A half hour before, Elliott had been in a delicious reverie passing what were, perhaps the sweetest moments of his life. He had awakened early from a dream. He had dreamed that he felt the touch of soft fingers upon his cheek and the beating of a loving heart against his, and the memory of the ecstasy lingered like some charmed spell. Dorothy was his very own—Dorothy, crowned with the beauty which combined all of the woman and all of the angel. He saw nothing in the world save her radiant face. He praised God for giving him her love, and the hope of preserving that nearest likeness on earth to heaven—a home. This sweet foretokening of life’s full, ripe completeness had filled his heart.
Joyous, enraptured, young, he had stepped upon the railway platform at Georgetown. From such thoughts to the vivid scene at the jail, was an abrupt and wild plunge into a whirling abysm. His mind was in a turmoil, and he felt the need of cooling air and brisk movement to regain his composure.
As he set out on foot for the Carr’s, the sheriff, relieved from the anxiety of the jail attack, overtook him. Laying hand on his shoulder, he said earnestly:
“Mr. Harding, you are a credit to your principles. I’m mightily obliged to you. When you need a friend, I’m your man. Nobody could have stopped that mob but you.”
“I—why anyone else could have done so as well.”
“No, because it was known that Miss Carr and you was goin’ to be married soon. They naturally thought you ought to be the man to fix the scoundrel’s sentence.”
Elliott sprang round with such a start that the sheriff shrank back instinctively.
“What!” he gasped, “you don’t mean—you don’t mean—”
“My God!” said the sheriff. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard, heard what, man? not Dorothy? You can’t mean that it was Dorothy Carr—what—what—”
He stopped, a thrill of terror froze his blood.
“It’s true—too true! Mr. Harding, she is dead!”
“You lie! You lie!” Elliott shrieked.
Then in a different tone, he huskily whispered:
“Give me the keys, man, give me the keys! Quick! Quick!”
It was all that the sheriff could do to make him understand that the jailer had the keys. A whirlwind of ungovernable fury swept over him.
“Good God!” he panted, “The driver said the mob was for the moonshiner!” His senses reeled; staggering, he leaned against a wall near by.
“What shall I do, my God! What shall I do!”
“I advise you to go first to her poor old father. They say the shock has pretty near killed him,” said the sheriff.
“You are right. I must go to him.” Elliott’s face knit convulsively as he spoke, crushing back the horror that almost paralyzed him. Then the sheriff proposed to get a buggy and drive him to Mr. Carr’s. As they rode along silently, all nature was still and peaceful—cruelly peaceful it seemed to Elliott, as he sat with his head inclined, his body shaken with deep grief, his breast laboring hard.
They soon reached the hushed, dark home. A long trail of blood lay in ruddy streaks from the gateway to the door where the white crape swayed so gently—so gently.
Elliott walked slowly and as if stunned. He went into the house, turned and looked about him.
The parlor door was slightly open. He went in and began to walk the floor—the resource of those who suffer. There are instincts for all the crises of life—he felt that he was not alone.
Nervously he unclasped and threw open the window blind, then, turning, cast his eyes sadly about him.
There sat the old father in a posture of dejection, his eyes almost closed. Just beyond lay his child! Clasping his hands with an expression full of the most violent, most gentle entreaty, Elliott uttered a piercing cry!
“Dorothy! Dorothy, my little girl, come back to me! Come back!” And with this appeal he sank upon his knees with both hands upon his eyes.
“Elliott! Elliott!”
He raised his head at length and looked steadily at Mr. Carr—this venerable, manly face, upon which God had imprinted goodness and heroism.
“Yes, father,” and leaning forward he embraced his white head. Drawing it to his breast, his overcharged heart found relief in tears.
The intense calm and silence of the father’s beautiful, mute resignation finally silenced him.
Rigid before the fire, as if it were a charmed flame that was turning him old, he sat, with the dark lines deepening in his face; its stare becoming more and more haggard; its surface turning whiter and whiter, as if it were being overspread with ashes—the very texture and color of his hair appearing to change.
A sunbeam shot in and faltered over the face of the girl asleep. This fair, white bride, robed in her wedding gown.
Elliott got up and went to her side. He turned away again, and dropped upon the broad divan, utterly helpless, hopeless. Here he lay face downward, with his elbows on the cushions and his hands clutching his chin, his sad eyes staring steadily. He lay for hours gazing upon her face, moving not from the first position he had assumed. He took no heed of time—time and he were separate that day. He was neither hungry nor thirsty—only sick at the heart which lay like lead in him.
By and by a long procession was seen moving from the house. Six bearers deposited their burden. Dorothy’s grave had been made beside her mother’s in the family burying ground, at the back of the garden.