EXPLANATIONS.
"Mine after life! What is mine after life?
My day is closed! The gloom of night is come!
A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate."--JOANNA BAILLIE.
"Willard! Willard! Willard!"
With his own name breathed in his ears by the voice he never expected
to hear again; with the small, fair face, the deep blue eyes, and
waving golden hair of Christie bending over him, Willard Drummond lay
scarcely daring to breathe, unable to speak, gazing with wild,
wondering, incredulous eyes upon the angel-face he had never expected
to behold on earth more.
"Willard! Willard! My own Willard! Only say you know me! only
speak to me once more before I die!" was the wild cry that sighed in
his ear in the tones of that never-to-be-forgotten voice.
He pressed his hands to his forehead, like one in a dream.
"Am I mad?" he said, slowly; "or am I dead, and see Christie again in
the world of spirits?"
"Willard! Willard! we both live! Oh, Willard, thank Heaven you were
spared the guilt of my death! Oh, Willard! I am not dead; do not,
_do not_ look at me so wildly!"
"Can this be only the delirium of a dream?" he said, passing his hand
over his brow, in the same troubled and bewildered way.
No, it was not a dream! No phantom of the imagination ever could
have clasped him with such yearning, clinging arms; ever could have
held his head on such a warm, throbbing breast; ever could have
looked into his face with such passionate, undying love; ever could
have showered upon him such passionate caresses.
He awoke to the reality at last. Springing up in bed where he lay,
he gazed upon her as if doubting the evidence of his senses.
"Oh, Willard! Oh, my husband! I am not dead; I was only wounded! I
live still to say I forgive you all that is past!"
"Great Heaven! am I sane or mad?" he said, in a low, deep, wondering
voice.
She approached, caught both his hands in hers, and kneeling down
before him, said:
"Willard, look at me! feel my hands! my face! Listen to my words!
see me kneeling before you! and believe I am your own faithful,
loving Christie still!"
"Then _she_ may be saved yet!" was his wild cry, as unheeding the
slender girl kneeling at his feet, he sprang from the bed, with the
one thought of Sibyl ever, ever uppermost in his mind.
"_Who_, Willard?"
"Sibyl! Sibyl! my wronged Sibyl!"
At the words, at the name, her blissful dream faded away. The past,
the dreary, wretched past came back, and Christie's head dropped
heavily on the bed.
He was scarcely in his right senses yet, but the action, and, above
all, the necessity of haste restored him to himself; and stunned,
bewildered, giddy with many emotions, he sank into a chair and strove
to collect his thoughts.
"I know not yet whether I am sleeping or waking," he said,
incoherently. "Christie--where are you? Come here; let me see you
again, that I may know whether all this is not a vision of a
disordered brain, that will fade away as many a similar one has done."
She arose, and with a face as perfectly colorless as a snow-wreath,
stood before him.
He took her hand, so small, and warm, and transparent that it looked
like an infant's; and pushing back the full golden hair off the fine
white brow, gazed long and earnestly into the depths of the large
blue eyes, now so unspeakably sad, so deeply reproachful. So long
did he gaze that Christie's eyes fell at last, and the golden lashes
swept her cheek, while the eloquent blood mantled for a moment to her
snowy brow.
"Yes, this is Christie--alive still, and yet so long mourned for as
dead," he said slowly. "This is strange; this is wonderful.
Christie, how comes this to pass? How is it that, after so many
months given up for dead, I find you alive still in this forest
cottage?"
"Oh, Willard, Willard! can _you_ ask, after that dreadful night?" she
said, in a tone of unutterable sorrow and reproach.
"That dreadful night? _What_ dreadful night, Christie?" he said,
looking bewildered.
"Oh, Willard, what a question for you to ask! That you could ever
for one instant forget that night of storm and crime!"
"Christie, as Heaven hears me, I know not what you mean. Do you
allude to that tempestuous night on which you were supposed to be
murdered?"
"Oh, you know I do! You know I do! Oh, Willard, Willard! that _you_
should speak of it like this!" she said, in that low tone of saddest
reproach.
"Christie, there is some misunderstanding here. Do you mean to say
that _I_ was with you that night?" he said, vehemently.
She did not reply, but her eyes answered the question.
