PREPARATION FOR DEATH.
What hears she?—a slight sound—
The opening of the cell’s dark door,—
Bright eyes—a word, and nothing more.
Quickly she gazed around,
Then, passionate, flung her hands on high,
And with a sharp, wild, rapturous cry,
Fell swooning to the ground.—_Michell._
Eudora slept long and calmly, and awoke early on Tuesday morning, the
last day of her allotted life. Thanks to the good physician’s merciful
ministrations, the frenzy of terror and the darkness of despair had
alike vanished. Her nerves were wonderfully composed, and her mind
perfectly clear.
“It is strange, Mrs. Barton,” she said, as the wardress was assisting
her to dress, “how well I am this morning, the very last day of my life.
It seems to me, looking back on my past feelings, as if I had been very
ill ever since my first arrest, and have only now recovered health and
reason. And this is my last day, and I have made no preparations for
death; but indeed I could not, and I see clearly now why I could not.
First came the thunderbolt of my arrest; then the anguish of suspense
before the trial; then the blackness of despair after conviction; and
then the frenzy of terror that followed the reading of the
death-warrant! What could I do amidst all that various suffering? But it
has all gone, now; the suspense, the despair, and the terror have all
taken flight, like evil spirits, and left my mind in a sweet, clear,
sunny, almost buoyant state, although I am to die to-morrow morning. I
hope this is not unnatural; I hope I am in my senses; for it is a very
strange experience.”
“It is the goodness of God, and the skill of the doctor as His
instrument, my poor, dear child. You are innocent and martyred, and so
you are comforted by Heaven and earth,” answered the wardress.
“I am not afraid to meet my Maker. I never was, even in the midst of my
worst terrors. I have not got my peace to make with Heaven at this late
hour, but I have much to do for those whom I shall leave behind, and I
must set about it immediately.”
“Dear saint, think of yourself; do not trouble your heart about any one
else.”
“Did Mr. Montrose call yesterday?”
“Yes, dear child, but you were then too ill to see any one. But I
suppose he will come this morning, as usual.”
“No, he will not. We agreed that as he is permitted but one visit in the
day, he should not come on this last day until the evening, so as to see
me at as late a period as possible before my death. You see how calmly I
can speak of that now, Mrs. Barton.”
“Thank God, my dear, though it breaks my heart to hear you.”
After her frugal breakfast, Eudora asked for pen, ink and paper, and sat
down to write her last wishes, to be confided to Malcolm.
Meanwhile, the chaplain of the prison, who had been very ill with fever
for the last week, arose from his sick-bed to administer the last
consolations of religion to the condemned girl.
He found Eudora seated at the little table and engaged in writing.
She arose as he entered, and held out her hand, saying:
“I am glad you have come to see me again on this last day, Mr.
Goodall—sit down.”
“I should have come before if I had been able to stand upon my feet,”
replied the clergyman, earnestly, as he sank quite exhausted in the
offered chair.
“I am sorry to see that you are still so ill,” she said, looking with
sympathy upon his haggard face.
“Is it credible that you can have room in your heart for any other
sorrow than your own great one?” inquired the clergyman, looking up in
compassion at the face of the speaker.
And then, for the first time, he noticed the perfect serenity and almost
cheerfulness of her countenance.
She perceived his surprise, and answered both his looks and words by
saying:
“I do not know how it is, but I cannot grieve for myself now. I seem
changed since yesterday; all the evil spirits of despair and terror that
have been tormenting me for so many weeks past have vanished, and left
my soul in a ‘peace that passeth understanding,’ a ‘sunshine of the
breast,’ that I cannot comprehend, but only receive in awe and
gratitude.”
As Mr. Goodall did not immediately answer, but only watched her in
silent wonder, she continued:
“I feel as if I were on the eve of a journey, going home to my father
and mother, and friends, and above all, to that Heavenly Father who
knows my innocence of this imputed guilt, and in whose Divine Mercy I
have never ceased to trust through the darkest days of my despair and
terror!”
Mr. Goodall was reading her very soul, and, therefore, he would not
reply as yet.
