Such was the death his foreboding spirit had frequently predicted, and such the exit that in his gloomier moments he had wished for. And even when it came upon him in all its actual and unimagined horrors, he probably felt that it only fulfilled a destiny he had no wish to change, for no glance betrayed the slightest feeling of fear, no movement indicated resistance or regret.
Their impious task performed, the savage mob withdrew as rapidly as they had approached; and within ten minutes after the murder was committed, not a straggler remained near the spot.
One living being only watched the whole; and when the solemn stillness of solitude and death succeeded to the din that for one fatal hour had echoed through the peaceful woods of Reichland, one living being only remained to gaze upon the ruin that had been wrought.
Old Juno, safe in her helpless, worthless decrepitude, had continued unseen or unheeded by any. When the fire first burst forth from the windows she retreated to a vine-covered shed which stood at some distance from the house, and which had once been Lotte’s dairy, and seated herself on a log beside it. It was near this shed that the fearful deed was consummated, and without moving an inch from the post she had taken, the wretched woman watched the tragedy to its close.
When all was over and everything profoundly still, Juno remained for some time longer without moving, as if to be quite sure that no straggler of the demon-rout was left behind. And then she rose, and giving one long steady look at the stiffening corse, while silent vows of vengeance seemed to bind up her heart and brain like ribs of iron, she followed the direction she had seen Cæsar take into the wood, and almost at the verge of it, and long before she had hoped to meet with him, she came to the spot where he and Phebe were weeping together.
“Is it over, mother?” cried Cæsar with streaming eyes and trembling lips. “Say — is my dear, dear master in peace?”
“Edward Bligh is in heaven,” replied the old woman solemnly— “as surely as his tormentors will be in—”
“Oh! speak not, speak not words that our sainted master would not like to hear,” said Phebe, shuddering. “May God have mercy on all sinful souls! It was thus he taught me to pray, Juno; and as he taught me, so will I pray to my dying day!”
Juno answered not, but turning to Cæsar, said, “For the dead we can do nothing; — for the unhappy living — for that poor young thing that loved him so — his poor orphan sister—”
The old woman stopped, for her voice failed her. “I did not think,” said she after a moment’s silence, “that I should ever shed another tear. And you, poor fellow! — I thought, Cæsar, that sorrow was not in your nature. But listen to me, my good lad: you must not mourn for him in idleness. Have you any knowledge where they may all be found?”
“The women are at old Whitlaw’s,” answered Cæsar; “and I do not think the rest are far away. My new master said, as he told me to drive the waggon back, that he thought they might lie concealed within the woods.”
“That is good hearing,” replied Juno, “for they are wanted here. — Seek for them, Cæsar — they may come back in safety.”
Cæsar set off on this commission with a light foot and heavy heart; and then Juno, turning to the weeping Phebe, inquired how and why she had left her ladies.
The history was soon told, and the poor girl concluded it with a fresh burst of grief, saying, “Juno, Juno, how shall I ever face her? — how shall I live to tell her the horrid, horrid truth?”
“You never can, Phebe, — you never must, you never shall! — Spare her young heart the never-ending horror of knowing how he died. Let her believe that his rash leap destroyed him, — that will be pain enough — yet it will spare her much.”
“It was that leap destroyed him,” cried Phebe, wringing her hands— “and it was I unclosed the door. Oh, God! — oh, God! — perhaps he had now been living if I had not done that! — Is not that dreadful, Juno?”
“It is idle talking, Phebe, — his life lay not in your silly hands, poor child. Comfort his sister, Phebe; — be loving and faithful to her all your life, and never, never let her know that the poor sainted boy was murdered.”
Phebe promised with her very heart upon her lips to obey these words; and then they whiled away two weary hours of waiting, in talking of the motives that had sent forth the desperate band who had brought destruction and murder to that peaceful spot.
“I know it all!” cried Juno, with her wonted energy— “I know the mainspring that has moved it all; and if I find not means,” — Then stopping short, she burst into a strange discordant laugh that sounded frightfully to Phebe’s ears.
