The Garies and Their Friends Part 31

Just then Clarence heard a groan from his mother, so loud indeed that it would have been heard without but for the noise and excitement around the house--and feeling for her in the dark, he asked, "Mother, are you worse?

are you sick?"

A groan was her only answer.

"Mother, mother," he whispered, "do speak, please do!" and he endeavoured to put his arm around her.

"Don't, dear--don't," said she, faintly, "just take care of your sister--you can't do me any good--don't speak, dear, the men will hear you."

Reluctantly the frightened child turned his attention again to his little sister; ever and anon suppressed groans from his mother would reach his ears--at last he heard a groan even fierce in its intensity; and then the sounds grew fainter and fainter until they entirely ceased. The night to the poor shivering creatures in their hiding place seemed interminably long, and the sound of voices in the house had not long ceased when the faint light of day pierced their cheerless shelter.

Hearing the voices of some neighbours in the yard, Clarence hastened out, and seizing one of the ladies by the dress, cried imploringly, "Do come to my mother, she's sick."

"Why, where did you come from, chil?" said the lady, with a start of astonishment. "Where have you been?"

"In there," he answered, pointing to the wood-house. "Mother and sister are in there."

The lady, accompanied by one or two others, hastened to the wood-house.

"Where is she?" asked the foremost, for in the gloom of the place she could not perceive anything.

"Here," replied Clarence, "she's lying here." On opening a small window, they saw Mrs. Garie lying in a corner stretched upon the boards, her head supported by some blocks. "She's asleep," said Clarence. "Mother--mother,"

but there came no answer. "MOTHER," said he, still louder, but yet there was no response.

Stepping forward, one of the females opened the shawl, which was held firmly in the clenched hands of Mrs. Garie--and there in her lap partially covered by her scanty nightdress, was discovered a new-born babe, who with its mother had journeyed in the darkness, cold, and night, to the better land, that they might pour out their woes upon the bosom of their Creator.

The women gazed in mournful silence on the touching scene before them.

Clarence was on his knees, regarding with fear and wonder the unnatural stillness of his mother--the child had never before looked on death, and could not recognize its presence. Laying his hand on her cold cheek, he cried, with faltering voice, "Mother, _can't_ you speak?" but there was no answering light in the fixed stare of those gla.s.sy eyes, and the lips of the dead could not move. "Why don't she speak?" he asked.

"She can't, my dear; you must come away and leave her. She's better off, my darling--she's _dead_."

Then there was a cry of grief sprung up from the heart of that orphan boy, that rang in those women's ears for long years after; it was the first outbreak of a loving childish heart pierced with life's bitterest grief--a mother's loss.

The two children were kindly taken into the house of some benevolent neighbour, as the servants had all fled none knew whither. Little Em was in a profound stupor--the result of cold and terror, and it was found necessary to place her under the care of a physician.

After they had all gone, an inquest was held by the coroner, and a very unsatisfactory and untruthful verdict p.r.o.nounced--one that did not at all coincide with the circ.u.mstances of the case, but such a one as might have been expected where there was a great desire to screen the affair from public scrutiny.

CHAPTER XXII.

An Anxious Day.

Esther Ellis, devoured with anxiety respecting the safety of her father and the Garies, paced with impatient step up and down the drawing-room. Opening the window, she looked to see if she could discover any signs of day. "It's pitchy dark," she exclaimed, "and yet almost five o'clock. Father has run a fearful risk. I hope nothing has happened to him."

"I trust not. I think he's safe enough somewhere," said Mr. Walters. "He's no doubt been very cautious, and avoided meeting any one--don't worry yourself, my child, 'tis most likely he remained with them wherever they went; probably they are at the house of some of their neighbours."

"I can't help feeling dreadfully oppressed and anxious," continued she. "I wish he would come."

Whilst she was speaking, her mother entered the room. "Any news of your father?" she asked, in a tone of anxiety.

