"Sold!" exclaimed the youth, joining faintly in the mirth. "Strange
I did not think of that, though how could I suppose there was a
ventriloquist here?"
"An excellent one, is he not? You must hear what good service he did
last night," said Mr. Travilla, and went on to tell the story of the
attack and defense.
Elsie and Eddie listened to the account with keen interest. Vi, who had
been devoting herself in motherly fashion to a favorite doll, laid it
aside to hear what was said; but Harold was playing with Bruno, who
seemed hardly yet to have recovered from his wonder at not finding the
strange canine intruder who had so roused his ire.
Harold had climbed upon his back, and with his arms around his neck,
was talking to him in an undertone. "Now you's my horse, Bruno; let's go
ridin' like papa and Beppo."
The dog started toward the door. "With all my heart, little master;
which way shall we go?"
"Why, Bruno, you s'prise me! can you talk?" cried the little fellow in
great delight. "Why didn't you begin sooner? Mamma, oh mamma, did you
hear Bruno talk?"
Mamma smiled, and said gently, "Be quiet, son, while papa and the rest
are talking: or else take Bruno out to the veranda."
Cousin Ronald was amusing himself with the children. Vi's doll presently
began to cry and call upon her to be taken up, and she ran to it in
surprised delight, till she remembered that it was "only Cousin Ronald
and not dolly at all."
But Cousin Ronald had a higher object than his own or the children's
amusement: he was trying to divert their thoughts from the doings of the
Ku Klux, lest they should grow timid and fearful.
Chapter Nineteenth.
"Revenge at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils."
--MILTON.
George Boyd, who was of most vindictive temper, had laid his plans for
the night of the raid upon Ion, to wreak his vengeance not upon Travilla
only, but also upon the woman on whose clothing he had left the impress
of his bloody hand.
With this in view, he went first to the kitchen department where, as he
had learned through the gossip of the servants, she now passed the
night, intending afterward to have a hand in the brutal flogging to be
meted out to Mr. Travilla. He headed the attacking party there, and it
was he who received upon his person the full broadside from Aunt Dicey's
battery of soap ladles.
The pain was horrible, the scorching mass clinging to the flesh and
burning deeper and deeper as he was borne shrieking away in the arms of
his comrades.
"Oh take it off! take it off! I'm burning up, I tell you!" he yelled as
they carried him swiftly down the avenue; but they hurried on,
seemingly unmindful of his cries, mingled though they were with oaths
and imprecations, nor paused till they had reached the shelter of the
woods at some little distance on the opposite side of the road.
"Curse you!" he said between his clenched teeth, as they laid him down
at the foot of a tree, "curse you! for keeping me in this agony. Help me
off with these--duds. Unbutton it, quick! quick! I'm burning up, I tell
you; and my hands are nearly as bad as my face. Oh! oh! you fiends! do
you want to murder me outright? you're bringing all the skin with it!"
he roared, writhing in unendurable torture, as they dragged off the
disguise. "Oh kill me! Bill, shoot me through the head and put me out of
this torment, will you?"
"No, no, I daren't. Come, come, pluck up courage and bear it like a
man."
"Bear it indeed! I only wish you had it to bear. I tell you it can't be
borne! Water, water, for the love of heaven! carry me to the river and
throw me in. My eyes are put out; they burn like balls of fire."
"Stop that yelling, will you!" cried a voice from a little distance,
"you'll betray us. We're whipped, and there's troops coming up too."
"Sure, Smith?"
"Yes, heard their tramp, tramp distinctly ramble of artillery too.
Can't be more'n a mile off, if that. Hurry, boys, no time to lose! Who's
this groaning at such an awful rate? What's the matter?"
"Scalded; horribly scalded."
"He ain't the only one, though maybe he's the worst. And Blake's killed
outright; two or three more, I believe; some with pretty bad pistol-shot
wounds. Tell you they made warm work for us. There's been a traitor
among us; betrayed our plans and put 'em on their guard."
He concluded with a torrent of oaths and fearful imprecations upon the
traitor, whoever he might be.