“You know not why I laugh, Phebe? — Then I must tell you. He has burnt out himself! — Whitlaw — the dastard murderer Whitlaw, who kills some by insult and some by the help of hired assassins, — he knew not, Phebe, that the German’s house and goods made part of his new wealth — and so he burnt it.”
The welcome sound of Frederick Steinmark’s voice made Phebe turn her head, and at the distance of a hundred yards those they so anxiously waited for were seen approaching.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE old and the young negress rose together from the ground, and stood before the gentlemen in silence. Tears not to be restrained fell from the eyes of Phebe, while the old woman looked as if years and sorrow had dried and withered her into a state too hard to suffer more.
Frederick Steinmark stopped when he saw them; and the four awe-struck young men who had followed him while he walked on, listening to Cæsar’s dreadful tale, now came up, and surrounded the women, hoping to hear from Phebe some tidings of the unhappy prisoners in the loft. But the poor girl’s account only amounted to the assurance that she had left them in a condition little able to endure what was to fall upon them.
“My Miss Lucy will die too,” sobbed Phebe, “if she hears the truth — the whole ghastly dreadful truth! — Oh, master!” she added, turning to Frederick Steinmark, “what will you please to say to her? — what will you have me say?”
“First,” cried Karl, pressing eagerly forward, “first let us inter her murdered brother. Say nothing — tell nothing — let no one go to her till this be done. — Oh, father! Should Lucy Bligh rush out and look upon him—”
“She shall not look upon him, Karl. — You are right; — wretched as they are, none must go near them till the earth covers him.”
The hearts of the stout Germans trembled as they followed old Juno to the fatal spot. They had to pass the smouldering ruins of the house that for so many peaceful years had been their home. But the sight caused no emotion; — the thought of Edward, so young, so intellectual, so holy, so beloved, brought to a bloody grave, filled every avenue to feeling, and they walked over their trampled and disfigured lawn, so often and so lately the scene of their sports and gambols, without one single image of the past rising to mix with the overwhelming sorrow of the present hour.
Phebe had followed with the rest; but her heart failed her, and stopping short before they turned the corner that would give the object she dared not look upon to her sight, she sat down upon the ground and covered her face with her apron.
When they reached the spot, the eyes of all were fixed upon the earth. None seemed to have courage to raise them to what they knew would meet them.
“It must be done;” said Juno sternly. “Remember his young sister: leave not that which you all dread to look upon, to blast her eyes.”
The remonstrance was not lost, and the motive she suggested made their task more easy than any other could have done.
“Cæsar, my poor fellow, stand here and receive the body,” said Frederick. “Hermann or Karl, one of you must climb the tree. But no!” he cried, suddenly recollecting himself, and gently pushing the trembling negro aside; “you shall not, Cæsar. Go, go, poor boy! It is too hard a trial.”
The young men all stepped forward; but Cæsar at that moment forgot he was a slave, and, speaking for the first time, since they had reached the spot, he said in a tone of command, “No! no
ne other, none but me — no other hand shall touch him!”
If an emperor had spoken, obedience could not have been rendered more respectfully. All stood aside. Karl cut the hateful knot, and the body of Edward dropped into the arms of his poor slave.
For a moment he seemed to hold it in a fond embrace; then letting it sink gently on the ground, he lay down beside it, kissed the pale lips, parted the dark curls upon the fair young brow, reverently pressed down the open eyelids, and uttered, as he did it, such deep and piteous moans, that no eye looked upon him unmoistened by a tear.
“He shall not lie here, Cæsar,” said Frederick Steinmark, “not here, where the felon feet of his murderers have rendered the sod accursed. We will carry him to the spot where he first opened to me his noble, generous, and most innocent heart. The place was Lotte’s bower: It is not likely they have entered there, for the spot is sheltered from all eyes. Cut down some boughs, Henrich; we will all be his bearers.”