Suddenly she held her hand out to him, and said:
“Mr. Goodall, hitherto you have supposed that I only protested my
innocence because I hoped, through such protestations, to be believed
and saved. But now you must know that not a shadow of hope remains to
me.”
“I do know it,” said the minister, earnestly.
“And, therefore, now that I have lost all hope of man’s mercy, and know
that I must certainly die to-morrow morning, you will believe me when I
repeat, as I hope for God’s mercy—I am guiltless of the crimes for which
I am to suffer,” said Eudora, solemnly.
“I _do_ believe you; I am constrained to have faith in your innocence;
dear Eudora, forgive me that I ever doubted you.”
“There is nothing to forgive, since it was inevitable that you should at
first think as all the world did; but there is much to be grateful for,
now that you have confidence in me. And now that we understand each
other, you can indeed give me much comfort,” said Eudora, holding out
her hand, which he took and held, while he said:
“I will attend you to the last, dear, unhappy girl.”
“But you are ill, and must not fatigue yourself.”
“I will be with you to the last,” repeated the minister. “It will be
time enough for me to rest when you are—in Heaven.”
Meanwhile, what had become of Annella Wilder, since her daily visits to
the prison had been prohibited, and her eccentric inroads into Malcolm
Montrose’s lodgings had ceased?
Annella, for the last few days, had restricted herself to the Anchorage
and its immediate environs, where her burning cheeks and blazing eyes,
and feverish manner, excited the serious alarm of her relatives.
“That dear baby is going to be ill, and she ought to be looked after,”
said Mrs. Stilton, who immediately ordered a foot-bath and certain
herb-teas to be taken by the patient at night.
And with unusual docility Annella obeyed, saying to herself:
“I have need of a cool head, and would drink a pint of bitterest
wormwood, and plunge my limbs into boiling water, if I thought that
would take away the burning pain in my head that prevents me from
thinking clearly.”
And so she took—not her own desperate prescription, but the milder one
of Grandmother Stilton. And she arose the next morning, looking like an
expiring fire, and professing herself much better.
But on this last day no one took notice of Annella. All the inmates of
the house seemed to be possessed of a sort of half-restrained frenzy, in
view of the tragedy to be enacted the next morning—that dread tragedy,
in which the life of a young girl was to be publicly offered up in
expiation of an atrocious crime.
They had all known Eudora, and even those who believed her guilty felt
overshadowed and oppressed by the horror of her coming doom, now that it
drew so near.
The two ancient dames—they were both so old that a trifling difference
of eighteen years between the ages of the mother and daughter was of no
sort of account—sat lovingly, side by side, in their easy-chairs, near
the drawing-room chimney-corner, where, summer and winter, a little fire
was always kept burning for cheerfulness.
“I have lived too long, Abby, my dear—I have lived too long, now that I
see little girls as should be innocent as cherubs, and never come to no
more harm than soiling their bibs, and getting smacked by their nurse,
actually dipping their hands in human blood, and being hanged. Yes,
Abby, my dear, I have lived clear away into an age of the world as I
wasn’t born and brought up in, and don’t know nothing about. And if the
good Lord hasn’t forgot to send for me, I don’t know the reason why I am
left. And I think I had better go,” said Mrs. Stilton, despondingly.
“Don’t say that, mother. You are the head of the family, which I don’t
know what we would do without you. And I have been used to you all my
life. And me and you have always been together ever since I can
remember. Think o’ the poor little haberdashery-shop as we kept when we
was both left widdies!—and how you comforted me when that boy o’ mine
run away and went to sea; which little did we think he would ever rise
to be an admiral and make our fortin’, and make ladies of us, and never
be ashamed of us ’ither! And since that we have always been so
comfortable together! And s’pose now I was to see that chair o’ your’n
empty! Oh! whatever should I do! _Oh, hoo! hoo! hoo!_ You’d never go and
die and leave me an orphan after all these years at my time of life!
_Oh, hoo! hoo! hoo!_” whimpered the old lady, in the piteous grief of
age; for though the younger, she was in mind and body much the feebler
of the two.
