A half hour before, Elliott had been in a delicious reverie passing
what were, perhaps the sweetest moments of his life. He had awakened
early from a dream. He had dreamed that he felt the touch of soft
fingers upon his cheek and the beating of a loving heart against his,
and the memory of the ecstasy lingered like some charmed spell. Dorothy
was his very own--Dorothy, crowned with the beauty which combined all
of the woman and all of the angel. He saw nothing in the world save
her radiant face. He praised God for giving him her love, and the hope
of preserving that nearest likeness on earth to heaven--a home. This
sweet foretokening of life’s full, ripe completeness had filled his
heart.
Joyous, enraptured, young, he had stepped upon the railway platform
at Georgetown. From such thoughts to the vivid scene at the jail, was
an abrupt and wild plunge into a whirling abysm. His mind was in a
turmoil, and he felt the need of cooling air and brisk movement to
regain his composure.
As he set out on foot for the Carr’s, the sheriff, relieved from the
anxiety of the jail attack, overtook him. Laying hand on his shoulder,
he said earnestly:
“Mr. Harding, you are a credit to your principles. I’m mightily obliged
to you. When you need a friend, I’m your man. Nobody could have
stopped that mob but you.”
“I--why anyone else could have done so as well.”
“No, because it was known that Miss Carr and you was goin’ to be
married soon. They naturally thought you ought to be the man to fix the
scoundrel’s sentence.”
Elliott sprang round with such a start that the sheriff shrank back
instinctively.
“What!” he gasped, “you don’t mean--you don’t mean--”
“My God!” said the sheriff. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard, heard what, man? not Dorothy? You can’t mean that it was
Dorothy Carr--what--what--”
He stopped, a thrill of terror froze his blood.
“It’s true--too true! Mr. Harding, she is dead!”
“You lie! You lie!” Elliott shrieked.
Then in a different tone, he huskily whispered:
“Give me the keys, man, give me the keys! Quick! Quick!”
It was all that the sheriff could do to make him understand that the
jailer had the keys. A whirlwind of ungovernable fury swept over him.
“Good God!” he panted, “The driver said the mob was for the
moonshiner!” His senses reeled; staggering, he leaned against a wall
near by.
“What shall I do, my God! What shall I do!”
“I advise you to go first to her poor old father. They say the shock
has pretty near killed him,” said the sheriff.
“You are right. I must go to him.” Elliott’s face knit convulsively
as he spoke, crushing back the horror that almost paralyzed him. Then
the sheriff proposed to get a buggy and drive him to Mr. Carr’s. As
they rode along silently, all nature was still and peaceful--cruelly
peaceful it seemed to Elliott, as he sat with his head inclined, his
body shaken with deep grief, his breast laboring hard.
They soon reached the hushed, dark home. A long trail of blood lay in
ruddy streaks from the gateway to the door where the white crape swayed
so gently--so gently.
Elliott walked slowly and as if stunned. He went into the house, turned
and looked about him.
The parlor door was slightly open. He went in and began to walk the
floor--the resource of those who suffer. There are instincts for all
the crises of life--he felt that he was not alone.
Nervously he unclasped and threw open the window blind, then, turning,
cast his eyes sadly about him.
There sat the old father in a posture of dejection, his eyes almost
closed. Just beyond lay his child! Clasping his hands with an
expression full of the most violent, most gentle entreaty, Elliott
uttered a piercing cry!
“Dorothy! Dorothy, my little girl, come back to me! Come back!” And
with this appeal he sank upon his knees with both hands upon his eyes.
“Elliott! Elliott!”
He raised his head at length and looked steadily at Mr. Carr--this
venerable, manly face, upon which God had imprinted goodness and
heroism.
“Yes, father,” and leaning forward he embraced his white head. Drawing
it to his breast, his overcharged heart found relief in tears.
The intense calm and silence of the father’s beautiful, mute
resignation finally silenced him.
Rigid before the fire, as if it were a charmed flame that was turning
him old, he sat, with the dark lines deepening in his face; its stare
becoming more and more haggard; its surface turning whiter and whiter,
as if it were being overspread with ashes--the very texture and color
of his hair appearing to change.
A sunbeam shot in and faltered over the face of the girl asleep. This
fair, white bride, robed in her wedding gown.
Elliott got up and went to her side. He turned away again, and dropped
upon the broad divan, utterly helpless, hopeless. Here he lay face
downward, with his elbows on the cushions and his hands clutching his
chin, his sad eyes staring steadily. He lay for hours gazing upon
her face, moving not from the first position he had assumed. He took
no heed of time--time and he were separate that day. He was neither
hungry nor thirsty--only sick at the heart which lay like lead in him.
By and by a long procession was seen moving from the house. Six bearers
deposited their burden. Dorothy’s grave had been made beside her
mother’s in the family burying ground, at the back of the garden.