Winter Evening Tales - Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (pocket ebook reader .TXT) 📗

sitting together under some mulberry trees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their verdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty.

Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. He pleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim."

But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he must oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made the punishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable death like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Every rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they were given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentially false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The men gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further pleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request would be granted.

Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took the prisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of rope on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned with one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove of mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose. There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the party walked.

Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin: and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and deserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and was willing to pay the penalty of his crime."

Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father! His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of exultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a touching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the weary days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless.

Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though silent motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretched father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful hour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a few minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the branches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face; perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood.

The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar which covered the strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment David sought his father's eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called "Father! Now!" As the words reached the father's ears, the bullet reached the son's heart. He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him. It was the father's groan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur of suffering about him which no one thought of resisting.

He walked to his child's side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, and wept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born. They were all fathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him. Silently they untied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word of dissent. If they had, Lorimer had reached a point far beyond care of man's approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow is indifferent to all outside itself.

When he lifted his head he was alone. The sheriff was waiting at the house door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. He motioned to him to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him a companion and a rude bier. They laid the body upon it, and the sheriff having satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid, Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead. He took him up to his own room and laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side. The dead opened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he saw all that he had been blind to for so many years. Then he understood what it must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count over and over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailing repentance.

In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded. But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy. Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants' faces and words. She was quite aware what was in her uncle's lonely room. Just as he was thinking of the hard necessity of going to her, she came to the door. For the first time in his life he called her "My daughter," and stooped and kissed her. He had a letter for her--David's dying message of love. He put it in her hand, and left her alone with the dead.

At sunrise a funeral took place. In that climate the necessity was an urgent one. Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearing in the cypress swamp. It had been a favorite place of resort; there Lulu had often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with the slain youth. She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy, more pitiful than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took her on his arm, the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behind them. The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leaves across the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where last it had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth.

When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again, their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of air with lamentation. But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. The girl was white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle's unusual tenderness. Evidently she had not forgiven him. And as the winter went wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her own consciousness. Lorimer seldom saw her. She was soon very ill, and kept her room entirely. He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded her with marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades, she died.

One night she sent for him. "Uncle," she said, "I am going away very soon, now. If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me. And I want your promise about my sister's children; will you give me it?"

He winced visibly, and remained silent.

"There are six boys and two girls--they are poor, ignorant and unhappy. They are under very bad influences. For David's sake and my sake you must see that they are brought up right. There need be no mistakes this time; for two wrecked lives you may save eight. You will do it, uncle?"

"I will do my best, dear."

"I know you will. Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once. You will need company soon."

"Do you think you are dying, dear?"

"I know I am dying."

"And how is a' wi' you anent what is beyond death?"

She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, and then closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so exhausted that he could press the question no further. And the next morning she had "gone away"--gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting by her side, knew not when she departed. He went and looked at her. The fair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had been too sore a burden for her. His anguish was great, but it was God's doing. What was there for him to say?

The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept--not very cheerfully at first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but he persevered, and the reward came. The children grew and prospered; they loved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gave them his own name, and suffered them to call him father.

As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedy of his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever present to his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened the stern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hour of spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made no sign. Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did he understand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; and that He who could say, "Let there be light," could also say, "Thy sins be forgiven thee;" and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be come to the holy land: for--


"Down in the valley of death
A cross is standing plain;
Where strange and awful the shadows sleep,
And the ground has a deep red stain.
This cross uplifted there
Forbids, with voice Divine,
Our anguished hearts to break for the dead
Who have died and made no sign.
As they turned at length from us,
Dear eyes that were heavy and dim,
May have met his look, who was lifted there,
May be sleeping safe in Him."




THE SEVEN WISE MEN OF PRESTON.

Let me introduce to our readers seven of the wisest men of the present century--the seven drafters and signers of the first teetotal pledge.

The movement originated in the mind of Joseph Livesey, and a short consideration of the circumstances and surroundings of his useful career will give us the best insight into the necessities and influences which gave it birth. He was born near Preston, in Lancashire, in the year 1795; the beginning of an era in English history which scarcely has a parallel for national suffering. The excitement of the French Revolution still agitated all classes, and, commercial distress and political animosities made still more terrible the universal scarcity of food and the prostration of the manufacturing business.

His father and mother died early, and he was left to the charge of his grandfather, who, unfortunately, abandoned his farm and became a cotton spinner. Lancashire men had not then been whetted by daily attrition with steam to their present keen and shrewd character, and the elder Livesey lost all he possessed. The records of cotton printing and spinning mention with honor the Messrs. Livesey, of Preston, as the first who put into practice Bell's invention of cylindrical printing of calicoes in 1785; but whether the firms are identical or not I have no certain knowledge. It shows, however, that they were a race inclined to improvements and ready to