“There, there, there, now, Abby, my dear, don’t cry. I didn’t mean it. I
won’t die! I’ll live to take care of you and your boy! Didn’t I promise
your dear father, on his death-bed, as I would bear up for the sake o’
the child?—and haven’t I beared up? Good Lord, yes! how many years!
Years of t’iling and striving and struggling for life! And now, in these
latter days, when rest and peace have come, is it likely as I will give
up and die? No, Abby, my dear, not I! I think as the longer I’ve lived
in this world the better I like it, that I do! Only I was upset this
morning along of thinking about that poor dear baby. There, then, don’t
cry, Abby! I’m sure if you want me to do it, I’d just as lief keep on
living all the time as not. I’m sure I don’t see what’s to hinder me.
I’m noways ill, thank God, nor yet dissatisfied with this world. There’s
many a dark, stormy day as has cleared off just at sunset. And that has
been the way of our day of life, Abby, my dear, and now I don’t care if
our clear, pleasant twilight lasts forever. I know heaven is a better
land; but then I was always humble-minded, and easy satisfied, and so
I’m contented with this earth, and don’t long for no better till the
Lord pleases. Leastways, Abby, I won’t die till you are ready to go
along with me.”
While the old ladies talked in this childish, affectionate way, the
admiral walked up and down the lawn in front of the house, with his
hands clasped behind him, in troubled thought. He, too, was overshadowed
by the “coming event.” He had no glance even for the fair Princess
Pezzilini, who, calm, placid, and elegant, occupied her usual morning
seat in the bay window, where she employed herself with some graceful
fancy-work, while Master Valerius Brightwell sat upon a footstool at her
feet, reading aloud for her amusement, and occasionally glancing up at
her with all a boy’s shy admiration of a beautiful woman.
Annella had not been seen since breakfast-time. But when the family
assembled for luncheon at two o’clock, she was called, and appeared with
cheeks again so deeply flushed, and eyes so bright and restless, that
Mrs. Stilton exclaimed:
“That child is on the very verge of brain-fever!”
And she not only ordered her off to bed, but went herself to see her
order obeyed.
Annella made no resistance; but as soon as her head was on the pillow,
and a brown paper, wet with vinegar, was laid upon her brow, she said:
“Now, grandmamma, all I want is to be let to go to sleep, and if Madame
Pezzilini will be kind enough to let Tabitha come and sit by me, I shall
do very well.”
“But why Tabitha? Why not your own woman?” inquired the old lady.
“Because I _hate_ my own woman, and I love Tabitha—and—it will make my
head ache to talk more about it.”
“Well, well, my baby, it shall be just as you please,” said the
indulgent old dame, shutting the door softly and retiring.
A few moments passed, and then the door was as softly opened, and
Tabitha, stepping lightly, entered. She first went noiselessly to the
windows, and made them quite dark by closing the storm-shutters, and
then stole silently to the side of the bed to see if Annella slept.
“I am awake, dear Tabitha; though I wish very much to sleep and recruit
myself for a few hours if I can. What o’clock is it?”
“Half-past two, Miss Wilder.”
“Very well; dip a towel in that iced vinegar and lay it on my head, and
let me sleep, if possible, until five o’clock. Then, Tabitha, wake me.”
“Wouldn’t it be better as I should let you sleep your sleep out, Miss?”
“No; if you love Eudora Leaton, wake me at five o’clock.”
“Oh, Miss, don’t speak of her now! It almost drives me crazy.”
“Hush! She shall be saved if you will wake me at five o’clock. In the
meantime I _must_ lie quiet and sleep if I can, or I shall go mad!”
“But is there—is there a chance of saving her? Oh, Miss! if I thought
there was I would be a’most willing to lay down my life for it.”
“There is a chance—I cannot explain now. I can do nothing before five
o’clock. Until then I _must_ try to compose myself! Tabitha, _will_ you
obey me?”
“Yes, yes, Miss,—surely I am afraid she is going out of her senses,”
added the girl, _sotto voce_, as she wetted the napkin in iced vinegar,
and laid it upon Annella’s burning head, and then silently took her seat
beside the bed.
Annella closed her eyes, and lay still as death, but whether she slept
or not, Tabitha had no means of ascertaining in that darkened chamber.