"Hist!" cried the one Boyd had addressed as Bill, "hist boys! the bugle
call! they're on us. Stop your noise, Boyd, can't you!" as the latter,
seized, and borne onward again, not too gently, yelled and roared with
redoubled vigor: "Be quiet or you'll have 'em after us in no time."
"Shoot me through the head then: it's the only thing that'll help me to
stop it."
Mr. Lilburn, keeping well in the shadow of the trees, had hurried after
the retreating foe, and concealing himself behind a clump of bushes
close to the gate, caused his bugle note to sound in their ears as if
coming from a point some half a mile distant.
Convinced that a detachment of United States troops were almost upon
them, those carrying the dead and wounded dashed into the wood with
their burdens, while in hot haste the others mounted and away, never
drawing rein until they had put several miles between them and the scene
of their attempted outrage.
Meantime those in the wood, moving as rapidly as possible under the
circumstances, were plunging deeper and deeper into its recesses.
There was an occasional groan or half suppressed shriek from others of
the wounded, but Boyd's cries were incessant and heart-rending, till a
handkerchief was suddenly thrust into his mouth with a muttered
exclamation, "Necessity knows no law! it's to save your own life and
liberty as well as ours."
At length, well nigh spent with their exertions, the bearers paused,
resting their burdens for a moment upon the ground, while they listened
intently for the sounds of pursuit.
"We've baffled 'em, I think," panted Bill, "I don't hear no more of
that--tramp, tramp, and the bugle's stopped too."
"That's so and I reckon we're pretty safe now," returned another voice.
"But what's to be done with these fellows? where'll we take 'em?"
"To Rood's still-house," was the answer. "It's about half a mile further
on, and deep in the woods. And I say you, Tom Arnold, pull off your
disguise and go after Dr. Savage as fast as you can. Tell him to come to
the still-house on the fleetest horse he can get hold of; and bring
along everything necessary to dress scalds and pistol-shot wounds. Say
there's no time to lose or Boyd'll die on our hands. Now up with your
load, boys, and on again."
The voice had a tone of command and the orders were instantly obeyed.
The still-house was an old, dilapidated frame building, whose rude
accommodations differed widely from those to which, save during his army
life, Boyd had been accustomed from infancy.
They carried him in and laid him down upon a rough pallet of straw
furnished with coarse cotton sheets and an army blanket or two, not over
clean.
But in his dire extremity of pain he heeded naught of this, and his
blinded eyes could not see the bare rafters overhead, the filthy
uncarpeted floor, the few broken chairs and rude board seats, or the
little unpainted pine table with its bit of flickering, flaming tallow
candle, stuck in an old bottle.
His comrades did what they could for his relief; but it was not much,
and their clumsy handling was exquisite torture to the raw, quivering
flesh, and his entreaties that they would put him out of his misery at
once, by sending a bullet through his brain, were piteous to hear. They
had taken his arms from him, or he would have destroyed himself.
The room was filled with doleful sounds,--the groans and sighs of men in
sore pain, but his rose above all others.
Dr. Savage arrived at length, but half drunk, and, an unskillful surgeon
at his best, made but clumsy work with his patients on this occasion.
Yet the applications brought, in time, some slight alleviation of even
Boyd's unendurable agony; his cries grew fainter and less frequent, till
they ceased altogether, and like the other wounded he relieved himself
only with an occasional moan or groan.
The doctor had finished his task, and lay in a drunken sleep on the
floor. The uninjured raiders had followed his example, the candle had
burned itself out and all was darkness and silence save the low, fitful
sounds of suffering.
To Boyd sleep was impossible, the pain of his burns was still very
great; especially in his eyes, the injury to which he feared must result
in total blindness. How could he bear it? he asked himself, to go
groping his way through life in utter darkness? Horrible! horrible! he
would _not_ endure it; they had put the means of self-destruction out of
his way now, but on the first opportunity to get hold of a pistol, he
would blow his own brains out and be done with this agony. The Bible
was a fable; death an eternal sleep; he had been saying it for years,
till he thought his belief--or more correctly unbelief--firmly fixed:
but now the early teachings of a pious mother came back to him and he
trembled with the fear that they might be true.
"It is appointed unto men once to die, but after that the judgment."
