THE DEAD ALIVE.
--"Am I already mad?
And does delirium utter such sweet words
Into a dreamer's ear?"--LADY OF LYONS.
In the little forest cottage, the evening preceding that night of
storm, Christie stood in the humble doorway, watching the sun go down.
Those weary months have sadly changed our little favorite. The thin,
wan face, has grown thinner and wanner than ever; the angel brow
paler and more transparent; the dark, loving blue eyes darker,
larger, and wearing ever a look of deep, gentle, unchanging
melancholy; the fair, golden hair falls like threads of raveled silk
around her pearly cheek; the light step is slow and languid; and the
hectic crimson spot that each afternoon burns on those usually
colorless cheeks, bespeaks the ravages of that fell
destroyer--consumption. Slowly but surely she is passing away,
bending her meek head to the stroke of the destroyer, and only
sighing for the time when her weary head may find rest at last in
some little woodland grave. Little Christie will never live to see
the midsummer rose blow.
With a quiet, fervent joy, she thinks of this as she stands in the
door-way, the last fiery ray of the red sunlight falling, like a
shadow of the glory that awaits her, on her bent head. With those
dark, radiant, starry eyes fixed on the fast-coming clouds, her mind
strays back to that night of deepest woe--that last night spent in
her island home. The coming of every storm recalls it, but never so
vividly as it does to-night. All the old tide of her deep,
unchanging love for Willard, for her destroyer--so strong and
fervent, that time, absence, and the belief in his guilt has no power
to change it--swells back to her heart, crowned with blissful
memories of the time when she first knew and loved him, until an
almost passionate longing to be with him once more, to throw her arms
around his neck, to seal her forgiveness on his lips, to feel his
heart swelling and throbbing against her own once more, to gaze into
those dark eyes again, and heave her last expiring sigh on that loved
breast, took possession of her. Then came the bitter recollection
that long ere this another must be his bride, and she could never
feel the strong, fervent clasp of those dear arms again; and with a
grief that death alone could ever still, she hid her face in her
hands to keep back her fast falling tears, while her white bosom rose
and fell with convulsive sobs. A slow, heavy step, crashed over
dried branches around her, and she looked up, to behold the kind,
honest face of Uncle Reuben.
"Ah, thee is grieving again. This will never do, little Christie,"
he said, sorrowfully.
"Oh, I cannot help it! It all comes back so strangely to-night!"
said Christie, in a voice full of unshed tears.
"What does, little one?"
"Oh, the past, the past! the sad, beautiful past."
"Thee must forget the past, daughter, and live in the present, and
for the future," said Uncle Reuben, laying his hand on her head.
"Thee knows what the good book says: 'Blessed are they that mourn for
they shall be comforted.'"
"Yes, yes, I know; that promise has often sustained me in my darkest
hours. Dear Uncle Reuben, I know I am wicked to murmur, but bear
with me a little while until I go where the promise will be
fulfilled."
"Oh, thee is sad, to-night, Christie," said Uncle Reuben, forcing a
smile, "thee must be cheerful, thee knows. Where is Bertha?"
"She went out more than an hour ago," replied Christie, "to ramble in
the woods, according to her usual habit. I hope she will return
before the storm rises!"
"The storm will be on us in half an hour," said Uncle Reuben, looking
uneasily at the darkened sky; "and, as thee knows, a storm always
rouses Bertha into a state of wildness bordering on frenzy, and sends
her rambling off in all directions. I had better go and look for
her."
"Where is the use, Uncle Reuben?" said Christie, seating herself
languidly in her rocking-chair. "You often went in search of her
before, and hardly ever found her until she chose to come home
herself, you know."
"Yes; but one does not feel so uneasy when searching for her, as
sitting here in the house while she is exposed to the storm.
However, I'll wait and get the supper, and if she is not here then, I
will go and look for her," said Uncle Reuben, as he proceeded to
light the fire and hang on the kettle.