Hour after hour passed, and Tabitha was on the point of dropping asleep
herself, when the striking of the little golden-toned ormolu clock on
the mantelpiece aroused her.
“It is five o’clock, Miss Annella,” she said, softly, bending over the
quiet girl.
“Then go and bring me my tea, and say that I am better, but shall not
come down this afternoon, and that I do not wish to be disturbed this
evening. And listen, Tabitha, say not a word of what passed between us
before I composed myself to sleep,” murmured Annella, without changing
her position or even opening her eyes. She seemed as one hoarding every
atom of her strength for one final effort.
“No, Miss; I shan’t say nothing at all of what has passed between us, at
least not yet,” answered Tabitha, leaving the room to obey.
In due time she reappeared with the tray, upon which was neatly arranged
Annella’s little chamber tea-service.
The girl arose, bathed her face and head, arranged her hair and dress,
and then drank her tea. After which, she called Tabitha to her side, and
said:
“I am sure you love Miss Leaton—”
“Yes, that I do! I would lay down my life for her,” said Tabitha,
beginning to sob.
“In that case you would not betray anyone who tried to serve her, to
comfort her, or even to rescue her?”
“I’d bite my tongue off first! Sure I have proved as much!”
“Yes. I always believed that you knew more than you chose to tell of her
first escape from Allworth Abbey. Well, Tabitha, listen now. I have an
order to visit Eudora to take a final farewell of her this evening. I
have, also, in my own mind, a plan for rescuing her even at this late
hour—”
“Lord, Miss Annella! what ever can that be, and could you ever carry it
through—and wouldn’t the law punish you if you did?” inquired Tabitha,
earnestly.
“I cannot tell you—it is enough for you to know that I shall go to visit
her this evening, but my visit to the prison must not be known—my
absence from this house must not even be suspected, lest it lead to
discovery; therefore, Tabitha, you must let me out the back way; and you
must remain in this room, and if anybody comes to inquire after me, put
them off with some excuse; and at night go out and lock the door after
you, so that no one can get into the room and miss me. And when you come
up again, bring a basin of gruel, as if I had need of it. Ask leave to
sleep in my room to take care of me to-night; but on no account let any
one else come in. You understand this, Tabitha?”
“Every word of it, Miss Annella.”
“Well, now hear my last words of all. After the family have all retired,
and the house is quiet, and everybody is asleep, steal out of this room,
lock the door behind you, and bring away the key, and creep down stairs
and out of the house, and watch for me at the lower park gate. Can you
do this?”
“Surely, Miss Annella.”
“But you look frightened already.”
“It is enough to frighten one, but I’ll do it.”
“And now, what are they all about down-stairs?”
“The family are all gathered around the grand piano, listening to Madame
Pezzilini playing and singing—Heaven help them! and the servants are all
at dinner in the servants’ hall.”
“That is well! It is the very hour for me to steal out of the house
unobserved. Lock the door and come with me, Tabitha.”
They left the room, glided down the back stairs, and out at the back
door.
Annella flew across the lawn; through the park, out upon the downs, and
into the high road. She ran along a little way, and then struck into a
by-path leading through a narrow, wooded valley, or “coombe,” lying
between two rolling uplands of the downs, and leading towards Abbeytown.
As soon as she found herself out of the reach of discovery and pursuit,
and safely hidden in this thicket, she sat down to recover her breath
and to still the violent throbbing of her heart.
Surely if Tabitha Tabs had noticed the signs of excitement and almost of
insanity in the expression of Annella’s face, she had not consented to
her leaving the house. But the darkness of the bed-chamber and of the
narrow back staircase had obscured the woman’s vision, and the assumed
calmness and self-restrained manner of Annella had disarmed her caution.
But any rambler passing that way, and seeing Annella as she sat, with
glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, and restless, frenzied manner, would
have felt justified in taking her in charge upon his own responsibility,
and delivering her up to her friends as a wandering maniac.
But withal Annella had as yet a strange, self-regulating power that
enabled her to control these frequently-recurring fits of excitement.