"Every one of us shall give an account of himself to God." "These shall
go away into everlasting punishment." "Where their worm dieth not, and
the fire is not quenched." Fire, fire! oh how unendurable he had found
it! dare he risk its torment throughout the endless ages of eternity?
Self-destruction might be but a plunge into deeper depths of anguish:
from which there could be no return.
For days and weeks he lay in his miserable hiding place, almost untended
save for the doctor's visits, and the bringing of his meals by one or
another of his confederates, who would feed him with a rough sort of
kindness, then go away again, leaving him to the solitary companionship
of his own bitter thoughts.
He longed for the pleasant society and gentle ministrations of his aunt,
and he knew that if sent for she would come to him, and that his secret
would be safe with her; but alas, how could he bear that she should know
of his crime and its punishment? She who had so earnestly besought him
to forsake his evil ways and live in peace and love with all men: she
who had warned him again and again that "the way of transgressors is
hard," and that "though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be
unpunished." She who had loved, cared for, and watched over him with
almost a mother's undying, unalterable tenderness and devotion.
How ungrateful she would deem his repeated attempt against the home and
husband of one whom she loved as her own child. She would not reprove
him, she would not betray him, but he would know that in her secret
heart she condemned him as a guilty wretch, a disgrace to her and all
his relatives; and that would be worse, far worse to his proud spirit
than the dreary loneliness of his present condition, and the lack of the
bodily comforts she would provide.
No, he would bear his bitter fate as best he might, and though he had
proved the truth of her warning words, she should never know it, if he
could keep it from her.
Troops had arrived in the neighborhood the day after the raid on Ion; so
to Boyd's other causes of distress was added the constant fear of
detection and apprehension. This was one reason why the visits of his
confreres were few and short.
The Klan was said to have disbanded and outrages had ceased, but an
investigation was going on and search being made for the guilty parties;
also United States revenue officers were known to be in quest of illicit
distilleries; to which class this one of Rood's belonged.
"What's the news?" asked Boyd one morning while Savage was engaged in
dressing his hurts.
"Very bad; you'll have to get out of this at once if you don't want to
be nabbed. A jail might be more comfortable in some respects, eh, old
boy? but I s'pose you prefer liberty.
"'Better to sit in Freedom's hall,
With a cold damp floor, and a mouldering wall,
Than to bend the neck or to bow the knee
In the proudest palace of Slavery.'
"Fine sentiment, eh, Boyd?"
The doctor was just drunk enough to spout poetry without knowing or
caring whether it was exactly apropos or not.
"Very fine, though not quite to the point, it strikes me," answered
Boyd, wincing under the not too gentle touch of the inebriate's shaking
hand. "But how am I to get out of this? blind and nearly helpless as I
am?"
"Well, sir, we've planned it all out for you--never forsake a brother
in distress, you know. There's a warrant out for Bill Dobbs and he has
to skedaddle too. He starts for Texas to-night, and will take charge of
you."
Savage went on to give the details of the plan, then left with a promise
to return at night-fall. He did so, bringing Dobbs and Smith with him.
Boyd's wounds were attended to again, Dobbs looking on to learn the
_modus operandi_; then the invalid, aided by Smith on one side and Dobbs
on the other, was conducted to an opening in the woods where a horse and
wagon stood in readiness, placed in it, Dobbs taking a seat by his side
and supporting him with his arm, and driven a few miles along an
unfrequented road to a little country station, where they took the night
train going south.
The conductor asked no questions; merely exchanged glances with Dobbs,
and seeing him apparently in search of a pin in the inside of his coat,
opened his own and handed him one, then passed on through the car.
Boyd was missed from the breakfast table at Ashlands on the morning
after the raid upon Ion. His aunt sent a servant to his room to see if
he had overslept himself.
The man returned with the report that "Marse George" was not there and
that his bed had certainly not been occupied during the night.
Still as his movements were at all times rather uncertain, and the
ladies, having had no communication with the Oaks or Ion on the
previous day, were in ignorance of all that had transpired there, his
absence occasioned them no particular anxiety or alarm. The meal went
on, enlivened by cheerful chat.