No one spoke in reply; but the alacrity with which the order was obeyed told plainly that the feeling which dictated the removal was shared by all. When the leafy bier was ready, Cæsar raised the body in his arms, and laid it, as tenderly as a mother might lay her sleeping child, upon the boughs. The father Steinmark supported the head, and the four young men placed themselves at the four corners. No one seemed to think that Cæsar had any farther duty to perform — he followed more as the chief mourner than the slave of Edward: and when the sad procession passed the spot where Phebe had remained, Juno, who had sought and joined her there, took her by the hand and led her after it. Thus the unhappy race for whose eternal welfare he had hazarded and lost his life, furnished, as they ought, his funeral train.
The grave was quickly dug, for there were many hands to aid the work; and when for one sad moment they relaxed in their labour, and, as if by common consent, stood gazing on the pale form that lay beside them, Juno urged them to continue, by saying, “On, on: remember Lucy.”
He was laid in the grave; and young Henrich placed a Bible that he found lying near the fatal tree, and which they all believed must have been his, upon his breast. The young men were then about to throw upon him the kindred clay, when Frederick made a sign that they should forbear.
“One moment!” he said. “I am a Christian, boys, though no professing one, and we have long lived where God’s only temple was in the hearts of his creatures; but I know how poor Edward felt, — I can guess what his wishes would be, and what he would do for me or mine were we laid low as he.” In speaking the last words he stooped in such a manner as to permit his reaching the Bible; and then standing up, he read the most impressive of those touching passages appointed for the burial of the dead.
He then closed the volume, and laid it again upon the heart whose law it had ever been.
The sods now laid on Edward’s breast were watered by the tears of those who placed them there; and if true affection and profoundest grief might be courted as giving solemnity to funeral rites, the obsequies of Edward Bligh were indeed duly solemnised.
This duty rendered to the dead, every thought again reverted to the poor prisoners. But before they could be released, it was necessary to decide what account was to be rendered to the unhappy Lucy respecting her brother.
“Tell her,” said old Juno with more firmness than any other appeared at that moment to possess, “tell her at once, and with no lengthened tortures of doubt, mixing up hope with fear till the worn spirit has no strength left to bear the inevitable truth — tell her that her Edward Bligh is dead: but tell her not that he was foully murdered.”
“But how can we account for it?” said Frederick, who, though he perfectly agreed in adopting this pious fraud, felt as the moment approached when he must tell the tale, that it might challenge questions he should be at a loss to answer.
But from this embarrassment Phebe in a great measure relieved him by stating that all those who saw poor Edward leap from the loft believed at the moment that he must have killed himself; and though his having gone out of sight had certainly created some hope within them, yet their anxiety was such when she left them as certainly to prepare them greatly for the fatal news.
“It is your duty to seek her, see her, and soothe her,” said old Juno, turning from the grave around which this consultation had been held— “but it is not mine. My duty lies else where, and is of another kind. Farewell! — farewell to all. Phebe, my poor girl, little Sally will never be to me what you have been; but when I feel inclined to fret for you, I will remember that it was I who redeemed you from the land of slaves, — and that will comfort me. Cæsar, love her well, for she deserves it. Farewell to all!”
She gave a parting wave with her faithful bamboo, that might have been counted mystical still, so much of sorrow and affection did she contrive to make it speak, and then walked off towards her home.
The others proceeded directly to Clio’s store. There was no longer any necessity for caution or concealment: the villainous agents of a villainous band had done their worst, and would not molest them farther.
During the interval the events of which have been just narrated, Clio, under pretence of seeking some article she wanted, contrived to carry refreshment to the loft; and great was her surprise at finding that two of the number she had left there had departed. In answer to the eager inquiries of their torturing anxiety, all she could tell them was, that the house of Reichland was burnt to the ground, and that the mob, or at least the greater part of them, had certainly retreated; but that no one as yet had thought it prudent to approach the premises, lest some ruffians might still be lingering there.