"Christie, as there is a Heaven above us, I never set foot on the
island from the day we parted there after your telling me of your
interview with Sibyl!" said Willard, impetuously.
"And the note?" she said, faintly.
"Do you mean the note appointing our meeting on the beach that night
of mystery?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, yes!"
"Christie, I sent that note, but I never went--_never_! I swear it
by all that is sacred! That very hour I received news that my father
was dying, which obliged me to start instantly for home, without even
an opportunity of apprising you. Christie, that night I spent fifty
miles away from the island."
She gasped for breath, grew deadly pale, and sank into a chair.
"Christie, Christie! do you not believe me?"
She lifted her eyes. There was truth in his face; and, with the wild
flash of sudden joy, she cried out:
"I do! I do! I do! Oh, Willard, thank Heaven for this! Thank
Heaven that you never raised your hand against my life!"
"Christie!"
"Oh, I do not wonder at your look of horror; but, all those weary
months, I thought so. Oh, Willard, dearest, can you ever forgive me
for wronging you so?"
"Christie!"
"Forgive me! forgive me! Oh, my husband, forgive me! But on that
night, that awful night, I was met on the beach and stabbed by a man."
"Heavens and earth! And you thought it was I?"
"Willard, Willard, forgive me! But oh! what else _could_ I think?
_You_ appointed the meeting. I went, was met there by a tall man,
stabbed by him, and left for dead on the shore."
"And you could believe _I_ could do such a deed! Oh, Christie,
Christie!" he said, with bitter reproach.
"Oh, how could I help it? How could I help it? The thought was
maddening: but how could I think otherwise? Say, only say, you
forgive me, Willard!"
"I forgive you, Christie; but you have far the most to forgive. What
strange, fathomless mystery all this is? Who was the man, Christie?"
"I do not know! I have no idea! Oh, I thought I had not an enemy in
the wild world."
"Is there no clew? Is there no means by which you could recognize
him again?"
"None! none! you forget the storm; the darkness: the deep darkness of
that night."
"True! but heavens! what am I thinking of!" he said, starting up
wildly. "Why do I linger an instant here, when it is in my power to
save Sibyl from the ignominious death of the halter."
"What!"
As if a mine had exploded beneath her, Christie sprang up, with
blanched face, starting eyes, clenched hands, and livid lips, gazing
upon him in speechless horror.
"Christie, she was arrested, tried, condemned, and doomed to die, for
your murder."
"For mine! Father in heaven!" gasped the almost fainting Christie.
"It may not be too late to save her yet. You must come with me,
Christie. Hasten! hasten! Every moment is precious now."
"Oh, this is awful! awful! Oh, Willard, when does this most
unnatural sentence take place?"
"The day after to-morrow. With all our speed we will be barely able
to reach the spot in time."
"Most horrible!" said Christie, with a convulsive shudder. "How came
she ever to be suspected of such a deed?"
"Oh, there was a damning chain of circumstantial evidence, strong
enough to convict an angel from above. I have no time to tell you
now; on our way I will tell you all. Merciful Heaven! if we should
be too late."
"I will go instantly! I will be ready in a moment." said Christie,
wildly, as she hurriedly threw on her wrappings.
"But not in this storm, Christie. Does thee not hear how it rages?"
anxiously said Uncle Reuben, who all this time had been a silent,
wondering listener. "Thee must not venture out to-night."
"Oh, I must! I must! the life of a fellow-creature depends upon it,"
said Christie, tying on her large mantle with trembling haste.
Willard Drummond paused for a moment in dismay, to listen to the
storm howling through the trees, and glance at the frail, fragile
little figure before him. But the thought of Sibyl in peril--of that
dreadful death--steeled his heart against every other feeling.
"She must be saved, let what will follow," he mentally exclaimed.
"Thee will never be able to make thy way through this storm,
Christie," said Reuben, rising in still increasing anxiety; "in thy
delicate state of health, too. Listen to the wind and rain."
"Oh! I hear it! I hear it! But though it rained fire from heaven,
I should have to go."
"Thee will never survive this night, if thee ventures out," said
Uncle Reuben, solemnly.
"What matters it? My life is worthless, so hers is saved," she said,
with sorrowful bitterness.