"Mamma," said Herbert, "it's a lovely morning: do give us a holiday and
let's drive over to the Oaks; we haven't seen Aunt Rose and the rest for
ever so long."
The other children joined in the petition; grandma put in a word of
approval, and mamma finally consented, if the truth were told nothing
loth to give, or to share the treat.
The carriage was ordered at once, and they set out shortly after leaving
the table.
Arrived at their destination they found Mrs. Murray on the veranda,
looking out with an eager, anxious face.
"Ah!" she said, coming forward as the ladies alighted, "I didna
expect--my sight is no so keen as in my younger days, and I thocht till
this moment 'twas Mr. Dinsmore's carriage, bringing them hame again
after their dreadfu' nicht at Ion."
Both ladies turned pale, and old Mrs. Carrington leaned heavily upon her
daughter-in-law for support. Her lips moved but no sound same from them,
and she gasped for breath.
"Oh tell us!" cried Sophie, "what, what has happened?"
The children too were putting the same question in varying tones and
words.
"The Ku Klux," faltered the housekeeper. "An' ye hadna heard aboot it,
my leddies?"
"No, no, not a word," exclaimed Sophie, "but see, my mother is fainting.
Help me to carry her into the house."
"No, no, I can walk: I am better now, thank you," said Mrs. Carrington,
in low, faltering tones, "Just give me the support of your arm, Mrs.
Murray."
They led her in between them, and laid her on a sofa.
"And that's where George was!" she sighed, closing her eyes wearily.
Then half starting up, "Tell me, oh tell me, was--was--Mr. Travilla
injured?"
"No, my leddy, he had been warned, and was ready for them."
"Thank God! thank God!" came faintly from the white quivering lips, as
she sank back upon her pillow again, and two great tears stealing from
beneath the closed eyelids rolled slowly down the furrowed cheeks.
"You have heard the particulars then?" said Sophie, addressing the
housekeeper. "And my brother and sister were there?"
"Yes, ma'am, and Master Horace, and Miss Rosie too. Yes; and some of the
men-servants. Mr. Dinsmore's man John was one o' them, and he's come
back, and frae him I learned a' was richt with our friends."
"Oh call him in and let me hear all he can tell!" entreated the old
lady.
The request was immediately complied with, and John gave a graphic and
in the main correct account of the whole affair.
His tale was to all his auditors one of intense, thrilling, painful
interest. They lost not a word and when he had finished his story the
old lady cross-questioned him closely. "Did he know who had warned Mr.
Travilla? were any of the raiders recognized?"
Both of these questions John answered in the negative. "At least," he
corrected himself, "he had not heard that any one was recognized: they
were all completely disguised, and they had carried away their dead and
wounded; both the shot and the scalded."
At that moment Mr. Dinsmore's family carriage drove up, and John bowed
and retired.
There were tearful embraces between the sisters and other relatives, and
between Rose and the elder Mrs. Carrington.
"I feel as if you had been in terrible danger." said Sophie, wiping her
eyes. "John has just been telling us all about it. What a mercy that Mr.
Travilla was warned in time!"
"By whom, Horace? if it be not an improper question," asked the old
lady, turning to Mr. Dinsmore.
"By a detective, Mrs. Carrington, who was secretly present at their
meeting and heard all the arrangements."
"He then knew who were the members appointed to be of the attacking
party?"
Mr. Dinsmore bowed assent.
"Was George one?"
"My dear madam I did not see the detective, but their raids are usually
made by men coming from a distance."
"You are evading my question. I implore you to tell me all you know.
George did not come down to breakfast; had evidently not occupied his
bed last night, and this seems to explain his absence. I know, too, that
he has bitterly hated Travilla since--since his arrest and imprisonment.
Will you not tell me? Any certainty is to be preferred to this--this
horrible suspense. I would know the worst."
Thus adjured Mr. Dinsmore told her George had been appointed one of the
party, but that he could not say that he was actually there. Also he
suppressed the fact that the appointment had been by George's own
request.
She received the communication in silence, but the anguish in her face
told that she felt little doubt of her nephew's guilt. And as days and
weeks rolled on bringing no news of him, her suspicions settled into a
sad certainty; with the added sorrowful doubt whether he were living or
dead.
