 | CHAPTER X.
THE AVENGER BAFFLED. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
THE AVENGER BAFFLED.
The screams of the maddened victim of his lust and
selfishness, had reached the ears of Edward Morton in
his chamber. They had startled him from slumbers,
which, no doubt, had their images of terror, such as
thronged about the couch of Richard, and sat heavy
upon his soul. The piercing agony of those shrieks
must have strangely tallied with his dreams, for he
started almost erect in his couch, his eyes wild and
staring, his hair moist and upright, his words broken,
thick, and incoherent. His attendant, Watson Gray,
who had been a faithful watcher beside his couch, ran
to him, and pressed him gently back upon the pillows,
using such language as he fancied might soothe to quiet
his nervous excitation; but, as the shrieks were continued,
and seemed to acquire greater volume with each
successive utterance, there was still an influence, beyond
his power of soothing, to keep the guilty and
wounded man in a state of agitation.
“What mean these hideous cries, Gray? was there
not some one besides yourself in my chamber before
they began? Did they take nobody hence—now, now
—but now?”
“No! you have been dreaming only. You are
feverish. Be quiet,—on your keeping quiet depends
every thing.”
“So it does; but can't you silence those noises? I
Is she dying?”
The question was put by the outlaw in low, husky
tones, which were scarcely audible. The answer was
necessarily uttered in the affirmative, though Gray was
reluctant to speak the truth, and would have readily
availed himself of a falsehood, had a plausible one that
moment suggested itself to his mind.
“They are operating upon her, perhaps?” continued
Morton; “that d—d fellow of a surgeon!—he cares
not what pain he gives her.”
“No, Captain, there is no operation necessary. The
doctor says it'll be all over with her soon. He's given
her hurts the last dressing that she'll ever need.”
“Ha! she will then die! She told me of this! I
remember; but I did not believe! I would to God she
might be saved, Gray! Can nothing still be done? See
the surgeon; let him do his best. I'm afraid you've let
her suffer.”
“No, every thing's been done. Old Mrs. Middleton
and Miss Flora have been nursing and watching her the
best part of the time themselves.”
“And there is then no hope? Poor Mary! Could
she be brought up again, I should be more kind to her,
Gray. I have been more of a savage to that poor,
loving creature, than to any other human being; and I
know not why, unless it was that she loved me better
than all others. What a strange nature is that of man
—mine, at least. How d—nably perverse has my
spirit been throughout;—actually, and always, at issue
with its own blessings. Ah! that shriek!—shut it out,
Gray—close the door—it goes like a sharp, keen arrow
to my brain!”
Under the momentary goadings of remorse, the outlaw
buried his face in the bed-clothes, and strove to exclude
from hearing the piercing utterance of that wo
which was born of his wickedness. But, for a time,
the effort was in vain. The heart-rending accents pursued
him, penetrated the thin barriers which would
have excluded them from the ears of the guilty man,
Watson Gray momentarily dreaded would drive him to
a condition of delirium little short of hers. But, suddenly,
the cries of terror ceased; so suddenly, that the
outlaw started with a shudder at the unexpected and
heavy silence.
“It is all over with her. She is dead. Go you and
see, Gray. Quickly, go, and tell me. Poor Mary! I
could have been more just to her had her claims been
less. I cannot believe that she is dead. No! no!—
not yet; though once I was wretch enough to which it.
Forgive me! God forgive me, for that wish!”
The voice of the outlaw subsided to a whisper. A
cold shudder passed through his frame. His eyes were
closed with terror. He fancied that the freed spirit of
the woman whom he supposed dead, hovered above
him, ere it took its final departure. Even the whispering
accents which followed from his lips broke forth in
spasmodic ejaculations.
“Forgive me, Mary; forgive! forgive! I should
have loved you better. I have been a wretch—a cold,
selfish, unfeeling wretch! I knew not your worth—
your value—and now! Ha! who is there? who?—ah,
Gray, is it you? Sit by me; take my hand in yours.
