 | CHAPTER XXVII. Richard Hurdis, or, The avenger of blood : a tale of Alabama |  |
27. CHAPTER XXVII.
Had we never lov'd so blindly:
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted.
Burns.
We completed our preparations at an early hour,
and by midnight were ready to depart on our work
of peril. We had so arranged it as not to go
forth en masse—it was feared that, if seen, our
array would occasion apprehension, and possibly
lead to a detection and defeat of all our plans. By
twos and threes, therefore, our men set forth, at different
periods, with the understanding that, taking
different routes, we were all to rendezvous at the
“Day Blind,” by one o'clock, or two, at farthest.
The onslaught we proposed to make with the first
blush of the morning. I remained, with two others,
behind with Colonel Grafton, until the designated
hour drew nigh; then, with emotions exciting in the
last degree, and greatly conflicting with each other,
I mounted my steed, and we took our departure for
the place agreed on. Let us now return, for a few
night was so suddenly changed to gloom from festivity.
We were permitted to see nothing of her
sorrows. When first stricken by the intelligence
which her father gave of her felon lover, her grief
had shown itself in a single sudden shriek, a fainting
fit, and, for some time after, a complete prostration
of all her physical powers. Restorative medicines
were given her, and it was only when she was
believed to be in a deep and refreshing slumber, that
her mother retired to her own apartment. But the
maiden did not sleep. The medicines had failed to
work for her that oblivion, that momentary blindness
and forgetfulness, which they were charitably intended
to occasion. The desire to relieve her mother's
anxiety, which she witnessed, led her to an undoubted
effort at composure, and she subdued her
sorrows so far, as to put on the aspect of a quiet
apathetic condition, which she was very far from enjoying.
She seemed to sleep, and as the hour was
late, her mother, availing herself of the opportunity,
retired for the night, leaving her daughter in charge
of a favourite nurse, who remained in the apartment.
Julia, who was no less watchful than suffering, soon
discovered that her companion slept. She rose gently,
and hurried on her clothes. Her very sorrows
strengthened her for an effort totally inconsistent
with her prostration but a little while before; and
stood, prompted her to a degree of artfulness,
which was alike foreign to her nature and education.
The seeming necessity of the case could alone furnish
its excuse. She believed that the life of the
youth was jeoparded by his position. In the first
feeling of anger, her father had declared him to be
liable to the last punishments of the law, and, in the
same breath, avowed himself, as an honest magistrate,
bound to inflict them. She was resolved, if
possible, to defeat this resolution, and to save the unhappy
youth, whom, if she might no longer look
upon with respect, she, at least, was still compelled
to love. Without impugning the judgment of her
father, she felt the thought to be unendurable, which
told her momently of the extreme peril of the criminal;
and, under its impulse, she was nerved to a degree
of boldness and strength, quite unlike the submissive
gentleness which usually formed the most
conspicuous feature in her character and deportment.
We have already seen that it was really no part of
Grafton's desire, whatever might be the obnoxiousness
of Eberly to the laws, to bring him to trial.
Though evidently connected with the banditti that
infested the country, and, strictly speaking, liable to
all the consequences of their crimes—yet the evidence
had been conclusive to Grafton, that the unhappy
youth had shared in none of their performances.
offence against him, Grafton must have brought him
to punishment, and would have done so, though his
heart writhed at its own resolution; but it was with
a feeling of relief, if not of pleasure, that he found
no such evidence, and felt himself morally, if not legally,
freed from the necessity of prosecution, which
such a knowledge must have brought with it. To
secure Eberly until his late associates were dispersed
or destroyed, was the simple object of his detention;
for, to speak frankly, it was Grafton's fear, that if
suffered to go forth, he might still be carried back,
by the desperate force of circumstances, to the unholy
connections from which he had voluntarily
withdrawn himself. He had no confidence in the
avowed resolutions of the youth, and deemed it not
improbable, that, as his repentance seemed originally
to have been the result of his attachment to
Julia, the legitimate consequence of her rejection
would be to throw him back upon his old principles
and associates. But this doubt did injustice
to the youth. The evil aspects of crime had disgusted
him enough, even if the loveliness of virtue
had failed to persuade him. His resolution was
fixed, and considering his moral claims alone, without
reference to the exactions of society, it may be
safely said, that never was Eberly more worthy of
when it was lost to him forever.
With cautious hands she undid the fastening of
her apartment, and, trembling at every step, but still
resolute, she ascended the stairs which led up to the
garret chambers. In one of these Eberly was confined.
From this—as there was but a single window,
to leap from which would have been certain
death—there was no escape, save by the door, and
this was securely fastened on the outside, and the
key in the possession of a faithful negro, to whom
Colonel Grafton had given particular instructions for
the safe keeping of the prisoner. But the guardian
slept on his post, and it was not difficult for Julia to
detach the key from where it hung, upon the fore-finger
of his outstretched hand—this she did without
disturbing him in the slightest degree. In another
moment she unclosed the door, and fearlessly entered
the chamber.