Chapter Twentieth.
"Before
We end our pilgrimage, 'tis fit that we
Should leave corruption, and foul sin behind us.
But with washed feet and hands, the heathen dared not
Enter their profane temples: and for me
To hope my passage to eternity
Can be made easy, till I have shook off
The burthen of my sins in free confession,
Aided with sorrow and repentance for them,
Is against reason."
--MASSINGER.
It began to be noticed that Wilkins Foster also had disappeared. It was
said that he had not been seen since the raid upon Fairview, and the
general supposition was that he had taken part in the outrage, received
a wound in the affray and, on the advent of the troops, had fled the
country.
His mother and sisters led a very retired life seldom going from home
except to attend church and even there they had been frequently missing
of late.
Elsie had been much engaged in efforts to comfort her old friend, Mrs.
Carrington, and to entertain Mr. Lilburn, who was still at Ion; little
excursions to points of interest in the vicinity, and visits to the
plantations of the different families of the connection, who vied with
each other in doing him honor, filled up the time to the exclusion of
almost everything else, except the home duties which she would never
allow herself to neglect.
Baskets of fruit and game, accompanied by kind messages, had found their
way now and again from Ion to the cottage home of the Fosters, but weeks
had passed since the sweet face of Ion's mistress had been seen within
its walls.
Elsie's tender conscience reproached her for this, when after an absence
of several Sabbaths Mrs. Foster again occupied her pew in the church of
which both were members.
The poor lady was clad in rusty black, seemed to be aging fast, and the
pale, thin face had a weary, heart-broken expression that brought the
tears to Elsie's eyes.
When the service closed she took pains to intercept Mrs. Foster, who was
trying to slip away unnoticed, and taking her hand in a warm clasp,
kindly inquired concerning the health of herself and family.
"About as usual, Mrs. Travilla," was the reply.
"I am glad to hear it. I feared you were ill. You are looking weary; and
no wonder after your long walk. You must let us take you home. There is
plenty of room in the carriage, as the gentlemen came on horseback; and
it will be a real pleasure to me to have your company."
The sincere, earnest, kindly tone and manner quite disarmed the pride
of the fallen gentlewoman, and a momentary glow of grateful pleasure
lighted up her sad face.
"But it will take you fully a mile out of your way," she said,
hesitating to accept the proffered kindness.
"Ah, that is no objection; it is so lovely a day for a drive," said
Elsie, leading the way to the carriage.
"This seems like a return of the good old times before the war!" sighed
Mrs. Foster leaning back upon the softly cushioned seat, as they bowled
rapidly along. "Ah Mrs. Travilla, if we could but have been content to
let well enough alone! I have grown weary, inexpressibly weary of all
this hate, bitterness and contention; and the poverty--Ah well, I will
not complain!" and she closed her lips resolutely.
"It was a sad mistake," Elsie answered; echoing the sigh, "and it will
take many years to recover from it."
"Yes, I shall not live to see it."
"Nor I, perhaps; not here, but yonder in the better land," Elsie
answered with a smile of hope and gladness.
Mrs. Foster nodded assent; her heart too full for utterance, nor did she
speak again till the carriage drew up before her own door.
Then repeating her thanks, "You have not been here for a long time, Mrs.
Travilla," she said, "I know I have not returned your calls, but--" she
paused seemingly again overcome with emotion.
"Ah, that shall not keep me away, if you wish me to come," returned
Elsie.
"We would be very glad; hardly any one else so welcome."
"I fear I have neglected you, but shall try to come soon. And shall be
pleased at any time to see you at Ion," Elsie answered as the carriage
drove on.
A day or two afterward she fulfilled her promise, and was admitted by
Annie, the eldest daughter.
She, too, looked pale and careworn, and had evidently been weeping.
"O, Mrs. Travilla!" she exclaimed, and burst into a fresh flood of
tears.
Elsie, her own eyes filling with sympathetic drops, put her arm about
her, whispering, "My poor dear child! what can I do to comfort you?"
"Nothing! nothing!" sobbed the girl, resting her head for a moment on
Elsie's shoulder; "But come into the parlor, dear Mrs. Travilla, and let
me call mamma."