The night deepened and darkened, the sky grew blacker and gloomier,
the moments waned rapidly, but the maniac Bertha came not.
"Oh, I wish she were here!" anxiously said good Uncle Reuben, opening
the door and looking out into the gloom. A wailing gust of wind from
the dark forest, followed by a vivid flash of lightning and flood of
rain, made him hastily re-enter and close the door.
"And she is exposed to it all!" he exclaimed, in deepest trouble.
"Oh, she will soon come, I know she will," said Christie, hopefully.
But still the moments glided away, the lonesome night lingered and
lingered, and the maniac came not.
"I must go and seek for her," said Uncle Reuben, at last, in
desperation, as he took down his great-coat and buttoned it on, and
started for the door.
But just at that instant it was burst violently open, and the woman
Bertha, with streaming hair and dripping garments, her wild, black
eyes dilating with terror, stood panting before them.
"Oh, Bertha, where has thee been?" cried Uncle Reuben, in distress
and alarm.
"Hush! he is there!" said the maniac, in a terrified whisper. "They
killed him and left him in the forest; but I found him! Come, come,
come!"
She caught Reuben by the hand, and attempted to draw him with her
from the house.
"Who is killed? I don't know what thee means, Bertha," he said,
perplexed.
"Come, I tell you--he is there!" she cried, with an impatient stamp
of her foot, "out among the trees where they left him. Come!"
And, with the grasp of steel, she caught the surprised Reuben by the
arm, and forcibly drew him with her from the house.
Left alone, Christie, somewhat amazed at first, soon forgot the
circumstance, and gazing into the expiring coals, listened to the
wild ravings of the storm, as it raged through the forest, with that
lulling sense of security one falls into when comfortably housed.
There were strange pictures in the red, dying embers, to her that
night--faces lost to her forever peering out in fitful flame--now
Willard's, now the dark, threatening one of handsome Sibyl Campbell,
now the brisk, sharp, cheery countenance of Mrs. Tom, all fading, one
after another, to give place once more to Willard's, best loved of
all.
The night was wearing on apace--the last glowing ember had faded away
in darkness; and, rousing herself from her dreamy reverie, as an
unusually violent gust of wind shook the doors and windows, Christie
raised her head, wondering uneasily what could have detained Uncle
Reuben.
Just as she was beginning to get seriously anxious, the door was
impetuously thrown open, and Bertha entered, followed by Uncle
Reuben, bearing in his herculean arms the seemingly lifeless form of
a man. Christie sprang up, and stood gazing from one to another, in
terror.
"There!" said Uncle Reuben, placing the rigid form on the bed in the
corner, and wiping the perspiration off his brow, "I had some
trouble, strong as I am, in carrying him so far, through all this
storm. She led me to the very spot," he said, with a sort of
triumph, as he looked at Bertha; "and I found him lying bleeding and
senseless on the ground."
"Who is he?" said Christie, for, with the dark hair falling over the
blood-clotted face, the features were undistinguishable.
"That, I do not know, but some traveler, I imagine, who has been
thrown from his horse, judging from the looks of his wounds. Get me
some warm water and a sponge until I wash the blood off his face."
As Christie obeyed, something in the wounded stranger struck her, and
with a sudden thrill she leaned against the wall and pressed her
hands to her panting heart. Not perceiving her emotion, the man
Reuben reverently lifted the dark, heavy masses of hair, and wiped
the blood off his pale, handsome face. As if fascinated, Christie's
eyes were fixed on those cold, rigid features, every one of which was
indelibly imprinted on her heart; her eyes dilating, her lips parted,
and breathless; her face deadly pale; her heart beating as
tumultuously as though it would break from its prison and force its
way to him. With a cry that resounded through the house--a cry that
made even the maniac Bertha start in terror, she sprang forward, and
clasped the cold form in her arms with a wild and passionate shriek.
"Willard! Willard!" she exclaimed, "Oh, Father in heaven! Willard!"
