"TOO YOUNG TO DIE."
Over days, filled with weary waiting and marked by few incidents and no
discoveries, we pass with one glance.
Clifford Heath's trial follows close upon his indictment. A month rolls
away, and with the first days of winter comes the assembling of judge
and jury, and his case is the first one called.
During the weeks that have intervened between his arrest and this day of
his trial, Constance has been his bravest champion and truest friend;
she has stimulated him to hope, and incited him to courage, with loving,
cheerful words, while clinging desperately to a last remnant of her own
sinking hope.
Day by day, during all this time, the ancient gig driven by Doctor
Benoit, deposited that gentleman before the doors of Mapleton. Sybil's
delirium had ended in a slow, wearisome fever, which left her, as the
first frosts of winter touched the land, a white, emaciated shadow of
her former self, her reason restored, but her memory sadly deficient.
She had forgotten that dark phase of her life in which John Burrill had
played so sinister a part, and fancied herself back in the old days when
her heart was light and her life unfettered. She had dropped a year out
of that life, but memory would come back with strength, the doctor said;
and Mrs. Lamotte dreaded the days when that memory should bring to her
daughter's brow, a shadow never to be lifted; into her life a ghost
never to be laid.
Evan, too, had narrowly escaped death at the hands of his rum demons;
after four weeks filled with all the horrors attendant upon the
drunkard's delirium, he came to his senses, hollow-cheeked, sunken eyed,
emaciated, with his breath coming in quick, short gasps, and the days of
his life numbered.
Brandy had devoured his vitals; late hours and protracted orgies had
sapped his strength; constant exposure in all weather and at all hours
had done its work upon his lungs.
"If he outlasts the Winter, he will die in the Spring." This was the
doctor's _ultimatum_.
News from the outside world was strictly shut out from those sick ones.
The name of John Burrill never was breathed in their presence, and both
were ignorant of the fact that Clifford Heath, an old time favorite with
each, was on trial for his life.
The morning that saw Clifford Heath quit his cell to take his place in
the felon's dock and answer to the charge of murder, saw Sybil Lamotte
lying upon a soft divan, before a merry Winter fire. It was the first
time since her illness that she had quitted her bed. And Evan, too, for
the first time in many weeks, came with feeble, halting steps to his
sister's room, and sitting near her, scanned her wasted features with
wistful intentness.
"Poor sis!" he murmured, stroking her hand softly. "We've had a pretty
hard pull, you and I, but we're coming out famously." And then he added
to himself, "More's the pity, so far as I am concerned."
"What made you ill, Evan?" she whispered feebly. "Was it worrying about
me?"
A bright flush leaped to his cheeks and burned there hotly.
"Yes, it was about you, sis. But you will soon be as well and happy as
ever, won't you?" anxiously.
"To be sure, Evan; we will both get well very fast. We have got so much
to live for, and we are too young to die."