Esther endeavoured to conceal her own apprehensions, and rejoined, in as cheerful tone as she could a.s.sume--"Not yet, mother--it's too dark for us to expect him yet--he'll remain most likely until daylight."

"He shouldn't have gone had I been here--he's no business to expose himself in this way."

"But, mother," interrupted Esther, "only think of it--the safety of Emily and the children were depending on it--we mustn't be selfish."

"I know we oughtn't to be, my child," rejoined her mother, "but it's natural to the best of us--sometimes we can't help it." Five--six--seven o'clock came and pa.s.sed, and still there were no tidings of Mr. Ellis.

"I can bear this suspense no longer," exclaimed Esther. "If father don't come soon, I shall go and look for him. I've tried to flatter myself that he's safe; but I'm almost convinced now that something has happened to him, or he'd have come back long before this--he knows how anxious we would all be about him. I've tried to quiet mother and Caddy by suggesting various reasons for his delay, but, at the same time, I cannot but cherish the most dismal forebodings. I must go and look for him."

"No, no, Esther--stay where you are at present--leave that to me. I'll order a carriage and go up to Garie's immediately."

"Well, do, Mr. Walters, and hurry back: won't you?" she rejoined, as he left the apartment.

In a few moments he returned, prepared to start, and was speedily driven to Winter-street. He found a group of people gathered before the gate, gazing into the house. "The place has been attacked," said he, as he walked towards the front door--picking his way amidst fragments of furniture, straw, and broken gla.s.s. At the entrance of the house he was met by Mr.

Balch, Mr. Garie's lawyer.

"This is a shocking affair, Walters," said he, extending his hand--he was an old friend of Mr. Walters.

"Very shocking, indeed," he replied, looking around. "But where is Garie?

We sent to warn them of this. I hope they are all safe."

"Safe!" repeated Mr. Balch, with an air of astonishment. "Why, man, haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?" asked Mr. Walters, looking alarmed.

"That Mr. and Mrs. Garie are dead--both were killed last night."

The shock of this sudden and totally unexpected disclosure was such that Mr. Walters leaned against the doorway for support. "It can't be possible,"

he exclaimed at last, "not dead!" "Yes, _dead_, I regret to say--he was shot through the head--and she died in the wood-house, of premature confinement, brought on by fright and exposure."

"And the children?" gasped Walters.

"They are safe, with some neighbours--it's heart-breaking to hear them weeping for their mother." Here a tear glistened in the eye of Mr. Balch, and ran down his cheek. Brushing it off, he continued: "The coroner has just held an inquest, and they gave a most truthless verdict: nothing whatever is said of the cause of the murder, or of the murderers; they simply rendered a verdict--death caused by a wound from a pistol-shot, and hers--death from exposure. There seemed the greatest anxiety on the part of the coroner to get the matter over as quickly as possible, and few or no witnesses were examined. But I'm determined to sift the matter to the bottom; if the perpetrators of the murder can be discovered, I'll leave no means untried to find them."

"Do you know any one who sat on the inquest?" asked Walters.

"Yes, one," was the reply, "Slippery George, the lawyer; you are acquainted with him--George Stevens. I find he resides next door."

"Do you know," here interrupted Mr. Walters, "that I've my suspicions that that villain is at the bottom of these disturbances or at least has a large share in them. I have a paper in my possession, in his handwriting--it is in fact a list of the places destroyed by the mob last night--it fell into the hands of a friend of mine by accident--he gave it to me--it put me on my guard; and when the villains attacked my house last night they got rather a warmer reception than they bargained for."

"You astonish me! Is it possible your place was a.s.saulted also?" asked Mr.

Balch.

"Indeed, it was--and a hot battle we had of it for a short s.p.a.ce of time.

But how did you hear of this affair?"

"I was sent for by I can't tell whom. When I came and saw what had happened, I immediately set about searching for a will that I made for Mr.