INTERCEPTED
A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky. —Wordsworth.
Suddenly a figure glided forth into the moonlight, which, for one
moment, Kate almost fancied was a spirit. It was clothed in white, and
bore the semblance of a young girl, not more than ten years old; but so
sylph-like were its movements, so noiseless its tread, and so pure and
innocent was the expression of the face, that it could not, Kate
thought, be there, yet be earthly. This transient illusion, however, was
instantly dissipated, by a childish voice calling out to the dog, in low
tones, as if fearful of awaking the sleepers.
The bloodhound apparently recognized the accents as those of one who had
shown him acts of kindness, for he ceased growling immediately, and
going up to the young girl, lifted his head as if to be caressed. The
child patted the ferocious animal, whispering soothingly to him, on
which he crouched down at her feet, like the lion before Una.
Our heroine fully expected that the alarm given by the dog would have
aroused the sleepers; and she even fancied, for an instant, that she
heard the refugees stirring. She turned, therefore, eagerly to fly, but
at the first step the young girl advanced, laying her hand on Kate’s
arm and shaking her head in the negative.
Kate glanced affrightedly over her shoulder, sure that she would behold
Arrison; but her excited fancy had run ahead of the reality. She drew a
deep sigh of relief, and turning to the young girl, said, breathlessly.
“You will not stop me—you will save me from these dreadful men, by
letting me go before they awake.”
The child shook her head again.
“I dare not,” she said, but in a low, sweet voice.
“And why not? Oh! surely they would not harm you.”
“He would kill me,” replied the child, glancing in terror towards
the house.
“Who?”
“Uncle.”
“And who is uncle?”
“Don’t you know?”
“What! Arrison?”
“Yes.”
Kate looked at the child earnestly. There seemed to her something
strangely familiar, in the large, eloquent eyes of the young creature
before her. The whole countenance, indeed, reminded her of some one she
had known, but she could not recall whom, though she endeavored, again
and again, to remember. The likeness, after all, however, was a confused
one, with gleams of that which was familiar mingled with others which
were foreign; and these latter it was which appeared to Kate to give
such an air of innocence and even holiness to the face. After a
moment’s scrutiny, she recalled her perilous condition, and as every
instant was precious, endeavored again to persuade the child to allow
her departure.
“You must be mistaken,” she said, “your uncle surely would not
hurt you.”
“You don’t know him,” answered the child, “Oh! I am sure he
would kill me if I let you go,” she continued, clasping her little
hands.
“But I _must_ go,” replied Kate, with an endeavor to overawe the
child. “You cannot help it.”
The child laid her hand significantly on the bloodhound, which had risen
from his reclining posture and now stood at her side, watching
alternately her countenance and that of Kate. This gesture he seemed to
interpret as it was intended, for he bristled up and uttered a low
growl.
Kate shudderingly looked over her shoulder in the direction of the
house.
“Don’t—don’t,” she cried, in an eager whisper, imploringly
glancing down into the child’s face, and laying her hand on the
girl’s shoulder.
The child looked up, with her sad, earnest eyes, at the same time
patting the bloodhound, who became quiet at once.
“Oh! if I could let you go,” she said, and her little face was
eloquent in every feature with sincerity. “I haven’t slept a wink
all night, thinking of you. That was before I saw you,” she added,
naively, “before I knew you were beautiful, or looked so good.”
“Does nobody live here but you?” Kate said, wondering to find the
child in such a place. “I mean nobody but you and Arrison.”
“He hasn’t lived here always,” she replied. “He did once, and
then went away, and only came back a week ago.”
“But you didn’t live here alone?”
“No, Granny Jones lived with me. But she’s cross too. Oh!” she
suddenly added, with passionate earnestness, “if mother hadn’t
died.”
Kate was silent. The child was then an orphan. She said kindly, after a
moment.
“You remember your mother?”
“Oh! yes. She was so beautiful,” and the tears glistened in the
child’s eyes. “Not beautiful like you, not proud looking and grand,
but so sweet and pretty. She never scolded me in all her life, never,
never.” And the child burst into low, half-stifled sobs, which, in her
effort to suppress them, shook her little frame.
Kate was again silent; tears sympathetically dimmed her eyes. The child
saw it, and hushing her sobs, said,
“But Granny Jones was sent away, when uncle came back.”
“And when he’s away, you’re alone?” The child nodded.
“All alone, except with Lion,” she said, glancing at the bloodhound.
“He’s such a good fellow,” she added, her eyes brightening. “We
play together, when we’ve time! Don’t we, Lion?” and she caressed
him.