Well, she is gone—she sleeps.”
Gray had resumed his place by the bedside, while the
eyes of the trembling criminal were closed. His approach
startled the nervous man with a thrilling confirmation
of the partial supernatural fear which had
before possessed him.
“She sleeps,” said Gray, “but is not dead. Her
paroxysm has gone off; and, perhaps, she will only
waken when death comes on.”
“Ah! what a foolish terror possessed me but now.
I fancied that she was beside me!—I could have sworn
I heard her faintly whispering in my ears. What a
coward this weakness makes me.”
“Try to sleep, Captain. Remember how much depends
upon your soon getting well. We have a great
deal to do, you know.”
“Ah, true; you are a cool, sensible fellow, Gray. I
will try to sleep, but those dreams—those hideous
dreams. Keep beside me, Gray,—do not leave me.”
The slight reference which Gray had made to his
worldly schemes and grosser passions, recalled the outlaw
to his habitual self. He turned his head upon the
pillow, while Gray took one of his hands quietly within
his own. Sitting thus beside him, it was not long before
he discovered that the outlaw had sunk into an
equal slumber; and releasing his hold, he laid himself
down at the foot of the bed, under the influence of a
natural exhaustion, which soon brought a deeper sleep
upon his senses than that which possessed those of his
superior.
Night meanwhile stole onward with noiseless footstep,
and a deep silence overspread the whole barony. The
sleep of the outlaw was long, deep and refreshing. It
indicated a favourable condition of his wounds, such as
Watson Gray had predicted. The poor victim in the
neighbouring chamber seemed to sleep also, but her repose
promised no such agreeable results. The lamp of
life was flickering with uncertain light. The oil of the
vessel was nearly exhausted. Flora Middleton approached
her about midnight, and so still was her seeming
sleep, so breathlessly fast did her slumbers appear,
so composed her features, and so rigid her position, that
the maiden was struck with the dread lest the last sad
change had already taken placed. But, as she stooped
over the face of the sleeper, her silken ringlets were
slightly shaken by the faint breathing from her half-closed
lips, which still betrayed the presence of the reluctant
and lingering life. She appeared to sleep so
sweetly and soundly that Flora determined to snatch a
few moments of repose also. She needed such indulgence.
She had robbed herself of many hours of accustomed
sleep, in watching and waiting upon the wakeful
sufferings of her involuntary guest. Calling in the
servant, whose own slumbers never suffered impediment
or interruption in any situation, she resigned the
invalid to her care, giving her special instructions to
any change in the patient was at hand. Mira, the negro
woman to whom this trust was given, was one of the
staid family servants, such as are to be found in every
ancient southern household, who form a necessary part
of the establishment, and are, substantially, members,
from long use and habit, of the family itself. The children
grow up under their watchful eyes, and learn to
love them as if they were mothers, or at least grandmothers,
maiden aunts or affectionate antique cousins,
who win their affections by bringing bon bons in their
pockets, and join them in all their noisy games. They
rebuke the rudeness of the young, follow their steps in
their errant progress; warn them of danger, and put
them to bed at night. Mira was one of these valuable
retainers, who had watched the childhood of Flora, and
received from the latter all the kindness which she certainly
deserved.
“Now, Mommer,” said Flora, at leaving her, “don't
go to sleep. You've slept all the evening, and can
surely keep wakeful till I come. Call me the moment
the poor girl wakens, or if you see any difference.”
Mira promised every thing, took her seat beside the
couch of the patient, and really set out with a serious
determination to keep her eyes open to the last. But
when did a negro ever resist that most persuasive, seductive,
and persevering of all influences in the South,
particularly in the balmy month of June? When did
sleep deign to solicit, that he was not only too happy to
embrace? Mira soon felt the deep and solemn stillness
of the scene. The events of the few days previous had
excited her along with the rest; and the exhaustion of
her faculties of reflection, which is always a rapid affair
in all the individuals of her race, necessarily made her
more than ever susceptible to sleep. To do her all justice,
however, she made the most strenuous efforts to
resist the drowsy influence. She began several grave
discussions with herself, but in an undertone, on the occurrences
of the week. She discussed the merits of
the sundry prominent persons she had seen,—Rawdon
whom she resolved was either a prince or a “poor
buckrah” in his own country, but which—and a vast
interval lay between—she did not undertake to say.