Willard Drummond's heart smote him; and some of the old love revived
in his heart that moment for poor Christie.
"Christie, thee will perish with fatigue."
"Oh, no; I'll not. This inward strength will sustain me. I will
live, I must live, I shall live, to save Sibyl Campbell. I feel it;
an inward voice tells me so."
"Then thee is determined to go?" said Uncle Reuben, sorrowfully.
"I must. Duty calls me. Dear Uncle Reuben, good-by."
"Will thee ever come back, little Christie?" he said, holding the
little hand she extended in both his.
"As Heaven wills! I fear not. But--Uncle Reuben--dear, good, Uncle
Reuben--if I do not, you will come to see me die?"
"Oh, dearest Christie!" his honest voice choked, and he stopped.
"Good-by, Bertha. Kiss Christie once more."
She put her arms round the neck of the maniac, whose eyes were fixed
wistfully on her face. "Going away?" she said, in a tone of vague
surprise.
"Yes, dearest friend; and if I never come back, you must not quite
forget me."
"Christie! Christie! my wife! my injured, long-suffering wife, do
not talk so! I cannot bear it!" said Willard Drummond, passionately;
for every word of that sorrowful parting had been like a dagger to
his heart.
She came over with the old, trusting love of happier times, when that
love first filled her heart, and clasping her hands on his shoulder,
she dropped her face on his breast, and softly murmured:
"Dearest Willard! it is better so. I am not afraid to die now, after
what I have heard to-night. And--do not be hurt, dearest love--but I
have no wish to live. You will be happy with her--with Sibyl; and
I--I will pray for you both, and love you both in heaven."
"Oh, Christie! oh, my wife!" he cried, clasping her in his arms, with
a passionate cry; "am I only to realize the treasure I have lost when
it is too late."
"Not too late, Willard; if it will help to make you a better, a
holier man, it is not too late. There are many happy days for you,
for Sibyl, for me--yet to come."
"Wretch, wretch, that I have been!" he groaned, in bitter grief.
"Why was I doomed to bring misery and death on all who ever loved me?"
"Oh, Willard, hush! You break my heart!" said Christie, lifting her
golden head off his breast. "You must not talk in that wild way.
And we are losing time staying here, when every second is more
precious than untold gold," she added, starting up. "Come, Willard,
come."
While she spoke, Uncle Reuben, who had passed out unobserved,
re-entered.
"Good-by, once more, Uncle Reuben," said Christie, "we are going."
"Not 'good-by' yet, little Christie. I will go with thee to----"
"But, Uncle Reuben, there is no necessity. I know the way."
"And did thee think, little one, I was going to let thee walk that
distance in this pelting storm?" said Uncle Reuben, with a sad, grave
smile. "No; it is not quite so bad as that. Thee will ride in the
donkey-cart until we reach----"
"Then you have such a conveyance?" said Willard, eagerly. "Thank
Heaven for that! In it you will at least be saved the fatigue of
walking, Christie."
"But how can you leave Bertha, Uncle Reuben?"
"I will lock the door, and Bertha will go to bed--will thee not,
Bertha?"
The maniac nodded, and still wistfully watched Christie, as though
some faint impression that she was going to lose her was forcing its
way through her clouded brain.
For the first time, Willard turned his eyes upon her, and gave a
violent start, as he recognized the well-known spectral face.
"Who is she?" he asked, in breathless surprise.
In a few brief words, Christie gave him to understand how it had
happened he had seen her on the isle.
And then, drawing her arm within his, Willard led her from the house,
followed by Uncle Reuben.
Christie took her place in the humble little donkey-cart, and cowered
down to avoid the pelting rain.
"Thee had better get in, too, being wounded and weak from loss of
blood," said Uncle Reuben to Willard. "I will walk and drive."
"Not at all. Do you imagine I would ride while you walked? I am not
so weak; I feel the strength of ten men within me, urging me on."
"That is only excitement, friend; it will not last. Thee had better
get in."
But Willard peremptorily refused, and took his place on the other
side of the little cart.