Kate sighed to think of this lovely child, brought up by an outlaw, yet
retaining so much of heaven’s purity, living here in the forest with
no companion but this ferocious dog. She longed to question the little
outcast respecting her mother, about whom there seemed some strange
mystery. But she refrained out of respect to the girl, who evidently
suffered at allusions to her parent’s name.
“Why won’t you go with me?” said Kate, winningly. “Help me to
get away from this place, and I’ll take you home with me, where you
shall have everything you like, and be my little sister.”
The child looked up at her, with eyes dilated to their utmost size in
wonder, evidently unable to credit what she heard.
“I am rich,” said Kate; “you never need work any more. Look in my
face and you’ll see I speak truth.”
The child gave a long, earnest gaze, and answered. “I believe what you
say. I know you are good.”
“Then come,” said Kate. But the child drew back.
“No,” she said, “it wouldn’t be right. Mother told me to stay
with uncle till I grew to be a woman; that he was a hard man, but my
only friend, and I promised I would do it.”
“But your mother did not know that I would make you my sister. If she
had known that you could go away to a fine house, have plenty of
clothes, have books to read, and have a sister to love you, don’t you
think she would have been willing?”
The child looked puzzled. She fixed her large eyes, in doubt and
inquiry, on Kate, as if she could interrogate our heroine’s very soul.
“Maybe she would,” she answered frankly, at last. “She was always
afraid of uncle, and often cried after he’d been to see us. But I
promised her I’d stay with him. Is it right to break promises?
Wouldn’t that be to tell a lie?”
Kate felt her eyes shrink before the gaze of the innocent child. She was
no adept in casuistry, and if she had been, the inquiry of the little
girl, thus put, would have silenced her. Even the strong instinct to
escape could not induce her to mislead one so young and pure.
“God help me!” was her answer, wringing her hands. “I must then
stay here. Oh! if I were dead.”
The child looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said, pulling
her by her sleeve,
“Don’t, don’t. They won’t hurt you—will they? Uncle told me he
was going to marry you, and that I must give up my room to you, and go
and sleep in the barn, for tonight, anyhow. If you don’t like uncle,
you needn’t marry him, need you? I thought people only married when
they liked each other.”
“You cannot understand it all, my child,” answered Kate, placing her
hand on the girl’s shoulder. “But listen! I don’t want to marry
your uncle. I never will marry him. They brought me here by force, or
I’d never have come. If you don’t let me go, I’ll not live till
night; and you’ll see me dead here, before your eyes.”
The child started back with a sudden shriek, which she stifled as
hastily, looking in terror towards the house; and then, taking Kate’s
hand, she drew her away within the shadow of the barn. Here, pausing,
she said,
“You don’t mean it. They’ll not kill you?”
“As sure as there is a good God above us,” answered Kate, solemnly,
“if you don’t let me go, I’ll not be alive to-morrow. There is no
help for it. While, if you do let me go,” she continued, eager to take
advantage of the favorable chance, “nobody will know you helped me. In
fact, you won’t help me; you’ll only keep Lion quiet; and if they
were to know you helped me, they couldn’t harm you, innocent child
that you are. If your mother was alive, she’d wish you to let me go.
You know I wouldn’t tell a lie, darling, or I’d have tried still to
get you to go with me, in spite of your promise to your mother. Every
minute is precious. It will soon be daybreak. Only keep Lion quiet,
leave me to myself, and go back to your bed in the barn.”
“You _shall_ go,” suddenly said the child. “I’ll go inside, and
take Lion with me.”
“God bless you!” cried Kate, seizing her in her arms and kissing her
again and again. “If I escape, and you ever want a friend, you’ll
always have one, if you ask for Miss Aylesford, of Sweetwater.”
“Good-bye,” said the child, timidly returning the kisses. “Take
the road in front, and keep straight ahead. Only,” she added, “when
you come to the big cedar, past the log bridge, a mile off, you must
turn to the right.”
“I will, I will,” breathlessly said Kate, but, in her hurry and
excitement, paying less heed to the direction than she ought. “Again
God bless you!”
With tears in her eyes she gave the child a last embrace, and first
glancing towards the house to see that no one was in motion, ran swiftly
across the open space, entered the road, nor slackened her speed until
not only the turn concealed her from sight, but a considerable distance
intervened between her and the clearing. Then, almost out of breath, she
subsided into a quick walk, occasionally stopping to hear if the steps
or shouts of pursuers were following in the distance.
As for the child, she remained in the shadow, caressing the dog to keep
him quiet, and watching the retreating figure of our heroine, until Kate
had wholly disappeared. Then, suddenly bursting into tears, she turned,
and entered the dilapidated barn, leading the bloodhound, whom, the
instant they were alone together on the hay, she clasped to her arms, in
a mute eloquence that said he was now again the only friend she had in
the world.