“Oh, Ishmael, we pushed the matter far.
Had little been said, who would have been the wiser? Our consciences might then have been quiet.”
“Eest’er,” said the husband, turning on her a reproachful but still a dull regard, “the hour has been, my woman, when you thought another hand had done this wickedness.”
“I did, I did the Lord gave me the feeling, as a punishment for my sins! but his mercy was not slow in lifting the veil; I looked into the book, Ishmael, and there I found the words of comfort.” “Have you that book at hand, woman; it may happen to advise in such a dreary business.” Esther fumbled in her pocket, and was not long in producing the fragment of a Bible, which had been thumbed and smoke-dried till the print was nearly illegible. It was the only article, in the nature of a book, that was to be found among the chattels of the squatter, and it had been preserved by his wife, as a melancholy relic of more prosperous, and possibly of more innocent, days. She had long been in the habit of resorting to it, under the pressure of such circumstances as were palpably beyond human redress, though her spirit and resolution rarely needed support under those that admitted of reparation through any of the ordinary means of reprisal. In this manner Esther had made a sort of convenient ally of the word of God; rarely troubling it for counsel, however, except when her own incompetency to avert an evil was too apparent to be disputed. We shall leave casuists to determine how far she resembled any other believers in this particular, and proceed directly with the matter before us. “There are many awful passages in these pages, Ishmael,” she said, when the volume was opened, and the leaves were slowly turning under her finger, “and some there ar’ that teach the rules of punishment.” Her husband made a gesture for her to find one of those brief rules of conduct, which have been received among all Christian nations as the direct mandates of the Creator, and which have been found so just, that even they, who deny their high authority, admit their wisdom. Ishmael listened with grave attention, as his companion read all those verses, which her memory suggested, and which were thought applicable to the situation in which they found themselves. He made her show him the words, which he regarded with a sort of strange reverence. A resolution once taken was usually irrevocable, in one who was moved with so much difficulty. He put his hand upon the book, and closed the pages himself, as much as to apprise his wife that he was satisfied. Esther, who so well knew his character, trembled at the action, and casting a glance at his steady eye, she said— “And yet, Ishmael, my blood, and the blood of my children, is in his veins, cannot mercy be shown?”
“Woman,” he answered sternly, “when we believed that miserable old trapper had done this deed, nothing was said of mercy!”
Esther made no reply, but folding her arms upon her breast, she sat silent and thoughtful for many minutes.
Then she once more turned her anxious gaze upon the countenance of her husband, where she found all passion and care apparently buried in the coldest apathy.
Satisfied now, that the fate of her brother was sealed, and possibly conscious how well he merited the punishment that was meditated, she no longer thought of mediation.
No more words passed between them.
Their eyes met for an instant, and then both arose and walked in profound silence towards the encampment.
The squatter found his children expecting his return in the usual listless manner with which they awaited all coming events.
The cattle were already herded, and the horses in their gears, in readiness to proceed, so soon as he should indicate that such was his pleasure.
The children were already in their proper vehicle, and, in short, nothing delayed the departure but the absence of the parents of the wild brood.
“Abner,” said the father, with the deliberation with which all his proceedings were characterised, “take the brother of your mother from the wagon, and let him stand on the ‘arth.”
Abiram issued from his place of concealment, trembling, it is true, but far from destitute of hopes, as to his final success in appeasing the just resentment of his kinsman.
After throwing a glance around him, with the vain wish of finding a single countenance in which he might detect a solitary gleam of sympathy, he endeavoured to smother those apprehensions, that were by this time reviving in their original violence, by forcing a sort of friendly communication between himself and the squatter—
“The beasts are getting jaded, brother,” he said, “and as we have made so good a march already, is it not time to camp.
To my eye you may go far, before a better place than this is found to pass the night in.”
“Tis well you like it.
Your tarry here ar’ likely to be long.
My sons, draw nigh and listen.
Abiram White,” he added, lifting his cap, and speaking with a solemnity and steadiness, that rendered even his dull mien imposing, “you have slain my first-born, and according to the laws of God and man must you die!”
The kidnapper started at this terrible and sudden sentence, with the terror that one would exhibit who unexpectedly found himself in the grasp of a monster, from whose power there was no retreat.
Although filled with the most serious forebodings of what might be his lot, his courage had not been equal to look his danger in the face, and with the deceitful consolation, with which timid tempers are apt to conceal their desperate condition from themselves, he had rather courted a treacherous relief in his cunning, than prepared himself for the worst.
“Die!” he repeated, in a voice that scarcely issued from his chest; “a man is surely safe among his kinsmen!”
“So thought my boy,” returned the squatter, motioning for the team, that contained his wife and the girls, to proceed, as he very coolly examined the priming of his piece. “By the rifle did you destroy my son; it is fit and just that you meet your end by the same weapon.”
Abiram stared about him with a gaze that bespoke an unsettled reason.
He even laughed, as if he would not only persuade himself but others that what he heard was some pleasantry, intended to try his nerves.
But nowhere did his frightful merriment meet with an answering echo.
All around was solemn and still.
The visages of his nephews were excited, but cold towards him, and that of his former confederate frightfully determined.
This very steadiness of mien was a thousand times more alarming and hopeless than any violence could have proved.
The latter might possibly have touched his spirit and awakened resistance, but the former threw him entirely on the feeble resources of himself.
“Brother,” he said, in a hurried, unnatural whisper, “did I hear you?”
“My words are plain, Abiram White: thou hast done murder, and for the same must thou die!”
“Esther! sister, sister, will you leave me!
Oh sister! do you hear my call?”
“I hear one speak from the grave!” returned the husky tones of Esther, as the wagon passed the spot where the criminal stood. “It is the voice of my firstborn, calling aloud for justice!
God have mercy, God have mercy, on your soul!”
The team slowly pursued its route, and the deserted Abiram now found himself deprived of the smallest vestige of hope.
Still he could not summon fortitude to meet his death, and had not his limbs refused to aid him, he would yet have attempted to fly.
Then, by a sudden revolution from hope to utter despair, he fell upon his knees, and commenced a prayer, in which cries for mercy to God and to his kinsman were wildly and blasphemously mingled.
The sons of Ishmael turned away in horror at the disgusting spectacle, and even the stern nature of the squatter began to bend before so abject misery.
“May that, which you ask of Him, be granted,” he said; “but a father can never forget a murdered child.”
He was answered by the most humble appeals for time.
A week, a day, an hour, were each implored, with an earnestness commensurate to the value they receive, when a whole life is compressed into their short duration.
The squatter was troubled, and at length he yielded in part to the petitions of the criminal.
His final purpose was not altered, though he changed the means.
“Abner,” he said, “mount the rock, and look on every side, that we may be sure none are nigh.”
While his nephew was obeying this order, gleams of reviving hope were seen shooting across the quivering features of the kidnapper.