Seeing it was in vain to urge him, the old man allowed the animal to
start. And Christie raised for a moment her bowed head, to cast one
last, sorrowful glance at the little, isolated, forest cottage she
was never destined to see again. They turned an abrupt angle, the
night and darkness shut it from her view, and with a long, shivering
sigh, she bent her head once more on her pale hands.
The night-ride through the forest--with the wind wailing eerily in
long, lamentable blasts through the waving arms of the trees, with
the rain driving in blinding gusts in their faces, with the pall of
an almost Egyptian darkness around, above, and on every hand! That
night-ride! sleeping or waking, in after days, alone or in the gayest
assembly, it would rise like a haunting vision before the eyes of
Willard Drummond; and the little, bowed, shadowy figure crouching
silently in a corner of the wagon, would awaken in his heart feelings
of undying remorse. That night-ride, through the long, lonesome
woods! All the great wrong he had done that little, bowed form, from
whose gentle lips no word of reproach ever fell, from whose loving
eyes no accusing glance ever flashed, arose in bitter array before
him, until he felt as if he could never encounter the gaze of those
earnest, soul-lit orbs again--felt, as he walked beside her, as much
out of his sphere as a lost soul might feel before the gates of
heaven.
Then, by a natural transition, his thoughts were straying out to the
future--to Sibyl. She was lost to him now, as much as though she
were dead and in her grave. There was a sharp, keen pang piercing
through his heart for one moment, at the thought; the next, a more
generous feeling filled it, and he felt as if he could even joyfully
give her up, to save her from that awful doom. Once Sibyl was saved,
his determination was to depart with his little, drooping girl-wife,
to some far-off Southern clime--to some sunny village in France, or
Italy, where the more genial climate would restore her to health, and
where the wretched past would be forever unknown. There, he would
endeavor to atone, by his devoted care and attention, for all he had
ever made her suffer, and forget Sibyl. But that name, as usual,
woke a host of tender, sorrowful memories, and something akin to
despair again replaced every other feeling in his tortured mind.
Truly, in the keen suffering of that moment, he realized what Divine
retribution is.
And so on--still on, through the chill, bleak night, the driving,
splashing rain, the sighing, moaning wind, the dark, desolate
forest-road, our weary, silent trio wound their lonely way. Not a
word was spoken from the moment of starting.
Christie bowed, collapsed, shuddering, cowered in the bottom of the
rude cart, her white, thin face hidden in her whiter, thinner hands.
Uncle Reuben, urging on the stumbling donkey to his utmost speed, and
now and then turning to see that "Little Christie" was safe, or to
glance at the tall, dark figure walking opposite. And Willard
Drummond, with his hat drawn down over his brows, muffled in his
cloak, strode on, with bowed head, too absorbed in his own bitter
thoughts to heed the flight of time.
And so the long, silent night lingered and lingered, and the dripping
forest-road was passed at last; and they passed, at intervals,
gloomy-looking farm-houses, whose inmates were still asleep, and
whose only greeting to our weary travelers was the noisy barking of
their watchdogs as they passed on.
And so the melancholy journey was continued until morning, wan, cold
and gray, lifted its dead, dull face from the mantle of night, and
cast a sickly glimmer of light along the wet, slippery path.
"Morning at last," said Uncle Reuben, lifting his head, with a deep
sigh of relief. "This has been the longest night I have ever known."
"Yes, morning," said Willard Drummond, looking up bitterly at the
dull, leaden sky; "and we so far from Westport yet; Only one day more
between her and an ignominious death."
Uncle Reuben looked at him a moment, and then at the bowed form in
the cart, with a look of calm reproach.
"Is thee tired, Christie?" he said, approaching her.
She lifted her head, disclosing a face so white and haggard, so worn
with fatigue, sleeplessness, and grief, that even Willard started
back in sorrow and alarm.
"Oh, little Christie! I knew this journey would kill thee!" said
Uncle Reuben, with a groan.
"I feel a little tired, that is all," she said, forcing a wan smile.
"Dear friend, do not look at me with such frightened, anxious eyes;
it is nothing."
"Thee is deadly pale, Christie."
"I am cold," she said, with a shiver; "nothing more."
"And wet through," said Uncle Reuben, sorrowfully. "We must stop at
the first house we meet, and get some dry clothes, and some
breakfast."
"No, no; you must not stop; there is no time to lose. Pray, go on,"
said Christie, in alarm.