She sat quietly in the cool shadows of the wood until its spirit had
entered into her soul, and for the time, at least, calmed its fever.
Then she arose and took her way towards the prison.
With the order in her pocket, she was at once admitted.
“Has Mr. Montrose been here to day?” was the first question she put to
the turnkey, who conducted her.
“No, he is not to come until six o’clock,” answered the man.
“Very well; go on.”
She was admitted to the cell, where she found Eudora sitting by the
little table engaged in reading the Scriptures. At her feet was coiled
up her little dog, and on the table was laid a folded paper. Upon seeing
the visitor, she put her hand out, and taking that of Annella, drew her
up to her side and kissed her, saying:
“I thank you for coming to see me once more, dear girl. I am not afraid,
now, Annella! Every dark cloud has passed from my spirit, and I feel
strangely well. And now I begin to understand how it was that Jane Grey
and Anne Boleyn, and so many other young and timorous women, were
enabled to meet unmerited death with so much fortitude. I think that
strength comes at the very last by the gift of God.” And so saying,
Eudora moved and seated herself on the side of the bed to yield the only
chair to her visitor.
Annella did not trust her tongue to speak. She sat down with her back to
the light, that Eudora might not see the disturbance of her face.
So there fell silence in the cell for a few moments, and then Eudora
arose and approached the table, took up the pocket Bible, and wrote a
few lines on the flyleaf. Then laying it upon the lap of the visitor,
she said:
“You will keep it for my sake, dear?”
Annella’s hand closed over the book, but she made no reply.
The dead silence of the young girl surprised and troubled Eudora, who
perceived in it a sympathy too deep and painful for words.
At length the striking of a distant clock was faintly heard. As the last
stroke of six died away, Annella started up, threw her arms around
Eudora, strained her to her bosom, pressed a kiss upon her forehead, and
murmured, in a fainting voice:
“Mr. Montrose will be here in a moment; I will not stay to disturb your
interview. Good-bye—Good-bye!” and hurried from the cell.
Even this failed to disturb the almost supernatural calmness of Eudora,
and saying merely: “I will rest now,” she lay down upon the outside of
the cot.
Mrs. Barton occupied her usual seat in the corner of the cell.
A few moments passed, and then steps were heard approaching. The door
was opened, and Malcolm Montrose, ushered in by the governor, who
immediately retreated, entered the cell. Malcolm’s face was fearfully
pale, and bore all the signs of extreme mental anguish. It was evident
that he put a severe restraint upon himself, and exhibited a merely
external fortitude that might at any moment give way.
She, too, though now so calm, was so wasted, wan, and deadly fair, that
she seemed more like a spirit of the air than a maiden of mortal mould.
As she approached, she held out one thin, blue, pale, transparent hand,
and taking his, drew him towards her.
They looked into each other’s faces intently for a moment with
unspeakable love and grief, and then his fortitude utterly failed him,
and he dropped upon his knees by her side, buried his face in his hands,
and bursting into sobs, wept such bitter tears as are only pressed, like
drops of life-blood, from the mighty heart of man by the extremity of
anguish.
A spasm of agony passed over Eudora’s still face. She who had ceased to
feel for herself suffered acutely for him. With a supreme effort she
controlled her rising emotions, and, but for the fluttering of the
muscles in her transparent throat, and the quivering of her blue lips,
she seemed calm as before.
She put her arm around his bowed head, drew it upon her bosom, and held
it gently there while she murmured:
“Dear Malcolm, this wrings your heart cruelly, I know. You could endure
it with fortitude if it were yourself instead of me. It is for my fate
alone that you grieve; and your grief is the only thing that troubles
me. But do not weep so bitterly; remember that in a few short hours all
my earthly troubles will be over. And if it is the manner of my death
that appals you, remember that hundreds as young, as delicate, and as
innocent as your Eudora, have endured as dark a doom. And think that I
have strength given me to meet my fate, and reflect that by this hour
to-morrow it will be all the same to Eudora’s emancipated spirit as if
she had died in a bed of purple and fine linen, with ministering friends
around her. And now look up, dear friend. We have but an hour to pass
together, and I wish you to try to calm yourself and listen to me, for
there are some things that I want to commission you to do.”
