl looked at him with some surprise, but
she did not utter the question, which her eyes sufficiently
spoke. Silently she left the room, and he
returned to me instantly.

“Hurdis, you have given me a dreadful blow;
and I cannot doubt that what you told me, you believe
to be the truth. But may you not be deceived?
It is every thing to me and my child, if you can think
so—it is more important, if you are not, that I should
be certified of the truth. You saw Clifton in the
swamp with these villains—that I doubt not. It
may be too that you heard them claim him as a colleague.
This they might do—such villains would
do any thing—they might claim me as well as you
—for the horse thief and the murderer would not
scruple to rob the good name from virtue, and murder
the fair reputation of the best of us. They have
sought to destroy me thus already. Tell me then
on what you ground your belief—give me the particulars.

It may be, too, that Clifton, if he leagues
with them at all, does so for some purpose like your
own.”

How easy would it have been to deceive the father—to
persuade him to believe any thing which
might have favoured his desires, though against the
very face of reason and reflection.

“I would I could answer you according to your
wish, but I cannot. I have told you nothing but the
truth—what I know to be the truth—if the confessions
of Clifton himself, in my hearing, and to the
leader of this banditti, can be received in evidence.”

“His own confessions—Great God!—can it be
possible! But I hear you. Go on, Mr. Hurdis—
tell me all. But take a chair, I pray you. Be seated,
if you please, for I must.”

He strode over the floor towards a seat, with a slowness
of movement which evidently proceeded from
a desire to conceal the feebleness of body which he
certainly felt, and to a certain extent exhibited. He
sunk into the chair, his hands clasped, and drooping
between his knees, while his head was bent forward,
in painful earnestness, as I proceeded in my story.
I related, step by step, all the subsequent particulars
in my own narrative, suppressing those only which
did not concern Clifton. He heard me patiently,
and without interruption, to the end. A single groan

only escaped him as I concluded; and one brief exclamation
declared for whose sake only, all his suffering
was felt—

“My poor, poor Julia!”

Well might this be his exclamation; and as it came
from his lips, while his eyes were closed, and his
head fell forward upon his breast—I could see the
cherished hopes of a life vanishing with the breath
of a single moment. That daughter was the pride
of his noble heart. Nobly had he taught—dearly
had he cherished her; with a fond hand he had led
her along the pleasant paths of life, securing her
from harm, and toiling with equal care, for her happiness.
And all for what? My heart joined with
his, as I thought over these things, and it was with
difficulty I could keep my lips from saying after his
own—“poor, poor Julia!”

At this moment a servant entered the apartment.

“Mr. Clifton, sir!”

“Ha! comes he then!” was the sudden exclamation
of the father, starting from his chair, and, in a
single instant, throwing aside the utter prostration
of soul which appeared in his features, and which
now gave place to a degree of energy and resolution,
which fully spoke for the intense fire which had
been kindled in his heart.

“Show him in!”

The servant disappeared.

“This night, Mr. Hurdis, this man was to have
married my daughter. You have saved us just in
time. You speak of his repentance—you have almost
striven to excuse him—but it will not answer.
I thank you—thank you from my heart—that you
have saved us from such connection. Step now into
this chamber. You shall hear what he will say—
whether he will seek to carry out his game of deception;
and, to the last, endeavour to consummate
by villany, what his villany had so successfully
begun. It is but right that you should hear his answers
to my accusation. He may escape the vengeance
of his brother scoundrels—but me he shall
not escape. He comes—into that chamber, Mr. Hurdis,
I must beg you to retire—bear with me if I seem
rude in hurrying you thus. My misery must excuse
me, if I am less heedful than I should be of ordinary
politeness.”

Thus, with that nice consideration of character
which made him somewhat a precisian in manners,
he strove to forget his own feelings in his effort to
avoid offending mine. At that moment I could have
forgiven him a far greater display of rudeness than
that for which he apologised. When I looked upon
the face of that father, solicitous to the last degree
for the welfare of the beloved child of whom such
care had been taken, and thought upon the defeat of
all his hopes, and possibly all of hers, which had followed

my narration, I could not but wonder at the
iron strength of soul which could enable him to bear
his disappointment so bravely.

He conducted me into the little room, to which
for the present he had consigned me, and taking from
it a small mahogany box, which I readily conceived
to be a case of pistols, he returned instantly to the
apartment which I left, where, a moment after, he
was joined by Clifton.