"Thee must take time," said Uncle Reuben, firmly, looking straight at
Willard. "Thee will hardly live to see Westport, else. Does thee
want to die a suicide, Christie?"
"He speaks truly, dearest--we must stop at the nearest farm-house,"
said Willard, bending over her. "My poor Christie, you do indeed
look jaded to death," he added, sorrowfully.
"It is nothing, Willard. If I only reach Westport in time, I care
for nothing else."
"But I do, Christie. I want you after that to hurry and get well,
and come with me to Italy, to far-off, beautiful Italy, where our
lives will be happy as a fairy-tale."
She lifted her large, lustrous blue eyes to his face, with along,
steady gaze--the calm, far-seeing gaze of a soul lingering on the
verge of eternity. How plainly those mournful eyes said "Too late!
too late!" But she did not speak; she only smiled faintly, and then
sank wearily back, with her head shrouded in her mantle once more.
The white hands of morning were now fast pushing aside the clouds of
night. As they went on they encountered one or two laborers, with
spades on their shoulders, going to their daily toil, who stared at
them with lackluster eyes, as if they thought them ghosts. At the
end of half an hour they reached a comfortable-looking farmhouse, and
alighted at the outer gate. Willard lifted Christie out in his arms,
while Uncle Reuben, with his whip, kept off the dogs that ran out,
barking loudly. The noise brought the farmer himself to the door,
who, noticing the drooping form of Christie, and the pale, worn face
of her companions, cordially invited them to enter.
There was a bright, cheerful fire blazing on the ample hearth, and a
woman bending over it, preparing breakfast. As she placed a chair
for Christie, into which the young girl dropped, totally exhausted,
Willard drew her aside, and placing his purse in her hands said:
"My good woman, you perceive the young lady's clothes are wet
through. Will you be good enough to take her to your room, and
furnish her with some dry ones?"
"Yes, sir, I'm sure I'll be glad to help her, poor young thing! I've
got some will jest about fit her," said the woman, with a
sympathizing look.
Willard whispered a few words in the ear of Christie, who arose and
followed the woman from the room, while a girl about Christie's size
took charge of the breakfast. Willard seated himself near the fire,
and fell once more into a painful reverie, from which the return of
Christie aroused him. He placed a chair for her beside his own, and
sinking into it she dropped her weary little head on his shoulder.
Breakfast was soon smoking on the table, and the three wayfarers took
seats; but much as they needed food, this errand had effectually
taken away their appetites, and it was with the utmost difficulty
they could prevail upon Christie even to swallow a cup of coffee.
"Can you furnish me with a horse and wagon to reach N----?" said
Willard to their host, as they arose from the table.
"Yes, you can come with me," replied the man. "I'm going there
myself in an hour."
"What time will you be in N----?" said Willard, anxiously.
"Little after noon."
"And if we take fresh horses immediately we can reach Westport before
morning, can we not?"
"Oh, yes, very easily; travel all night, and you'll be there in the
morning. S'pose you're going, with everybody else, to see the woman
executed, eh? Lord bless me! what's the matter with her?" said the
man, in dismay, as Christie, with a loud, indescribable cry, hid her
face in her hands.
"Nothing! nothing!" said Willard, and with a face perfectly
colorless. "What time--at what hour, I mean, does this execution
take place?"
"Nine in the morning; has to be early on account of the mob. Nobody
ever heard tell of such a mass of people as will be there. Most as
many as at the Day of Judgment."
"Can you not start right away?"
"No, couldn't before an hour."
"Is there any other conveyance to be hired near?"
"No, there ain't," said the man, shortly; "everybody wants their own
to take themselves there. If it's to see her hung you want, you'll
be plenty time when I start."
There was no help for it; and Willard and his equally impatient
companions were obliged to wait almost two hours before the farmer
was ready to start. Then he and his wife mounted on the front seat,
and Willard and Christie sat behind, and throwing her arms around his
neck, Christie bade Uncle Reuben a last farewell.
"Good-by, little Christie!" he said, sorrowfully, "Good-by, and
Heaven bless thee. I will come to see thee some day soon."
And then good Uncle Reuben entered his donkey-cart, and turned his
sad face toward the lonesome forest cottage, doubly lonesome now.