"Ah, stay a moment," Elsie said, detaining her, "are you sure, quite
sure that I can do nothing to help you?"
Annie shook her head. "This trouble is beyond human help. Yes, yes, you
can pray for us, and for him."
The last words were almost inaudible from emotion, and she hurried away,
leaving the guest sole occupant of the room.
Involuntarily Elsie glanced about her, and a pang went to her heart as
she noticed that every article of luxury, almost of comfort, had
disappeared; the pictures were gone from the walls, the pretty ornaments
from mantel and centre-table; coarse cheap matting covered the floor in
lieu of the costly carpet of other days, and rosewood and damask had
given place to cottage furniture of the simplest and most inexpensive
kind.
"How they must feel the change!" she thought within herself, "and yet
perhaps not just now; these minor trials are probably swallowed up in a
greater one."
Mrs. Foster came in looking shabbier and more heart-broken than at their
last interview.
"My dear Mrs. Travilla, this is kind!" she said making a strong effort
to speak with composure but failing utterly as she met the tender
sympathizing look in the sweet soft eyes of her visitor.
Elsie put her arms about her and wept with her. "Some one is ill, I
fear?" she said at length.
"Yes--my son. O Mrs. Travilla, I am going to lose him!" and she was well
nigh convulsed with bitter, choking sobs.
"While there is life there is hope," whispered Elsie, "who can say what
God may do for us in answer to our prayers?"
The mother shook her head in sad hopelessness.
"The doctor has given him up; says nothing more can be done."
"Dr. Barton?"
"No, no, Savage. Oh if we could but have had Barton at first the result
might have been different. I have no confidence in Savage, even when
sober, and he's drunk nearly all the time now."
"Oh then things may not be so bad as he represents them. Let me send
over for Dr. Barton at once."
"Thank you, but I must ask Wilkins first. He was wounded some weeks ago;
injured internally, and has been suffering agonies of pain ever since. I
wanted Dr. Barton sent for at once, but he would not hear of it, said
the risk was too great and he must trust to Savage. But now--" she
paused, overcome with grief.
"But now the greater risk is in doing without him," suggested Elsie.
"May I not send immediately?"
"Excuse me one moment, and I will ask," the mother said, leaving the
room.
She returned shortly to say that Wilkins had consented that Dr. Barton
should be summoned; accepted Mrs. Travilla's kind offer with thanks.
Elsie at once sent her servant and carriage upon the errand, and
meanwhile engaged in conversation with her hostess. It was principally
an account by the latter of her son's illness.
His sufferings, she said, had been intense: at first borne with fierce
impatience and muttered imprecations upon the hand that had inflicted
the wound. He had likened himself to a caged tiger, so unbearable was
the confinement to him,--almost more so than the torturing pain--but of
late a great change had come over him; he had grown quiet and
submissive, and the bitter hate seemed to have died out of his heart.
"As it has out of mine, I hope," continued the mother, the big tears
rolling down her cheeks.
"I am now sensible that the feelings I have indulged against some
persons--the Lelands principally--were most unchristian, and I hope the
Lord has helped me to put them away. It has been hard for us to see
strangers occupying our dear old home; and yet it was certainly no fault
of theirs that we were compelled to give it up."
"That is all true," Elsie said, "I think I can understand both your
feelings and theirs, but they are dear good Christian people, and I
assure you bear you no ill-will."
"Ah, is that so? I am told Leland has not really gone North, as was
supposed, but has returned to the plantation since--since the coming of
the troops."
"He has, and is nearly recovered from his wound."
"He was wounded, then?"
"Yes, pretty badly."
"And was in hiding somewhere; and his wife staying on alone with her
children and servants? I wonder she had the courage."
"She put her trust in the Lord, as I believe both you and I do, my dear
Mrs. Foster; and he has not failed her."
Mrs. Foster mused sadly for a moment. "I have felt hard to her," she
murmured at length, in low, trembling tones; "and she a Christian, whom
I should love for the Master's sake, and it was quite natural for her
to--defend her husband and children. I should have done the same for
mine."