The greatest difficulty in releasing the ladies from the shelter so kindly afforded them, was to discover how to do it without betraying Clio, who confessed that she should be “put out more than enough, if sister Whitlaw found out what she had been after doing and no leave asked.”
“I can tell you, Miss Clio,” said Cæsar, and it was the first word he had spoken since his eyes last looked upon the face of Edward, “I can tell you how madam can be made to see and hear nothing but what you please she should.”
“That’s a good nigger, then,” replied Clio; “and what’s your secret?”
“Jest let my new master and this young gentleman” (pointing to Baron Hochland)— “jest let them two pay madam a visit in her keeping-room, and she won’t stir till they bids her.”
“That’s no bad invention,” said Clio, smiling. “I expect you know the Missas, young man.”
“But if I make this visit, who is it will tell Lucy? — I meant to have taken that painful duty myself.”
“Father!” said Karl in a whisper, “I will do it.”
It is surprising how much information may sometimes be derived from an accent. Frederick Steinmark learned as much from this whisper as if Karl had added to the words he spoke— “because I love her father!”
“Do so, my dear son,” he replied; and the reply was also in an accent that said much. And the party separated according to the suggestion of Cæsar. A passing slave was ordered to announce the visit of the two gentlemen to Mrs. Whitlaw; and as soon as they were admitted, Clio preceded the others to the door of the warehouse, which she unlocked, and left them.
The first glimpse of the faces which they had waited for so many hours in vain was hailed by a fervent exclamation of “Thank God!” from all. Hermann and Henrich walked straight to their mother and embraced her; while Karl, the heavy-laden Karl, approached slowly to Lucy, and, without daring to meet her eye, stretched out his hand to her in silence.
She received it not; — her eye glanced farther on, and, just at the entrance, having not wholly quitted the stair by which they had mounted, stood Phebe and Cæsar. Silent and motionless, like statues cast in bronze, they stood, as if to tell in action the tale they dared not speak. It was enough, — Karl’s dreadful embassy was needless; “Edward! oh, my Edward!” cried the desolate girl, “have I lost him for ever, Phebe?”
Thus called upon, the
weeping Phebe flew to the side of her former mistress, and kneeling down, wrapped her arms round her, while, remembering with equal affection and good sense the words of Juno, she replied, “You have, my dearest mistress! — It has pleased God to take him. And oh, Miss Lucy! if he can look down from heaven, will it not be his best joy to see that you remember his lessons? — Say, His will be done! — say so, Miss Lucy, for his dear sake you have lost!”
“His will be done!” cried Lucy, dropping on her knees beside her humble friend. “But — oh, God! forgive me! I am very, very wretched!”
Mary and Lotte were now beside her: caresses, and tears more soothing still, told the poor girl that bitter as was her trial, the God on whom her lost Edward had taught her to repose her faith had not left her desolate. Karl had stepped back when he found that the words he had so carefully prepared were unnecessary; but he stood at no great distance, with his tearful eyes fixed on the group before him.
Lucy knew and felt he was near her; but, by a strange mixture and confusion of feelings, the more comfort she felt in knowing this, the less she could bear to see and notice him. Sorrow and Edward filled her heart, and she was jealous lest any other thought should enter to share it.
Happily for her, and for the friends whom Heaven had given her in her hour of need, they were called upon by imperious and most fortunate necessity to exert themselves.
The young man explained how they were obliged for the good Clio’s sake to leave their present shelter instantly. On hearing this, they hastened to descend; and when Clio had once more locked her warehouse, she ventured to ask them all to be seated in brother Whitlaw’s smoking-bower, and then sent to the keeping-room to inform Mr. Steinmark that some ladies wanted him.
Mrs. Whitlaw, all civility and smiles, accompanied the two gentlemen into the garden. Her presence seemed to be an almost intolerable restraint; but it might perhaps have been a blessing also, for when Frederick Steinmark approached Lucy with his heart swelling and a tear trembling in his eye, she only pressed in silence the hand he extended to her, and that exchange of feeling which if unchecked would have very painfully agitated both, was spared.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 50
