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 assume—"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 passed, 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 glass. 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 assaulted also?" asked mr.
balch.
"indeed, it was—and a hot battle we had of it for a short space 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. garie a few weeks since; it was witnessed and signed at my office, and he brought it away with him. i can't discover it anywhere. i've ransacked every cranny. it must have been carried off by some one. you are named in it conjointly with myself as executor. all the property is left to her, poor thing, and his children. we must endeavour to find it somewhere—at any rate the children are secure; they are the only heirs—he had not, to my knowledge, a single white relative. but let us go in and see the bodies."
they walked together into the back room where the bodies were lying. mrs. garie was stretched upon the sofa, covered with a piano cloth; and her husband was laid upon a long table, with a silk window-curtain thrown across his face.
the two gazed in silence on the face of mr. garie—the brow was still knit, the eyes staring vacantly, and the marble whiteness of the face unbroken, save by a few gouts of blood near a small blue spot over the eye where the bullet had entered.
"he was the best-hearted creature in the world," said walters, as he re-covered the face.
"won't you look at her?" asked mr. balch.
"no, no—i can't," continued walters; "i've seen horrors enough for one morning. i've another thing on my mind! a friend who assisted in the defence of my house started up here last night, to warn them of their danger, and when i left home he had not returned: it's evident he hasn't been here, and i greatly fear some misfortune has befallen him. where are the children? poor little orphans, i must see them before i go."
accompanied by mr. balch, he called at the house where clarence and em had found temporary shelter. the children ran to him as soon as he entered the room. "oh! mr. walters," sobbed clarence, "my mother's dead—my mother's dead!"
"hush, dears—hush!" he replied, endeavouring to restrain his own tears, as he took little em in his arms. "don't cry, my darling," said he, as she gave rent to a fresh outburst of tears.
"oh, mr. walters!" said she, still sobbing, "she was all the mother i had."
mr. balch here endeavoured to assist in pacifying the two little mourners.
"why don't father come?" asked clarence. "have you seen him, mr. walters?"
mr. walters was quite taken aback by this inquiry, which clearly showed that the children were still unaware of the extent of their misfortunes. "i've seen him, my child," said he, evasively; "you'll see him before long." and fearful of further questioning, he left the house, promising soon to return.
unable longer to endure her anxiety respecting her father, esther determined not to await the return of mr. walters, which had already been greatly delayed, but to go herself in search of him. it had occurred to her that, instead of returning from the garies direct to them, he had probably gone to his own home to see if it had been disturbed during the night.
encouraged by this idea, without consulting any one, she hastily put on her cloak and bonnet, and took the direction of her home. numbers of people were wending their way to the lower part of the city, to gratify their curiosity by gazing upon the havoc made by the rioters during the past night.
esther found her home a heap of smoking ruins; some of the neighbours who recognized her gathered round, expressing their sympathy and regret. but she seemed comparatively careless respecting the loss of their property; and in answer to their kind expressions, could only ask, "have you seen my father?—do you know where my father is?"
none, however, had seen him; and after gazing for a short time upon the ruins of what was once a happy home, she turned mournfully away, and walked back to mr. walters's.
"has father come?" she inquired, as soon as the door was opened. "not yet!" was the discouraging reply: "and mr. walters, he hasn't come back, either, miss!"
esther stood for some moments hesitating whether to go in, or to proceed in her search. the voice of her mother calling her from the stairway decided her, and she went in.
mrs. ellis and caddy wept freely on learning from esther the destruction of their home. this cause of grief, added to the anxiety produced by the prolonged absence of mr. ellis, rendered them truly miserable.
whilst they were condoling with one another, mr. walters returned. he was unable to conceal his fears that something had happened to mr. ellis, and frankly told them so; he also gave a detailed account of what had befallen the garies, to the great horror and grief of all.
as soon as arrangements could be made, mr. walters and esther set out in search of her father. all day long they went from place to place, but gained no tidings of him; and weary and disheartened they returned at night, bringing with them the distressing intelligence of their utter failure to procure any information respecting him.