Transfixed with amazement, Reuben stood gazing upon her, unable to
speak, while, with a hysterical laugh, she covered the cold,
marble-like face with hot, burning, passionate kisses, still crying
out at intervals that loved name.
"Willard! Willard! Willard!"
"So thee knows him, Christie?" said Uncle Reuben, as last, in a voice
of intense astonishment.
She looked up, with another hysterical laugh, and then overtaxed
nature gave way to a burst of blessed, soothing tears.
"Well, I am surprised!" slowly said Uncle Reuben.
"Oh, Uncle Reuben, he is my husband!" said Christie, in a voice
choked with vehement sobs.
"_Thy husband!_" said Uncle Reuben, in a tone that plainly bespoke
his fears that Christie had lost her reason.
"Oh! yes, yes, my husband! my long-lost husband! whom I never
expected to meet again on this side of the grave. Oh, Uncle Reuben,
you did not know I was married, but so it is! I never meant to tell
you, but the surprise--the shock--forced it from me. Oh, Uncle
Reuben, do not look as if you thought me insane; for indeed, indeed,
I speak the truth." And again Christie's voice was lost in sobs, as
she bowed her head on the cold breast before her, and thought how
warmly and tumultuously it had once throbbed for her.
Uncle Reuben was not one to give way long to any emotion; so, with a
look of intense surprise and perplexity, he recalled his scattered
faculties, and once more approaching the bed, said, slowly:
"Well, if he _is_ thy husband, thee is anxious, no doubt, for his
recovery, and had better go away for the present, and let me attend
to him and bring him to."
"Oh, Uncle Reuben, do you think he is dead?" said Christie, in a tone
of piercing anguish.
"By no means, little one; he is only in a swoon at present, from
which he will shortly recover. And there are no bones broken,
either," added Uncle Reuben, after a short examination, "only this
ugly cut in his head, which has bled so profusely, and which I must
bind up now. We'll have to cut the hair off just round the temple,
you see, to get at it. It's Heaven's mercy it wasn't half an inch
lower, or he would have been a dead man now."
A convulsive shudder at the bare idea agitated the slender form of
Christie; and she lifted the silky waves of dark hair with a fond
superstition as they were severed, all matted with blood, from his
head.
And thus, while Uncle Reuben sat down to bathe his temple and
forehead with water, she took the cold hands in her own burning ones
to chafe them, with her eyes still fixed, as if she could never
remove them more, on that cold, white, handsome face, as still and
fixed as though immovable in death, looking whiter still in contrast
with the wet black hair.
"And so thee is a wife, little Christie," said Uncle Reuben, looking
thoughtfully and wonderingly upon the two faces before him.
"Oh, yes, yes! forgive me for not telling you before; but it was a
secret. No one knew of it; we were married in private."
"Ah, those hidden marriages never come to any good," said Uncle
Reuben, as he shook his head and glanced at Bertha, who all this time
had been standing at the foot of the bed, gazing with a sort of vague
interest and curiosity from one face to the other. "What if her fate
had been thine?"
"It has scarcely been more happy," said Christie, without lifting her
eyes; "but this moment, to see him once more, to touch his hand, to
know I am near him again, almost repays me for all I have suffered.
Now, at least, I can die happy, since I have the opportunity of
telling him I forgive him all."
"Forgive him! Then he has wronged thee?"
"Hush!" said Christie, turning, if possible, paler than before. "He
loved me once, and I wish to forget everything but that. But, Uncle
Reuben, are you sure he will recover? I see no signs of it yet,"
said Christie, in rising alarm.
"I do; even now consciousness is returning," said Uncle Reuben, as a
slight movement of the muscles of the face became perceptible.
"Willard! Willard! dearest Willard, look up!" she said, bending
anxiously over him.
Was it the startling sound of that well-remembered voice--that voice
he imagined forever stilled in death--that awoke him? The large dark
eyes slowly opened, wandered wildly around, and the first object on
which they rested was Christie.