SYBIL'S CHILD.
But thou wilt burst primeval sleep,
And thou wilt live my babe to weep;
The tenant of a dark abode,
Thy tears must flow as mine have flowed.--BYRON.
Summer ripened into autumn. Sybil and her faithful friend employed the
golden days of September and October in the graceful and pleasing
feminine work of making up garments for the expected little stranger.
But meanwhile, outside the prison walls, a cloud, black as night, was
gathering over the young prisoner's doomed head.
The rumor got abroad that the Governor meant to follow up the long
respite with a full pardon.
His course in this matter was canvassed and commented upon severely in
every bar-room, grocery, street corner, political meeting, and
elsewhere.
The press took up the matter, and vindictively reprobated the course of
the Governor, putting his conduct upon the motives of partiality for the
aristocracy.
Had the murderess been a woman of the people, it said, her life would
have paid the forfeit of her crime.
But she was a lady of the county aristocracy, a daughter of the house of
Berners; and however notoriously that house had been cursed with
demoniac passions, and however deeply dyed with crime, its daughter,
however guilty, was not to be held amenable to the laws!
Was such outrageous worship of the aristocracy by partial judges and
venal governors to be endured in a country of freemen?
No! the voice of the people would be heard through their organ, a free
press! and if not listened to, then it would be heard in thunder at the
polls in the coming autumn elections!
Such was the spirit of the people and the press in regard to Sybil.
It was strange how the people and the press clamored for the sacrifice
of Sybil Berners' life--the "female fiend," as they did not hesitate to
call her, "daughter of demons," "the last of a race of devils, who
should have been exterminated long before," they declared.
It was because they honestly ascribed to her a nature she did not
possess, and imputed to her a crime she had not committed, thus making
her innocently suffer for the sins of her forefathers.
Of course there were honorable exceptions to this general and unmerited
reprobation of a guiltless young creature, but these exceptions were
mostly among Sybil's own set, and were too few to have any force against
the overwhelming weight of public sentiment.
And it was the general belief that, if the Governor should outrage
public opinion by pardoning Sybil Berners, he would be politically
ruined. Sybil Berners could not be permitted to live. She must die
before the Governor could be re-elected by the people. And the election
was coming on in the ensuing November.
Would he purchase success by the sacrifice of this young sufferer's
life?
Ah! her best friends, asking themselves this question, were forced to
answer, "Yes!"
This state of affairs had a most depressing effect upon Sybil's husband,
especially as he had sustained a great loss in the departure of her
zealous advocate, Ishmael Worth.
The young lawyer, soon after he had brought down Sybil's respite from
the Governor, had been called away on business of the utmost importance,
and had eventually sailed for Europe. He had gone, however, with the
most confident expectations of her liberation.
How these expectations were destined to be defeated, it was now plain to
see.
It required all Mr. Berners' powers of self-control to wear a calm
demeanor in the presence of his unsuspicious wife. He had carefully kept
from the cell every copy of a news-paper that contained any allusion to
the condemned prisoner and her circumstances, and he did this to keep
Beatrix, as well as Sybil, ignorant of the impending doom; for he wished
Beatrix to preserve in Sybil's presence the cheerful countenance that
she never could wear if she should discover the thunder-cloud of
destruction that lowered darker and heavier, day by day, over the head
of her doomed companion.
But Sybil herself was losing her good spirits. The autumn had set in
very early; and though now it was but October, the weather was too cool
and often also too damp to make it prudent for the poor prisoner to
spend so many hours in the prison garden as she had lately been
permitted to do. She sat much in her cell, sad, silent, and brooding.
"What is the matter with you, my darling?" inquired Beatrix Pendleton
one day, when they sat together in the cell, Beatrix sewing diligently
on an infant's robe, and Sybil, with her neglected needle-work lying on
her lap, and her head bowed upon her hand, "What is the matter with you,
Sybil?"