“Julia!”—was the exclamation of the prisoner, as,
with a fresh sentiment of joy and love, he beheld
her standing before him. “Julia, dear Julia, do I
indeed behold you? You have not then forgotten—
you do not then scorn the wretch who is an outcast
from all beside?”
He approached her. Her finger waved him back,
while she replied, in melancholy accents:
“Clifton, you must fly. You are in danger—
your very life is endangered, if you linger here.”
“My life!” replied the criminal, in tones of melancholy
despair. “My life! Let them take it. If
I must leave you, Julia, I care not to live. Go to
your father—let him bring the executioner—you
will see that I will not shrink from the defiling halter
and the cruel death—nay, that I will smile at
their approach, when I am once assured that I cannot
live for you.”
“And you cannot!” said the maiden, in sad but
firm accents. “You must forget that thought, Clifton—that
wish, if, indeed, it be your wish. You
must forget me, as it shall now be the chief task of
my life, to forget you.”
“And can you, Julia—can you forget me, after
those hours of joy—those dear walks, and the sweet
delights of so many precious, and never-to-be-forgotten
meetings? Can you forget them, Julia? Nay,
can you desire to forget them? If you can—if such
be, indeed, your desire, then death shall be doubly
welcome—death in any form. But I cannot believe
it, Julia—I will not. I remember—but no! I will
not remind you—I will not seek to remind you,
when you declare your desire to forget. Why have
you sought me here, Julia? Know you not what I
am—have you not been told what the world calls
me—what the malice of my cruel fortune has compelled
I tell you that I am—”
“Hush!” she exclaimed, in faltering and expostulating
accents. “Say it not, Clifton—say it not.
If, indeed, it be true as they tell me—”
“They have told you then, Julia?—your father
has told you—and oh! joy of my heart, you ask of
me if what they have said to you can be true. You
doubt—you cannot believe it of me. You shall not
believe it—”
“Then it is not true, Clifton?” cried the maiden
eagerly, advancing as she spoke, while the tear which
glistened in her eyes, took from her whole features
the glow of that joy and hope, which had sprung up
so suddenly in her bosom. “They have slandered
you when they pronounced you the associate of these
outlaws—it is a wanton, a malicious falsehood, which
you can easily disprove? I knew it—I thought it from
the first, Clifton; and yet, when my father told me—
and told me with such assurances—with such solemn
looks and words—and upon such evidence—ah! Edward,
forgive me, when I confess to you, I could not
doubt what I yet dreaded and trembled to believe.
But you deny it, Edward—you will prove it to my
father's conviction to be false—you will cleanse
yourself from this polluting stigma, and I feel, I
hope, we shall be happy yet. My father—”
The chilling accents of her lover's voice recalled
began to fancy. He dashed the goblet of delight
from the parting lips which were just about to quaff
from its golden circle.
“Alas! Julia, it is only too true—your father has
told you but the truth. Bitter is the necessity that
makes me say so much; but, I will not deceive you;
indeed, if he told you all, he must have told you
that I came of my own free will to undeceive him.
My own lips pronounced to him my own fault, and,
humbling as its consciousness is to me, I must declare
that, in avowing my connection with these
wretched associates, I have avowed the extent of
my errors, though not of my sufferings. Thank
God! I have taken part in none of their crimes—I
have shared in none of their spoils—my hands are
free from any stain, save that which they have received
from grasping theirs in fellowship. This, I
well know is a stain too much, and the contact
of my hands would only defile the purity of yours.
Yet, could I tell you the story of wo and suffering
which drove me to this miserable extremity, you
would pity me, Julia, if you could not altogether
forgive. But wherefore should I tell you this?”
“Wherefore!” was the moaning exclamation of
the maiden as the youth briefly paused in his speech,
“Wherefore—it avails us nothing. Yet I will believe
you, Clifton—I must believe that you have
not sink under the shame of my own consciousness.
I believe you, Edward—I believe you, and I pity
you—from my very soul I pity you. But I can no
more; let us part now. Leave me—fly while there
is yet time. My father returns in the morning, and
I fear that his former regard for you will not be
sufficient to save you from the punishment which
he thinks due to your offences. Indeed, he will
even be more strict and severe because of the imposition
which he thinks you have practised upon
him—”
“And upon you, Julia—you say nothing of that.”
“Nothing! Because it should weigh nothing
with me at such a moment. I feel not the scorn
which you have put upon me, Edward, in the loss
which follows it.”
“Blessed, beloved spirit; and I too must feel the
loss; and such a loss! Oh! blind, base fool that I
was, to suffer the pang and the apprehension of a
moment, to baffle the hopes and the happiness of a
life. Ah, Julia, how can I fly? How can I leave
you?—knowing what you are, and not forgetting
that you have loved me, worthless as I am.”
“No more of this, Edward,” replied the maiden,
quickly withdrawing her hand from the grasp which
his own had passionately taken upon it; “no more
of this; it will be your policy, as it shall be my duty,
must forget each other. It will be my first prayer
always, to be able to forget what it must only be
my constant shame and sorrow to remember.”