While Eudora was speaking, the sobs that burst from Malcolm’s agonized
bosom shook his whole frame. But with an almost superhuman effort he
subdued the storm of anguish, and forced himself to be calm.
Then, still kneeling by her side, he took her wasted hand in his own,
gazed with unutterable love in her spirit-like face, and listened with
reverential tenderness to her last words.
With her hands still clasped in his, and her eyes dwelling upon his with
unutterable love and faith, she spoke:
“Dear Malcolm, when you were here the other day I requested you to
promise me that you would mingle with the crowd to-morrow, and place
yourself near the—the scene of my death, so that at the very last I
might look upon the face of a friend. Do you remember?”
“Yes, dearest Eudora; and I will keep my promise—ay, if it drives reason
from its throne—as it is sure to do,” he added, mentally.
“But I release you from that promise, Malcolm. It should never have been
asked or given; the trial is too great for human nature to bear; a
woman, even a fragile girl, has strength given her to endure that which
it would kill or craze the man who loves her to witness; therefore you
must not see me die.”
“But, dear Eudora—”
“Now, hear me out before you interrupt me. I have released you from
_that_ promise, but there is another which I wish you to make me—only
one, dear Malcolm; for though there are several requests that I wish to
make of you, there is but one promise by which I mean to bind your
faith.”
“And what is that, dear Eudora?”
“I wish you to promise me, on your honor as a gentleman, and your faith
as a Christian, to obey the one single command that I shall give you.”
“I promise, dear Eudora.”
“Then, my order is this: that you take the six o’clock train for London
to-morrow morning, so as to be far from the scene that must be enacted
here. I have your promise. I have given you the order, and you are
pledged to obey it whether you like or not.”
“I am pledged,” groaned Montrose, dropping his face in his hands.
There was silence between them for a few moments, and then she spoke:
“And now, dear Malcolm, for the requests that I have to make of you, and
that I feel sure you will grant without a promise.”
“Be sure that all your requests are at this moment as sacred to me as
the laws of God.”
“Heaven bless you, dear Malcolm.”
“What is it you wish me to do, Eudora?”
“To carry out a plan which I would accomplish if I might be permitted to
live.”
She paused for a moment, as if uncertain how to open her communication,
and then at length said:
“I was the heiress of Allworth, Malcolm, and after me you are the sole
heir. You will be very wealthy, Malcolm, for I am told that the
forfeiture will not be enforced—”
“Oh, Eudora! can you think of these things at this moment?”
“Yes; I can think of everything that requires to be thought of. Pray let
me proceed. You will have abundant means of doing good. For my sake I
wish you to be a Providence to that poor widow with whom I lodged in the
Borough, and her thirteen children—what a family! and she was willing to
have made it fourteen, and even fifteen, by keeping the Captain’s orphan
daughter, and myself also, if there had been any need. Hers is a
terrible struggle with the world to win daily bread for all those
ravenous young mouths; and well and bravely does she maintain it. Now,
dear Malcolm, as I firmly believe that there is not a woman in this
world more worthy of assistance, I wish you to give her no merely
transient help, but such permanent aid as shall establish herself and
children in comfortable independence for life. I heard her say the house
she occupies was for sale. Buy it and give it to her; renew the
furniture and stock the shop. It will take but a few hundred pounds—that
you will never miss—but to her and her children what a fortune it will
be!”
“If it took thousands, Eudora, it should be done, and not only because
they would be well bestowed, but because you desire it.”
“I know it. Well, when you have made her comfortable in the way I have
indicated, next find out what trades or professions she would like her
sons and daughters to follow, and pay the fees to apprentice them. That
will provide for all their future lives, and relieve the good mother
from the great burden of care.”
“It shall be done, Eudora, and in your own dear name, so that for years
after you have become an angel in heaven, the widow and her children
shall bless your memory.”
“Ah, well, I feel the need that some one should bless me.”
“Many will do so, dear saint! And now what more shall I do?”
“Not much; only when I am gone, do not let my little dog perish. Mrs.
Barton will keep her for a few days, until you can call and fetch her.”