And Christie, shrinking closer to Willard, laid her tired head on his
arm, too weary and exhausted even to weep for the friend she had left.
The farmer, who had no intention of injuring his horse by fast
driving, went plodding at a jog-trot onward, in spite of Willard's
furious demands to drive fast. Inwardly cursing the lazy beast, he
gave up the effort at last, and strove to while away the tedious
hours in conversing with Christie.
Slowly and somewhat incoherently he learned from her all the events
of that night, and of her after life in the cottage, and her motives
for remaining there.
"And you were willing to remain in that isolated place all your life
that I might marry Sibyl Campbell, my poor Christie!" he said, with a
pang of deepest remorse. "And so you loved me still, even believing
me guilty?"
"Oh, Willard! did you think for one moment that I could cease to love
you?" she answered, fervently. "It was because I loved you so well
that I wished to see you happy with Sibyl."
"My faithful, leal-hearted, unselfish little wife," he groaned,
pressing her closer to his side.
"But, Willard, there is one thing I want to know. I want to hear it
from your own lips. Answer me truly, as you hope for salvation, _do
you love Sibyl Campbell_?"
"Oh, Christie, I do! I do! Better than life, better than my soul's
salvation? Better than my hopes of heaven do I love her!" he
exclaimed, passionately.
"It is well," she said, folding her hands, with a slight shiver.
"Thank Heaven for the boon of death."
"But, Christie, I will forget her; you are my wife. I will go far
away, where I will never see her more!" he said, recalled to himself.
"By devoting my life to you, I will try to atone for all I have made
you suffer, sweet wife."
"It will not be necessary, Willard. Dearest, best Willard, can you
not see I am dying?"
"Christie!" he cried out in alarm.
"I mean that my days are numbered; and, Willard, I am happy. I only
wish for life long enough to save Sibyl."
Something in her tone checked the words he was going to say, and both
relapsed into silence, broken at last by her saying:
"Tell me all that has happened to you and to my friends, since that
night."
And then he began, and related all; his father's death; the shock he
received on hearing of her murder; of his departure for Europe with
the Campbells; of their return and their marriage. At this point he
could feel a slight shudder run through the frame of Christie; but
when he spoke of the unlooked-for interruption, and of Sibyl's being
carried off to prison, and of her condemnation, she trembled so
convulsively that he was forced to stop.
"Oh, poor Sibyl!" she said, passionately. "Oh, Willard! her fate was
far worse than mine. What is suffering of any kind compared with the
shame--the overwhelming disgrace--of that trial, exposed to the
merciless eyes of the hundreds? And that I should, in any way, be
the cause! Oh, Willard! it is dreadful!"
She wept, so violently that he was alarmed.
"My own dear Christie, be calm," he said, soothingly. "Consider that
you are now going to save her life."
Still she wept on, until her overcharged heart was relieved; and
then, worn out in mind and body, she fell fast asleep on his shoulder.
Early in the afternoon they reached N----, which they found crowded
with strangers on their way to Westport.
Leaving Christie in a hotel, Willard went to seek for a fast horse to
take them to town; but, to his dismay, he found that every vehicle in
the village was already engaged. Nearly insane with wild impatience,
he offered enormous sums for a horse; but as the stern "Impossible!"
rose against all his demands, he was forced to return to the hotel in
a state bordering on frenzy, and offer the farmer with whom they had
come the price of a dozen horses if he would only consent to
surrender the wagon to him and let him drive.
Carried away by the young man's distracted words and manner, he at
last consented; and causing Christie to be wrapped up in a large,
warm shawl to protect her from the night air, he lifted her into the
wagon, took his seat beside her, and dashed off at a break-neck pace.
Not a word was spoken, as Willard, urging the animal to its utmost
speed, almost flew over the ground. The few remaining hours of
daylight passed, and night fell dark and starless. On, still on, he
urged the reeking, foaming, panting beast. They were still far from
Westport--scarcely more than half way--and the short night would soon
be gone. Each time the tired animal would halt, panting for a
moment, the vision of Sibyl, in her prison-cell waiting for death,
would rise before him, until, nearly mad with impatience, he would
mercilessly lash the poor brute on to greater speed.
