The Missing Bride | Page 4

broken down by her terrors. "I
know--I jis does--how dem white niggers o' Co'bu'ns 'ill set de house o'
fire, an' heave we-dem two poor old innocen's into de flames out'n pure
debblish wanton!"

Edith passed her slender fingers through her curls, stringing them out as
was her way when absent in thought. She was turning the whole matter
over in her mind. She might possibly save the mansion, though these
two old people were not likely to be able to do so--on the contrary,
their ludicrous terrors would tend to stimulate the wanton cruelty of the
marauders to destroy them with the house. Edith suddenly took her
resolution, and turned her horse's head, directing her attendants to
follow.
"But where are you going to go, Miss Edith?" asked her groom, Oliver,
now speaking for the first time.
"Back to Luckenough."
"What for, Miss Edith, for goodness sake?"
"Back to Luckenough to guard the dear old house, and take care of you
two."
"But oh, Miss Edy! Miss Edy! for Marster in heaven's sake what'll
come o' you?"
"What the Master in heaven wills!"
"Lord, Lord, Miss Edy! ole marse 'ill kill we-dem. What 'ill old marse
say? What 'ill everybody say to a young gal a-doin' of anything like dat
dar? Oh, dear! dear! what will everybody say?"
"They will say," said Edith, "if I meet the enemy and save the
house--they will say that Edith Lance is a heroine, and her name will be
probably preserved in the memory of the neighborhood. But if I fail
and lose my life, they will say that Edith was a cracked-brained girl
who deserved her fate, and that they had always predicted she would
come to a bad end."
"Better go on to Hay Hill, Miss Edy! 'Deed, 'fore marster, better go to
Hay Hill."

"No," said the young girl, "my resolution is taken--we will return to
Luckenough."
The arguments of the old negroes waxed fainter and fewer. They felt a
vague but potent confidence in Edith and her abilities, and a sense of
protection in her presence, from which they were loth to part.
The sun was high when they entered the forest shades again.
"See," said Edith to her companions, "everything is so fresh and
beautiful and joyous here! I cannot even imagine danger."
Edith on reaching Luckenough retired to bed, and addressed herself to
sleep. It was in vain--her nerves were fearfully excited. In vain she tried
to combat her terrors--they completely overmastered her. She was
violently shocked out of a fitful doze.
Old Jenny stood over her, lifting her up, shaking her, and shouting in
her ears:
"Miss Edith! Miss Edith! They are here! They are here! We shall be
murdered in our beds!"
In the room stood old Oliver, gray with terror, while all the dogs on the
premises were barking madly, and a noisy party at the front was trying
to force an entrance.
Violent knocking and shaking at the outer door and the sound of
voices.
"Open! open! let us in! for God's sake, let us in!"
"Those are fugitives--not foes--listen--they plead--they do not
threaten--go and unbar the door, Oliver," said Edith.
Reluctantly and cautiously the old man obeyed.
"Light another candle, Jenny--that is dying in its socket--it will be out
in a minute."

Trembling all over, Jenny essayed to do as she was bid, but only
succeeded in putting out the expiring light. The sound of the unbarring
of the door had deprived her of the last remnant of self-control. Edith
struck a light, while the sound of footsteps and voices in the hall
warned her that several persons had entered.
"It's Nell, and Liddy, and Sol, from Hay Hill! Oh, Miss Edy! Thorg and
his men are up dar a 'stroyin' everything! Oh, Miss Edy! an' us thought
it was so safe an' out'n de way up dar! Oh, what a 'scape! what a 'scape
we-dem has had!"
CHAPTER II.
THE ATTACK.
That summer day was so holy in its beauty, so bright, so clear, so cool;
that rural scene was so soothing in its influences, so calm, so fresh, so
harmonious; it was almost impossible to associate with that lovely day
and scene thoughts of wrong and violence and cruelty. So felt Edith as
she sometimes lifted her eyes from her work to the beauty and glory of
nature around her. And if now her heart ached it was more with grief
for Fanny's fate than dread of her own. There comes, borne upon the
breeze that lifts her dark tresses, and fans her pearly cheeks, the music
of many rural voices--of rippling streams and rustling leaves and
twittering birds and humming bees.
But mingled with these, at length, there comes to her attentive ear a
sound, or the suspicion of a sound, of