But the lamp burned dimly in the hearth—the shadows
that flitted upon the walls, in correspondence with its
flickering light, increased the gloom—the patient beside
her was apparently sunk in the deepest slumber, and it
was in vain for the poor negro to contend with the magnetic
influence. Her head was gradually bent forward,
and, at length, lay upon the bedside. It was not long
after this when she slept quite as soundly as if this
blessing had never before been vouchsafed her.
When she slept the patient ceased to do so. With
that cunning which is said to mark most kinds of delirium,
she had feigned the slumbers which she was
never more to know. She perceived that she was
watched—she knew that she was restrained; and, sane
on one subject only, she had employed the little sense
that suffering had left her in deceiving her keepers.
From the moment when she was told that Edward
Morton occupied a neighbouring chamber, the only desire
which remained to her in life was to see him before
she died. For this had she raved in her paroxysm, but
they did not comprehend her; and the strong leading
desire of her mind had so far brought back her capacities
of thought and caution, as to enable her to effect
her object. When she saw Flora Middleton leave the
chamber, her hopes strengthened; and, when the negro
slept beside her, she rose from the couch, stealthily, and
with a singular strength, which could only be ascribed
to the fever in her system, and the intense desire—a
fever in itself—which filled her mind. With a deliberation
such as the somnambulist is supposed to exhibit,
and with very much the appearance of one, she lifted
the little lamp which was burning within the chimney,
and treading firmly, but with light footstep, passed out
of the apartment into the great passage-way of the
mansion, without disturbing the fast-sleeping negro who
had been set to watch beside her.
Meanwhile, her miserable and scarcely more sane
father, was inhabiting the neighbouring woods, and
prowling about the premises of Briar Park, as the gaunt
wolf hovers for his prey at evening, around the camp
of the western squatter. The woods formed a convenient
and accustomed shelter, and but little was required
to satisfy his wants. He had but one large,
leading appetite remaining, and food was only desirable
as it might supply the necessary strength for the gratification
of that appetite. Animal food did not often
pass his lips—ardent spirits never. The stimulus derived
from the one desire of his soul was enough for his
sustenance. Roots, acorns, and such stray bounty as
could be stealthily furnished by the neighbouring farmer
or his slave, from the cornfield or the potato-patch,
had been, since the beginning of the Revolution, the uncertain
resource of all the “poor bodies that were out.”
As one of these, Clarkson now found it easy to obtain
the adequate supply of his creature wants, while in the
neighbourhood of Briar Park. He soon discovered that
he could approach the negro houses, the kitchen, and
finally, the mansion itself, without incurring much, if
any risk. The soldiers who had been left behind, nominally
to protect the ladies, but really as a safeguard
to the wounded outlaw, were careless upon their watch.
Though stationed carefully, and counselled earnestly by
Watson Gray, they saw no cause for apprehension; and
conjectured that the scout simply cried “wolf,” in order
to establish his own importance. He cautioned and
threatened them, for he knew the sort of persons he had
to deal with, but as soon as his back was turned, they
stole away to little nooks in the wood, where, over a
log, with a greasy pack of cards, they gambled away
their sixpences, and sometimes their garments, with all
the recklessness which marks the vulgar nature. Clarkson
soon found out their haunts, watched them as they
stole thither, and then traversed the plantation at his
leisure. In this manner he had ascertained all the secrets
that he deemed it necessary to know. As his
whole thought was addressed to the one object, so he
any other. To know where Edward Conway
lay was the only knowledge which he desired; and this
information he gained from one of the house servants.