"Oh, Beatrix, I don't know. But this autumn weather, it saddens me. Oh,
more than that--worse than that, it _horrifies_ me so much! It seems
associated with--I know not what of anguish and despair. And I want to
leave this desolate and gloomy place. It is so lonely, now that all the
visitors have gone but ourselves. How can you bear it, Beatrix?"
"Very well, dear, so long as I have your company," answered Miss
Pendleton, wondering that Sybil should miss the throng of visitors that
had existed only in her own imagination.
"But I am homesick, Beatrix. Oh, Beatrix! I am so--so--homesick!" said
Sybil, plaintively.
"Never mind, dear. Try to be patient. It would not do for you to
undertake the journey now, you know," said Miss Pendleton, soothingly.
"Oh, but, Beatrix, I did so want to be at _home_ to welcome my first
dear child! There was never a Berners born out of Black Hall since the
building was first erected," she pleaded.
"Never mind, dear. Everything now must give way to your health, you
know. We could not endanger your health, by taking you over all these
rough roads to Black Hall just now," said Miss Pendleton, gently.
"Ah, well! I will try to content myself to stay here in this gloomy
place. But, oh! Beatrix, after all, I may die, and never see my home
again. My dear home! Oh, if I should die here, Beatrix, I should be sure
to haunt my home!"
"But you will not die. You must put away such gloomy fancies!"
As Miss Pendleton spoke, the cell door was opened, and the warden
appeared bearing in the tray containing the supper service for the two
ladies. It was not usual for the warden to wait on them in person; and
so, to Miss Pendleton's silent look of inquiry, he answered:
"You must excuse my daughter for this once, ma'am, as she has gone to a
merry-making in the village--this, you know, being Hallow Eve."
"_Hallow Eve!_" echoed an awful voice.
Both the warden and the young lady started, and turned around to see
whence the unearthly sound came.
They beheld Sybil fallen back in her chair, pallid, ghastly, and
convulsed.
Beatrix seized her vial of sal volatile and flew to the relief of her
friend.
"What is it, dear Sybil? can you tell me?" she anxiously inquired, as
she held the vial to the nostrils of her friend.
"_Hallow Eve! Hallow Eve!_" she repeated in a terrible tone.
"Well, dear, what of that? That is nothing."
"Oh yes, yes, it is horrible! it is horrible!"
"Hush, hush, dear! try to be composed."
"Black night! fire! blood! Oh, what a terror!"
"It was only a dream, dear. It is over now, and you are awake. Look up!"
"Oh, no! no dream, Beatrix! an awful, an overwhelming reality!"
exclaimed the awakened sufferer. Then suddenly, with a shriek, she threw
her hands to her head and fell into spasms.
"For heaven's sake run and fetch a doctor," exclaimed Beatrix, in the
utmost distress, appealing to the terrified warden.
He immediately hurried from the room to procure the necessary medical
attendance.
Beatrix ran after him, calling loudly:
"Send for her husband and her old nurse from Black Hall, also. I know it
is after hours, but I believe she is dying."
The warden nodded assent, and hurried away, leaving Miss Pendleton in
attendance upon the agonized woman, who recovered from one convulsion
only to fall into another and severer one.
* * * * *
It was midnight, and a sorrowful and anxious group were gathered in
Sybil's cell. She lay upon her bed, writhing with agony, and upon the
very verge of death.
Near her stood her old family physician Dr. Hart, her old nurse Mrs.
Winterose, and her faithful attendant Miss Tabby.
In the lobby, outside the cell door, sat her husband, with his face
buried in his hands, wrestling in prayer with heaven.
What was he praying for? That his idolized young wife should be spared
in this mortal peril? No, no, and a thousand times no! With all his
heart and soul he prayed that she might die--that she might die e'er
that dread warrant, which had arrived from Richmond only that morning,
and which fixed her execution for an early day, could be carried out!
This agony of prayer was interrupted. The doctor came out of the cell,
and whispered:
"It is over. She is the mother of a little girl."
There was no expression of parental joy or thankfulness on the father's
part. Only the breathless question:
"And she? Can she survive?"