Part 40 (1/2)

”Say not so-say not so, I implore you,” cried the agitated brother. ”Think how devoted has been your love to our aged father; how disinterested, how tender, your affection to me!”

”Yes,” said Isabella, a smile of mild pleasure beaming on her countenance, ”that, at least, is a reflection which may be taken to the grave.”

Neither Frances nor her brother interrupted her meditations, which continued for several minutes; when, suddenly recollecting herself, she continued,-

”I remain selfish even to the last; with me, Miss Wharton, America and her liberties were my earliest pa.s.sion, and-” Again she paused, and Frances thought it was the struggle of death that followed; but reviving, she proceeded, ”Why should I hesitate, on the brink of the grave! Dunwoodie was my next and my last. But,” burying her face in her hands, ”it was a love that was unsought.”

”Isabella!” exclaimed her brother, springing from the bed, and pacing the floor in disorder.

”See how dependent we become under the dominion of worldly pride; it is painful to George to learn that one he loves had not feelings superior to her nature and education.”

”Say no more,” whispered Frances; ”you distress us both-say no more, I entreat you.”

”In justice to Dunwoodie I must speak; and for the same reason, my brother, you must listen. By no act or word has Dunwoodie ever induced me to believe he wished me more than a friend; nay, latterly, I have had the burning shame of thinking that he avoided my presence.”

”Would he dare?” said Singleton, fiercely.

”Peace, my brother, and listen,” continued Isabella, rousing herself with an effort that was final. ”Here is the innocent, the justifiable cause. We are both motherless; but that aunt-that mild, plain-hearted, observing aunt, has given you the victory. Oh! how much she loses, who loses a female guardian to her youth. I have exhibited those feelings which you have been taught to repress. After this, can I wish to live?”

”Isabella! my poor Isabella! you wander in your mind.”

”But one word more-for I feel that blood, which ever flowed too swiftly, rus.h.i.+ng where nature never intended it to go. Woman must be sought to be prized; her life is one of concealed emotions; blessed are they whose early impressions make the task free from hypocrisy, for such only can be happy with men like-like Dunwoodie.” Her voice failed, and she sank back on her pillow in silence. The cry of Singleton brought the rest of the party to her bedside; but death was already upon her countenance; her remaining strength just sufficed to reach the hand of George, and pressing it to her bosom for a moment, she relinquished her grasp, and, with a slight convulsion, expired.

Frances Wharton had thought that fate had done its worst, in endangering the life of her brother, and destroying the reason of her sister; but the relief conveyed by the dying declaration of Isabella taught her that another sorrow had aided in loading her heart with grief. She saw the whole truth at a glance; nor was the manly delicacy of Dunwoodie lost upon her-everything tended to raise him in her estimation; and, for mourning that duty and pride had induced her to strive to think less of him, she was compelled to subst.i.tute regret that her own act had driven him from her in sorrow, if not in desperation. It is not in the nature of youth, however, to despair; and Frances now knew a secret joy that gave a new spring to her existence.

The sun broke forth, on the morning that succeeded this night of desolation, in unclouded l.u.s.ter, and seemed to mock the petty sorrows of those who received his rays. Lawton had early ordered his steed, and was ready to mount as the first burst of light broke over the hills. His orders were already given, and the trooper threw his leg across the saddle, in silence; and, casting a glance of fierce chagrin at the narrow s.p.a.ce that had favored the flight of the Skinner, he gave Roanoke the rein, and moved slowly towards the valley.

The stillness of death pervaded the road, nor was there a single vestige of the scenes of the night, to tarnish the loveliness of a glorious morn. Struck with the contrast between man and nature, the fearless trooper rode by each pa.s.s of danger, regardless of what might happen; nor did he rouse himself from his musing, until the n.o.ble charger, snuffing the morning air, greeted the steeds of the guard under Sergeant Hollister.

Here, indeed, was to be seen sad evidence of the midnight fray, but the trooper glanced his eye over it with the coolness of one accustomed to such sights. Without wasting the moments in useless regrets, he proceeded, at once, to business.

”Have you seen anything?” he demanded of the orderly.

”Nothing, sir, that we dared to charge upon,” returned Hollister; ”but we mounted once, at the report of distant firearms.”

”'Tis well,” said Lawton, gloomily. ”Ah! Hollister, I would give the animal I ride, to have had your single arm between the wretch who drew that trigger and these useless rocks, which overhang every bit of ground, as if they grudged pasture to a single hoof.”

”Under the light of day, and charging man to man, I am as good as another; but I can't say that I'm overfond of fighting with those that neither steel nor lead can bring down.”

”What silly crotchet is uppermost, now, in that mystified brain of thine, Deacon Hollister?”

”I like not the dark object that has been maneuvering in the skirt of the wood since the first dawn of day; and twice, during the night, it was seen marching across the firelight, no doubt with evil intent.”

”Is it yon ball of black, at the foot of the rock maple, that you mean?

In truth it moves.”

”But without mortal motion,” said the sergeant, regarding it with awful reverence. ”It glides along, but no feet have been seen by any who watch here.”

”Had it wings,” cried Lawton, ”it is mine; stand fast, until I join.” The words were hardly uttered before Roanoke was flying across the plain, and apparently verifying the boast of his master.