He had once penetrated to the door of the outlaw's
chamber, but, on this occasion, a timely glimpse of Watson
Gray and Mr. Hillhouse, warned him that the hour
of vengeance must still farther be delayed. That night,
however, of which we have spoken, seemed auspicious
to his object. The skies were cloudy, and the moon
obscured. A faint gray misty light pervaded the extent
of space. The woods looked more gloomy than ever
beneath it, and when the sentinels found that the mansion
had sunk into its usual evening quiet, they stole
away to an outhouse, and were soon swallowed up in
the absorbing interests of Jamaica rum and “old sledge.”
Clarkson looked in upon them as he went forward to the
house, but he took no interest in them or their proceedings,
when they were once out of his way. He penetrated
to the house without interruption, ascended the
stairs, and passed with impunity into the very chamber
of the outlaw. The lamp was nearly extinguished in
the chimney. A faint light was thrown around the
apartment, not sufficient to penetrate the gloom at the
remoter ends of it, and it had been particularly placed
in such a manner as to prevent it from playing upon the
suffering man. In consequence of this arrangement, the
greater part of the couch lay entirely in shadow; and
while Clarkson was looking about him in doubt which
way to proceed, he distinguished the person of Watson
Gray, lying almost at his feet upon the floor. A glance
at his face sufficed to show that he was not the man he
sought; and, passing around the body of the sleeper, he
cautiously approached the bed, and drawing the curtains
on one side, was aware, from the deep breathing, and
the occasional sigh which reached his ears, that the
man whom he had been so long in pursuit of was
lying before him. His heart had long been full of the
desire for vengeance, and his knife was ready in his
hand. It wanted but sufficient light to show him where
given. He had but to feel for the breast of his enemy,
and the rest was easy. He was about to do so, when
the light in the apartment was suddenly strengthened.
He looked up with momentary apprehension. The opposite
curtain was drawn aside in the same moment,
and he beheld, with terror, what he believed to be the
apparition of his long-perished daughter. Certainly, no
spectre could have worn a more pallid or awful countenance—no
glance from eyes that had once been mortal,
could have shone with more supernatural lustre.
The light of delirium and fever was there—and the
wild, spiritual gleam, which looks out, in fitful spasms,
from the hollow sockets of the dying. Their glances
met in the same instant, and what a life of mutual wo,
and terror, and desolation, did they each convey! A
shriek from both was the result of that unlooked-for encounter.
The light dropped from the hands of the dying
girl, upon the bed, and was extinguished; the dagger
fell harmlessly from his, beside the bosom it was meant
to stab. Her hollow voice sounded in his ears, and the
words she spoke confirmed all his terrors. “My father!
Oh! my father!” was the exclamation forced from her
by the suddenly recovered memory of the painful past:
and as he heard it, he darted away, in headlong flight,
heedless of the body of Watson Gray, upon which, in
his terrors, he trampled, without a consciousness of
having done so. The spectral form of the girl darted
after him. He saw her white garments, as he bounded
down the stairflights, and the glimpse lent vigour to his
limbs. He heard her voice, faint and feeble, like the
moaning whisper of the dying breeze in autumn, imploring
him to stay, and it sounded more terribly in his
ears than the last trumpet. A painful consciousness of
having, by his cruelty, driven the poor girl to the desperate
deed of self-destruction, haunted his mind; and
her appearance seemed to him that of one armed with
all the terrors of the avenger. It will not be thought
wonderful by those who are at all conversant with the
nature of the human intellect, and with those Ithuriel
effect of her father's presence had suddenly restored his
daughter to her senses. At least, she knew that it was
her father whom she pursued—she knew that he had
spurned her from his presence, and present consciousness
led her to implore his forgiveness and to die. She
knew that the hand of death was upon her, but she desired
his forgiveness first. The knowledge of her situation
gave her the requisite strength for the pursuit,
and before her pathway could be traced, she had followed
his into the neighbouring forest.
| CHAPTER X.
THE AVENGER BAFFLED. The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree | |