The Darlington news. (Darlington, S.C.) 1875-1909, November 23, 1893, Image 3
CHAPTER XII.
Henry my brother, forgive the tmnl
things 1 have thought of yon I ' Every
thing dwindles into insignificance in the
presence of a calamity snch as this.
How futile and insincere all my specu
lations seem nowl And now repentance
is as futile, however sincere it may be.
But we must not think of our sorrow
yet. The first thing to be done is to dis
cover and to punish.
I shall never forget that knocking at
my door. 1 can hear it now. I shall
hear it in my dreams. It seemed to carry
its message with it before a word was
spoken. Ami yet, when the words were
spoken, 1 could not understand them.
They fell like meaningless sounds on my
ear. And 1 cannot help thinking that,
had I been well and about that night,
this would not have happened. He must
have exposed himself needlessly. He was
always heedless, confident and fearless.
1 remember his saying once that he bore
a charmed life. A curse on all supersti
tions! And be those juggling fiends no
more believed who palter with us in a
double sense!
It could not have happened earlier
than 2 o’clock in the morning. 1 must
have slept more than three hours when 1
was aroused, and when I last looked at
my watch it was between 11 and 12. It
was 3 when Tom knocked on my door,
and he had just come from him. He
found him still warm, and he could
hardly have been dead more than half
an hour. But he was dead, and he must
have “died instantly. The bullet, fired
from behind, struck him below the left
shoulder and went through his heart.
The body lay at the foot of the cliff,
and from its appearance Henry must
have been standing near its verge when
he was struck and have fallen or been
pushed over. The fall was upward of 20
feet There were bruises on the body,
and some dirt and a small fragment of
rock had fallen with him from above.
He must have been standing there look
iug down into the wood below when the
villain crept up behind him and fired.
The shot was at close range—not more
than 8 or 10 feet away. It seems strange
that he heard no footstep. Yet if he had
he would surely have turned round, and
then the bullet would have struck him
in front
These points will probably be eluci
dated at the trial, when we know whom
to try. Of course there is no doubt that
the murderer was one of the burglars
Thus far, however, no truce of any bur
glars has been seen. Neither John nor
Tom discovered any signs of them, either
before or after the shooting. This is
the more strange because the murder
proves that they must have been there.
They had made no attempt ui>on the
house, however, though they must have
known that it was empty, and if they
got wind of our intention to capture
them, or if on arriving on the ground
they discovered our ambush, why did
they not retire at once instead of putting
their necks in a noose by a wanton as
sassination? Had there been signs that
Henry had attempted to arrest one of
them and that a struggle had taken
place we might suppose that they had
shot him self defense, but the indications
Are that he was approached unawares.
The evidence on this point will have to
be carefully sifted. At present it is per
plexing.
The dominion of mind over matter can
seldom have been more conclusively il
lustrated than it was in my case when
1 was made to comprehend what had
happened. A moment before I was as
helpless as any cripple can bo and suf
fering acute pain. Five minutes after
ward 1 was beside my brother’s dead
bgdy, a quarter of a mile away. 1 have
Seen conscious of no pain since, and
now even the traces of inflammation are
gone. I have no distinct recollection of
what 1 did, but I must have sprung from
my chair and run at full speed, all band
aged as I was, to the place where he lay.
This indeed is Tom’s account of the fhat-
ter.
He says that toward 2In the morning
he heard a report as of a piitol, but it
was at some distance, and he was at first
disposed to think TTe had been mistaken.
He had for more than an hour past given
up all expectation of the success of the
ambush and was beginning to feel some
what sleepy. However, he went along
in the direction from which the sound had
seemed to come, stopping every now and
then to look and listen, bat detecting noth
ing, and he was just on the point of aban
doning the search when he saw something
dark lying near the foot of the cliff. He
took it for a small rock or fallen bowlder,
but as he .did not remember having be
fore noticed anything of the kind in the
place he came nearer to examine.
Until he stood within a yard of it no
suspicion as to what it really was enter
ed his mind. Then in a moment he knew
it was a man’s body, but even then he
thought of a tramp fallen asleep and not
of Henry or of any one he knew. But
when he noticed how the body lay—face
downward, with one arm doubled under
it—he recognized death, and bending
down he saw the curly hair that could
only be Henry’s. With that a fit of the
horrors took possession of him.- He does
not know what he did, but thinks he
shouted in the dead man’s ears as if to
awaken him from that irrevocable sleep,
and he felt for his heart and got his
hand smeared with blood. He was thor
oughly unmanned and ran hither and
thither, not knowing what to do, but
probably hoping to meet John. At
length he reflected that I was in my
rooms, and without further delay he
made a straight line for my door.
He was a ghastly looking object when,
the door being unfastened. I hade him
come in. My first idea was that he had
himself been attacked and had barely es
caped with his life. He was white in the
face, bailees, his dress disorders 1 and
his hand bloody. He was shaking all
ever like a man chilled to the marrow,
and be could not command his tongue to
speak clearly. I asked him several ques
tions before getting any coherent or
comprehensible reply. At last he said:
“It’s a murder—that’s what it is! And
somebody’s got to swing for it,”
"Who?" I asked.
• “Ah, if I knowed Jhgt, wouldn’t I teUT
‘Whos murdered, i mcanr
’’Lord ’are mercy on us. Your broth
er, sir.”
“My brother? John?"
“No, sir, not ’im. Master ’Enry, sir!"
“Henry!” 1 cried out. I jumped up
and caught the man by the breast of his
coat. "Henry? Murdered?”
“As sure as there’s a God in ’eaven,
Mr. Frank, affff ’e’s lyin under the cliff
en ’is face.”
Ilevif white in the fnre, hntiese, hltdrce*
diminlercd and hie hand bloody
That was the way the news came to
me. So‘ far as I can recollect, my first
feeling was one of violent anger against
poor Tom, who, as I imagined, was tell
ing some hideous falsehood. That Hen
ry could be dead was not possible. Any
body else might be dead, but not Henry.
Henry, my playmate in boyhood, from
whom I had parted only that afternoon,
alive and well—Henry dead? 1 was al
most ready to kill Tom for saying so, as
if that would bring my brother back to
life.
But after a few moments of dizzy in
credulity 1 steadied myself and confront
ed the truth, and with it came a won
derful glow and buoyancy of strength,
so that I became entirely unconscious of
my body and seemed to be all will and
power. 1 motioned Tom to lead the
way, and he went off at a run with me
at his heels. We crossed the lawn and
plunged down the slope into the wood.
J ust as we turned to the right to roach
the cliff we met some one. It was John.
At sight of me he uttered a cry of aston
ishment. I did not then know why, for
getting that I had been a cripple five
minutes before.
"Cornel come!” was all I said, and he
turned and ran beside me. He asked
some questions, but I only shook my
head. Tom, before us, dodged along be
tween the trunks and beneath the boughs
of the trees. It was dark, but 1 saw all
his movements distinctly and could de
scribe every one of them at this moment.
Every sense was dilated ami intensified
almost to the point of suffering. And
when we drew near the fatal place I be
lieve I pushed on in advance of the oth
ers and was actually the first to reach
the body.
With the touch of my hand upon it
came a change. The frantic, uncon
scious energy which brought me to him
was transformed into a no less unnatural
serenity and self possession: it might al
most be called coldness. My nerves wer»
steady, my perception clear, my voice
calm and authoritative. The others fol
lowed my directions and waited upon
my movement! with involuntary sub
mission. After carefully noting the
position of the body and assuring myself
that no life was left, 1 asked for a knife,
which Tom handed me, and cut off the
coat and underclothing, laying bare the
wound. It was small and dark where
the bullet had entered, but in the breast
was a ragged hole half as large as the
palm of my hand. The effusion of blood,
however, had not been great—death had
been too sudden.
The left side of the skull was slightly
crushed, evidently from the fall, and
the left arm was fractured at the elbow.
The face, when the leaves and clay
which adhered to it had been removed,
appeared calm in its expression. 1 lit v
wax match from a box that John car
ried and scrutinized it closely. The
match burned without flickering in the
still air. It was a handsome face—never
handsomer than then—and a dignity in
vested it which was seldom seen in life.
Tom shrank appalled at the aspect of
these quiet features, and John broke
down and cried like a child. I felt
neither appalled nor inclined to weep. 1
was conscious only of a stem determina
tion to see ;’astice done upon his assassin.
Some trees had been felled near by a
few days before. We selected some stout
stakes cut from their boughs, placed the
body on them and carried it slowly arl
with difficulty up the hill to the house
and laid it on the sofa in my library.
Then I sent Tom for th» coroner and
wrote a note to mother, which John car
ried. It told her thatHenry had had a bad
fall and bade her return at once. When
he had gone, I was left alone With my
dead-brother. It was about 4 o’clock,
and the dawn was already in the east.
That strange serenity of mind did not
abandon me, though I was fully aware
of its strangeness. During the past week
or two I had thought of this man as an
enemy. I believed he had done a great
wrong, and circumstances had brought
the wrong home to me to be shared with
his immediate victim. I had even ad
mitted the thought that his presence, if
not his very existence, was hostile to my
happiness, and now, like a swift answer ’
to that unspoken thought, he was dead, i
and his body lay upon the same sofa
where he bad lounged and smoked so i
short a while ago. But 1 felt as little
fear aa animosity. All passions, both
good and evil, were absolutely still in
me. I stood and looked down at him for
a long time. It was to be, and I, Ukj
him, was the creature of destiny.
I stood with my back toward the door. !
I heard no sound, but I was suddenly
aware that I was not alone. I turned,
and there stood Anfire.
my own part at any rate i have gem:
ally found myself in an attitude to ac
cept whatever happens as something to
be more or less expected. It is not a
conscious premonition, but a kind of in
stant and instinctive accommodation of
one’s self to circumstances. It simply
means that the man and his environment
are essentially in harmony. But now
and then there is an abrupt exception
to this rule, and then everything seems to
break away, and there is chaos.
The news of Henry’s death., profound
ly though it affected me and amazed
me, too, did not startle me at all. Per-
haps it struck too deep for that; perhaps
the dream from which 1 had just awak
ened had been a dream of foreboding. Be
that as it may, it steadied even while it
appalled me. But this sudden appari
tion of Sinfire at my elbow unmanned
me completely. I had not been think
ing of her directly at all; she had formed
in my mind no more than a feature of
the general circumstances; I was not
prepared to consider her separate rela
tion to the event; she was 10 miles away,
as 1 supposed, and hours would pass
before any hint of what had occurred
would reach her. Yet here she was mys
teriously on the spot—almost before the
corpse of the man she had loved and
hated had stiffened into its final rigidity.
I stared at her in silence, striving to
prepare myself for I knew not wl.at
other shock. Had she witnessed the
murder? Had she any purpose to ful
fill? A score of wild conjectures flew
through my head. I loved her; she was
the great and only passion of my life;
she had transfigured me—almost created
me; whatever I might do or be hereaft' r
would be due to her, but there are a
time and a mood for all things, and 1
was in no mood, standing where 1 did,
to think of anything tender and sacred.
My nerves and faculties were tuned
to something different, and I could not
divest myself of the idea that she was
about to connect herself in some way
with the omnipresent horror.
She was dressed in her scarlet riding
habit, which she had taken with her to
the lake, intending, as she said, to ride
back the next day. In the darkness of
the night it would have been indistin
guishable from any other color, butwii’i
the rays of the lamplight falling upon it
its vivid hue gleamed out with a strik
ing intensity. Her derringer hung in a
sling from her belt on the right side.
Her lijis were compressed, her eyes bril
liant with concentrated light. Her glance
seemed to question or challenge me, but
after a few silent moments she turned
her face slowly toward the couch, which
she approached lingeringly. Within a
few .feet of it she paused and gazed down
upon the dead.
“How came this?" she asked at length,
not altering her attitude.
“He was murdered in the wood. We
brought him here.”
“Murdered in the wood! Murdered!’’
she repeated in a murmur. "I thought
you were ill," she added, glancing up,
and then before I could reply, "Who
did it?" she inquired.
CHAPTER XIIL
There was nothing miraculous in her
appearing at that moment, but it is cer
tain that I was never more startled in
my life. So far as I have noticed genuine
surprises are not nearly so common as
tbvy arc popularly m;cr*s»d to be. .Fur
“IFfio did itf" she intfiilred.
“The murderer alone knows,” said 1.
“It seems cruel. He loved to be alive,
and he didn’t expect it," was the next re
mark. She fetched a long sigh. “1
would have spared his life."
“Would you have him alive agaiu?” 1
demanded.
“How can I tell?” she returned. “It
is done!”
Those words, “It is doner had a sad
ness and solemnity in them that pierced
through my resentment and sternness
and made me feel, as I had not done tie-
fore, that the horror was not only a hor
ror, but that it was irrevocable forever.
I could not speak. I turned and walked
down the room. Life is all possibility.
There are few riddles that time cannot
answer, few wro^;- that years will not
remedy, but death has no cure. Every
thing must stop thareaud begin afresh.
The life that has gone out is no longer
an element fn the problem. The Gor
dian knot is cut, and the severed strinds
are intractable and meaningless. Then
we see, what was invisible till then, how
much might have been saved by the
strong magic of patience. But it is done
—it is no dream or imagination—it is
done!
I turned again. She had stepped near
er to the body, and stooping forward
took something from the breast of her
riding habit and laid it on the dead man’s
heart. As I came toward her I saw that
it was a gold ring set with an opal.
"What does that mean?” I asked.
“It is his,” she replied. “Let it be
burled with him. I have no more to do
with it.”
“How came yon by it?”
"Call it a bequest. I always meant to
return it to him,” was her answer. “It
meant a great deal once, but now that
he is gone it means nothing. It is his.”
"I have no curiosity to gratify, Sin-
fire,” I said after a pause. “I have al
ways accepted you and everything con
cerning yon on your own representation
and cared for nothing more. If you
were compelled to answer any questions
I put to you, I would ask none. Nothing
that is past ir any concern of mine or of
ours, and this is no time to think of the
future. Let that, too, take care of itself.
But I may ask you why and how you
came here. It seems strange to me and
might seem stranger still to others if
they knew."
“Oh, there’s no mystery about it. Cous
in Frank,” replied she, looking at me
with a half smile and speaking in much
lighter tones than she had used before.
“You know I asked to be allowed to
stay, and though, to please your mother,
I agreed to go to the lake I made up my
mind from the first that I would come
back. So when they were all asleep I
saddled my horse and came. I was
ready to do my part,” she concluded,
touching the derringer at her side.
“You rode 10 miles through the Woods
alone?"
“I feel at home in the woods. I can
find my way anywhere.”
■•How Iona have yon bean here?" . . -
[TO B> OOKTCtUKD.] -•
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C’vg
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J.D. BAIRD.
8®"P. S.—You will find me next to the Jail.-itos
The Darlington Shoo Store
We are receiving daily our stock of
Shoes for the Fall and Winter!
[MEN’S, LADIES’, MISSES and CHILDREN’S]
And beg an inspection of the same when in need of nice Footwear. Our stock is
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July 20—3m
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On the 14tl. day of October, 1892,
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Call on G. W. YOUNG, Agent, Dar
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i
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Also
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Highest prices paid for poultry,
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018—8m
1