“Dear girl, be sure that there will be few things in this world so
precious to me as the little creature that you loved. And now what else?
Speak all your wishes; tell me all that I can do for you, for to obey
all your commands will be the only course to save me from madness—the
only purpose for which I shall bear to live—except one! yes, except
one!”
“There is nothing else whatever, dear friend?”
“Nothing else? You ask nothing for yourself—nothing for your own memory!
Even at this supreme hour your thoughts are all for the good of others.
Yet, dear saint, though in your sweet resignation you have not asked it,
here I make you one solemn promise, one binding oath, one sacred vow!
Here, with my hand upon your martyred head—here, speaking to your
innocent heart—here, in the sight of the all-seeing God—I pledge my
whole life, fortune, and honor to the one sacred purpose of discovering
the real criminal, redeeming your memory from all reproach, and
establishing your innocence beyond all question!” said Malcolm, solemnly
sealing his vow by pressing a kiss upon her forehead.
“Thanks, thanks for this devotion, dearest friend. And now bid me a
gentle good-night and go.”
“So soon—has it come?” aspirated the young man, as all the blood in his
veins seemed to turn back in its course, and roll in with annihilating
force upon his heart. “Must I leave you?”
“It is my own tongue that bids you go, dear Malcolm. Go, while we still
have some self-command left; go, and leave me to God!”
At this very moment also a warder appeared at the cell door. He did not
speak, but the mere event of his appearance there announced that the
moment of separation had arrived. She raised him and threw herself upon
his bosom. He strained her to his heart in the unutterable agony of a
last embrace. A moment thus, and then her arms relaxed, and she sank
back fainting upon her pillow.
Malcolm, blinded, giddy, and stunned by despair, reeled from the cell.
The lobby, lighted only here and there at long intervals by lamps in
high sconces, was very dusky. As he rushed along its gloom, he suddenly
felt his wrist caught by a thin, fiery hand, that seemed to scorch into
his flesh, while a fierce, hot whisper pierced his ear, saying:
“_Be on the watch to-night at the appointed place!_”
The burning, wiry grip, the eager, stinging tones were those of Annella
Wilder. But before he could reply to her words, almost indeed, before he
had recognized her, she had vanished.
And the next minute he was joined by the warder, who had only lingered
behind to lock the door, and who now attended him down the stairs and
saw him fairly outside the prison walls.
He heard the great gate close with a loud clang, the key turn, the bolts
shove into their grooves, the bars fell into their places, and he knew
that the prison was closed up for the night.
But where was Annella?
He looked up and down the highway and all around, in expectation of
seeing that strange creature, whom he supposed must have left the
building before he did, and with whom, as the despairing and the
frenzied snatch at the faintest shadows of hope, he wished to confer.
But he looked in vain; she was nowhere visible.
He well understood the meaning that her words were intended to convey.
But were they not the words of madness? Who could tell?
“Be on the watch to-night at the appointed place,” she had said.
Be on the watch? Aye, that he surely would, without the need of warning;
for could he go home and go to rest upon this last bitter night? Ah, no!
The only thing that he could bring himself to do was to pace up and down
the road beneath the prison walls, praying for her—praying for
himself—until the dawn of the fatal day should compel him to keep his
promise to Eudora, and throw himself into the first morning train, to
fly from the scene of her martyrdom.
But with the constant echo of Annella’s last words in his ear came the
memory of the promise he had made her—an insane promise, but otherwise
harmless and certainly binding. A part of it he had already kept.
There was a small vessel anchored in a quiet cove, five miles from
Abbeytown, and a boat chained at the beach. There was his fast horse,
Fleetfoot, in the stables of the Leaton Arms. There was not one chance
in a billion, not the shadow of a hope, not the faintest indication of a
possibility that any of these preparations would be of the least use;
yet he had madly promised to complete them, and he must keep his
promise. Still half stunned, blind, and dizzy with despair, he went on
to the town, got his horse from the stables, rode slowly through the
woods until it was quite dark, then tied Fleetfoot in the thicket behind
the prison, and went round and resumed his walk and watch before the
front gates.