“And why your shame and sorrow, Julia? I tell
you that in connecting myself most unhappily with
these wretched people, I have abstained from their
offences. If they have robbed the traveller, I have
taken none of their spoils. If they have murdered
their victim, his blood is not upon my hands. I
have been their victim, indeed, rather than their
ally. They forced me—a dire necessity forced me—
into their communion; in which I have been a witness
rather than a partaker.”
“Alas! Edward, I am afraid the difference is but
too slight to be made use of in your defence. Did
you witness to condemn and disapprove? Did you
seek to prevent or repair? Did you stay the uplifted
hand which struck down the traveller? Did you
place yourself on his side to sustain and help him in
the moment of his deadly and last peril? My father
would have taken this part—his lessons have always
taught me that such was the part always of the
brave and honourable gentleman. If you have taken
this part, Edward; if you can prove to him that you
have taken this part—”
She paused. The criminal shrunk from her
while she spoke, and covered his face with his
broken accents—
“I have not. I have seen him robbed of his little
wealth—I have seen him stricken down by the unexpected
blow; and I have not lifted voice or
weapon in his defence. Basely have I witnessed
the deeds of baseness, and fittingly base should be
my punishment. And yet, Julia, I could say that
—will you hear me?” he demanded, seeing that she
turned away.
“Speak—speak,” she murmured faintly.
“Yes, Julia, I have that to say which would go
far to make you forget and forgive my weakness—
my crime.”
“Alas! Edward, I fear not. There is nothing
—”
“Nothing! Nay, Julia, you care not to hear my
defence. You are indifferent whether I live or
die—whether they prove me guilty or innocent of
crime,” said he, with a bitter manner of reproach.
She answered with a heart-touching meekness.
“And yet I come even now to save your life.
I throw aside the fears and delicacy of my sex—I
seek you at midnight, Edward—I seek you but to
save. Does this argue indifference?”
“To save my life. Oh, Julia, bethink you for a
moment what a precious boon this is to one of whom
you rob every thing which made life dear, at the
a mockery—a sad, a cruel mockery. Let them take
the life if they will; you will see how that boon is
valued by me, to which you offer to prove that you
are not indifferent. You will see how readily I can
surrender the life which the withdrawal of your love
has beggared—which the denial of your esteem has
embittered forever!”
“Ah, Edward, speak not thus. Wherefore would
you force me to say that my love is not to be denied
nor my esteem withheld, by a will, or in an instant?”
“And you do still love—you will promise, Julia,
to esteem me yet—”
“No! I will promise nothing, Edward—nothing.
I will strive only to forget you; and though I
promise not myself to be successful in the effort,
duty requires that it should yet be made. Go now.
Let us part, and forever. My father and his guests
are all gone—there is none to interrupt you in your
flight. Fly—fly far, Edward, I pray you. Let us
not meet again; since nothing but pain could come
from such a meeting.”
“But, Julia, will you not promise me that if I can
acquit myself worthily, you will once more receive
me.”
“I cannot! my father's will must determine mine,
Edward; since it is to his judgment only that I can
men, and what is not. Were I to yield to my affections
this decision, I should, perhaps, care nothing
for your offences; I should deem you no offender;
and love would blindly worship at an altar from
which truth would turn away in sorrow and reproach.
Urge me not farther, Edward, on this
painful subject. Solemnly I declare to you, that
under no circumstances henceforward can I know
you, unless by permission of my father.”
Eberly strode away, with a spasmodic effort, to
another part of the chamber. His emotions left him
speechless for a while; when he returned to her, his
articulation was still imperfect; and it was only by
great resolution that he made himself intelligible at
last.
“I will vex you no more. I will be to you, Julia,
nothing—even as you wish. I will leave you; and
when next you hear of me, you will weep, bitterly
weep; not, perhaps, that you have sent me from you
in scorn, but that I was not wholly worthy of that
love which you were once happy to bestow upon
me.”
He passed her as he spoke these words, and before
she could fix any one of the flitting and confused
fancies in her mind, he had left the apartment,
and her ear could readily distinguish his footsteps as,
without any of the precautions of the fugitive, trembling
stairs. She grasped the post of the door, and hung
on it for support. Her strength which had sustained
her throughout the interview, was about to leave
her. When she ceased to hear his retreating steps she
recovered herself sufficiently to reach her chamber;
where, after locking carefully her door, she threw
herself, almost without life, upon her bed, and gave
vent to those emotions which now, from long restraint,
like the accumulated torrents of the mountain,
threatened in their flow to break down all barriers,
and overwhelm the region which they were
meant to invigorate and refresh. One bitter sentence
of hopelessness alone escaped her lips; and the
unsyllabled moaning which followed it, attested the
depths of these sorrows which she had so long and
so nobly kept in check.
“He leaves me—I have seen him for the last
time—I have heard his departing footsteps—departing
forever. Hark! it is the tread of a horse. It
is his. He flies—he is safe from harm. He will
be free—he will be happy, and I—Oh! my father—
I am desolate!”
| CHAPTER XXVII. Richard Hurdis, or, The avenger of blood : a tale of Alabama | |