But, just as he was beginning to hope that the rate at which they
were going would, in two or three hours, bring them to Westport, the
animal, completely exhausted, dropped to the ground, unable to
proceed another step.
With a furious imprecation, Willard sprang out and strove to assist
him to his feet, but in vain. The horse was totally unable even to
rise.
For one moment Willard leaned against the wagon, while a feeling of
utter despair filled his heart. The distance from Westport--the few
intervening hours--the impossibility of procuring another horse--the
awful peril of Sibyl, struck a chill, like that of death to his heart.
"All is lost, Christie--all is lost!" he said, in a voice so altered
that she scarcely knew it. "The horse is driven to death, and in ten
short hours Sibyl dies!"
"Heaven help us!" said Christie, wringing her pale hands. "Willard,
we must walk."
"Walk!" he repeated, bitterly. "Before the end of the first mile
your fate would be similar to his." And he touched the animal with
his foot.
"Try me--try me!" said Christie, springing from her seat. "Heaven
will give me strength in this hour. Oh, Willard, hasten!"
With a speed as great as it was unnatural, Christie started forward;
and Willard, with a last despairing effort, accompanied her,
expecting every moment to see her fictitious strength give way. But
no! it was as if a new spirit had entered that slight frame--for as
she never could have walked in her days of perfect health and
strength, she walked now; never for one moment faltering, until the
first dawn of morning grew red in the sky. But with its first blush
Willard felt the faint hope that had hitherto buoyed him up die
entirely away. Walk as they might, he felt it would be high noon
before they could reach Westport.
"It is all useless, Christie," he said, pausing abruptly. "It is no
use trying--we can never save her!"
"We will save her--we shall save her!" exclaimed Christie, with a
strange kind of exultation. "Hark!" she added, "do you not hear a
carriage approaching?"
Even as she spoke, a cloud of dust arose, and the thunder of wheels
was heard rapidly approaching.
"Saved!" she cried, joyfully. "Praised be God!"
Willard sprang forward to intercept the driver, and saw a large
country wagon nearly filled with people.
"Can you take us to Westport? Our errand is one of life and death!"
Something in Willard's tone startled the man; but after a moment's
stare, he replied:
"Yes; jump in."
Lifting Christie in first, he took his seat beside her, and again
dashed off.
"Hasten--hasten! for the love of Heaven!" cried Willard, passionately.
"I'll do my best," said the man. "I want to be in time for the
execution, anyway."
On they fled. Mile after mile was passed; but, to the excited mind
of Willard, they seemed going at a snail's pace. Did the sun ever
rise so rapidly any morning before as it did on that? Eight o'clock,
and still ten miles from Westport.
"Faster--faster! A thousand--two thousand--three thousand dollars,
if we only reach Westport before nine," shouted Willard, almost
maddened. "A human life depends on it--I have a reprieve."
"Hooray!" shouted the boy who drove. "If ever Sultan went, he'll
have to go it now. Here's my stick; tie your handkerchief on it, to
hoist when we get into the town, and they'll stop the execution."
Lashing his horse until the perspiration stood in great beads on his
forehead, away they flew, and ten minutes before nine rushed
furiously into the town.
The streets were crowded--blocked up with people--a boundless sea of
human beings! And near the jail they beheld the scaffold, and a
sight which seemed to paralyze the very life in their hearts. For
there, with the sheriff and a group of her immediate friends, stood
Sibyl Campbell, whiter than the dead, robed for death, cold, still,
and rigid.
A deep, awe-struck silence had fallen over the vast crowd--a silence
more terrible than the wildest shouts could have been.
Raising the white handkerchief, the boy waved it in the air,
shouting, wildly: "A reprieve--a reprieve!" and drove furiously right
through the startled throng, heedless of those he trampled down in
his way.
The multitude took up the cry, and "A reprieve! a reprieve! a
reprieve!" rang out, gathering force as it went, until, from a low,
hoarse shout, it rose to a wild, triumphal song that rang to the very
heavens.
And on, on, through the waving sea of human beings, they drove, until
they reached the scaffold; and then rising to her feet, the
thunder-struck spectators beheld the pale, beautiful face of the
long-lost Christie.