She had not mentioned when or where Wilkins had received his wound, but
Elsie knew now that it was at Fairview and that Mrs. Leland's or
Archie's hand had sped the bullet that had done such fearful work.
Dr. Barton came: Mrs. Foster went with him to the sick-room and Elsie
lingered, anxious to hear his opinion of the case.
But Annie came hurrying in with her tear-swollen face. "Dear Mrs.
Travilla, won't you come too?" she sobbed. "Mamma will be so glad;
and--and Wilkins begs you will come."
Elsie rose and put her arm about the waist of the weeping girl. "I will
gladly do all I can for him, your mamma or any of you," she whispered.
There was no want of comfort or luxury in the sick-room. Mother and
sisters had sacrificed every such thing to this idol of their hearts,
this only son and brother. He lay propped up with pillows, his face pale
as that of a corpse, and breathing with great difficulty.
Dr. Barton sat at the bedside with his finger on the patient's pulse
while he asked a few brief questions, then relapsed into a thoughtful
silence.
All eyes were turned upon him with intense anxiety, waiting in almost
breathless suspense for his verdict; but his countenance betrayed
nothing.
"O doctor!" sighed the mother at length, "have you no word of hope to
speak?"
"Let us have none of false hope, doctor," gasped the sufferer, "I would
know--the--worst."
"My poor lad," said the kind-hearted old physician, in tender, fatherly
tones, "I will not deceive you. Whatever preparation you have to make
for your last long journey, let it be made at once."
With a burst of uncontrollable anguish the mother and sisters fell upon
their knees at the bedside.
"How--long--doctor?" faltered the sick man.
"You will hardly see the rising of another sun."
The low, gently-spoken words pierced more than one heart as with a
dagger's point.
"Was--this--wound--mortal in the--first place?" asked Wilkins.
"I think not if it had had prompt and proper attention. But that is a
question of little importance now: you are beyond human skill. Is there
anything in which I can assist you?"
"Yes--yes--pray for--my guilty soul."
It was no new thing for Dr. Barton to do: an earnest Christian, he
ministered to the souls as well as the bodies of his patients. He knelt
and offered up a fervent prayer for the dying one, that repentance and
remission of sins might be given him, that he might have a saving faith
in the Lord Jesus, and trusting only in His imputed righteousness, be
granted an abundant entrance into His kingdom and glory.
"Thanks--doctor," gasped Wilkins, "I--I've been a bad man; a--very bad,
wicked--man; can there be any hope for--me?"
"'Whosoever _will_ let him take the water of life freely.' 'Him that
cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.'"
"Isn't it--too--late?" The hollow eyes gazed despairingly into the
doctor's face.
"'Whosoever will': you may come if you will; so long as death has not
fixed your eternal state."
"I will! Lord, help--save me! me a poor--lost--vile--helpless--sinner!"
he cried, lifting his eyes and clasped hands to heaven, while great
tears coursed down his sunken cheeks. "I cast myself--at--thy feet; oh
pardon, save me or--I am--lost--lost forever."
The eyes closed, the hands dropped, and for a moment they thought he had
passed away with that agonized cry for mercy and forgiveness; but a deep
sigh heaved his breast, his lips moved, and his mother bent over him to
catch the words.
"Leland; send--for--him."
With streaming eyes she turned to Elsie and repeated the words, adding,
"Do you think he would come?"
"I am quite sure of it. I will go for him at once."
The white lips were moving again.
The mother explained, amid her choking sobs. "He says the wife too,
and--and your husband and father. Oh, will they come? Tell them my boy
is dying and would go at peace with all the world."
"I will; and they will come," Elsie answered, weeping, and hurried away.
She drove directly to Fairview and was so fortunate as to find her
husband and father there conversing with Mr. and Mrs. Leland.
Her sad story was quickly told, and listened to by all with deep
commiseration for the impoverished and afflicted family.
"You will not refuse the poor dying man's request, papa? Edward?" she
said in conclusion.
"Certainly not!" they answered, speaking both together, "we will set out
immediately. And you, Leland?"
"Will gladly accompany you. I bear the poor man no malice, and would
rejoice to do him any good in my power. What do you say, Mary?"