Guy Rivers: A Tale of GeorgiaSimms, William Gilmore
History
Guy Rivers: A Tale of Georgia
Simms, William Gilmore
Georgia -- History -- 1775-1865 -- Fiction; Gold mines and mining -- Fiction
"I fear they are now of little use, and may only serve to keep up life
in misery. But they may enable her to speak, and I should like to hear
what she seems so desirous to impart."
Ellen took the cordial, and hastily preparing a portion in a wine-glass,
according to the directions, proceeded to administer it to the gasping
patient; but, while the glass was at her lips, the last paroxysm of
death came on, and with it something more of that consciousness now
fleeting for ever. Dashing aside the nostrum with one hand, with the
other she drew the shrinking and half-fainting girl to her side, and,
pressing her down beside her, appeared to give utterance to that which,
from the action, and the few and audible words she made out to
articulate, would seem to have been a benediction.
Rivers, seeing the motion, and remarking the almost supernatural
strength with which the last spasms had endued her, would have taken the
girl from her embrace; but his design was anticipated by the dying
woman, whose eyes glared upon him with an expression rather demoniac
than human, while her paralytic hand, shaking with ineffectual effort,
waved him off. A broken word escaped her lips here and there,
and--"sin"--"forgiveness"--was all that reached the ears of her
grandchild, when her head sank back upon the pillow, and she expired
without a groan.
A dead silence followed this event. The girl had no uttered anguish--she
spoke not her sorrows aloud; yet there was that in the wobegone
countenance, and the dumb grief, that left no doubt of the deep though
suppressed and half-subdued agony of soul within. She seemed one to whom
the worst of life had been long since familiar, and who would not find
it difficult herself to die. She had certainly outlived pride and hope,
if not love; and if the latter feeling had its place in her bosom, as
without doubt it had, then was it a hopeless lingerer, long after the
sunshine and zephyr had gone which first awakened it into bloom and
flower. She knelt beside the inanimate form of her old parent, shedding
no tear, and uttering no sigh. Tears would have poorly expressed the wo
which at that moment she felt; and the outlaw, growing impatient of the
dumb spectacle, now ventured to approach and interrupt her. She rose,
meekly and without reluctance, as he spoke; with a manner which said as
plainly as words could have, said--'Command, and I obey. Bid me go even
now, at midnight, on a perilous journey, over and into foreign lands,
and I go without murmur or repining.' She was a heart-stricken, a
heart-broken, and abused woman--and yet she loved still, and loved her
destroyer.
"Ellen," said he, taking her hand, "your mother was a Christian--a
strict worshipper--one who, for the last few years of her life, seldom
put the Bible out of her hands; and yet she cursed me in her very soul
as she went out of the world."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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