CHAPTER XXXI.

THE BANKRUPT HEART.

Oh, break, break, break! poor bankrupt, break at once,
To prison, soul! Ne'er hope for liberty!"—SHAKESPEARE.

                                                                    "Every sense
Had been unstrung by pangs intense,
And each frail fiber of her brain
As bow-strings when released by rain,
The erring arrows launch aside—
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide."—BYRON.

There was a long pause. Then Mrs. Brantwell raised her head, and asked.

"When do you return to Westport?"

"I cannot go before to-morrow; my horse is unfit for the journey."

"Then I will accompany you."

"But my dear madam——"

"Mr. Stafford, not a word. I will go!"

She spoke in a tone there was no disobeying; so Stafford was forced to assent; and soon after Mrs. Brantwell left the room and sought her own apartment. The light breakfast next morning was untouched by either of them; and as soon as it was over, Mrs. Brantwell hastily threw on her bonnet and shawl, and entered the carriage that stood waiting to convey her to Westport.

Some time before evening they reached the town—now so crowded with strangers that it would have been impossible to have secured lodgings, had not Captain Campbell given up his rooms to the use of Mrs. Brantwell while she should remain.

Too utterly exhausted in her present weak state to visit the prison that night, Mrs. Brantwell immediately retired to her room, and desired the waiter to send Captain Campbell to her.

She scarcely recognized him, so altered had he become in those few days; the old hopeful look was gone, and in its place the darkest, gloomiest despair.

The meeting was a very sad and very silent one. Mrs. Brantwell pressed the hand he extended with deepest pity and warmest sympathy, but said nothing. Her silence was more eloquent than words. At last—

"When did you see Sibyl?" she asked.

"Not since the day of the trial," he answered, moodily.

"No!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "How is that?"

"She would not see me; she would not see any one. I attended her to the cell, and there she bade me go—she would be alone; she insisted on it; she would not even see Mr. Brantwell. I left her, and went the next day, and the next, and the next, but still the same answer was returned; she would see no one. From the moment she left the court-house she had thrown herself upon her bed, and she would not touch the food they offered her; she would not speak one word, only repeating that peremptory demand to be alone."

"My poor, poor Sibyl! And Mr. Drummond, where is he?"

"I know not. When he heard the sentence of the court, he sprang on his horse and dashed away like a madman. May Heaven's heaviest vengeance light on him and that black-hearted traitor, Courtney! for between them they have brought her to this!" And Captain Campbell's face grew absolutely livid with the storm of passion that swept across it.

"My dearest boy, hush! We must forgive our enemies, you know, if we expect to be forgiven.

"Forgive them! Yes! if I ever meet them, I'll send them to another world, with a bullet through their brains, in search of forgiveness!" he fiercely replied.

"Oh, Guy! do not say such dreadful things! You do not mean it, I know; but it is wrong nevertheless."

He only replied with a smile—but such a smile! Mrs. Brantwell turned away with a shudder.

"To-morrow I will visit the prison. I feel sure Sibyl will receive me."

"I hope so; but there is no telling. You can make the effort nevertheless."

"You will accompany me?"

"Oh, certainly. And as you look fatigued now, I will leave you to seek the necessary repose. Good-night."

He was gone with the same dark, rigid look on his face, that made Mrs. Brantwell's heart ache; and she sought her couch with a mind deeply disturbed by the thought of to-morrow's interview.

Next day, immediately after her slender breakfast, Captain Campbell made his appearance in her room. As the prison was but a short distance from the hotel, they were to walk; and drawing her arm within his own, Captain Campbell set out.

The streets were already crowded with people, drawn hither by the news of the great trial, and determined to wait now to see the execution.

Groups were assembled on every corner, discussing in low tones the expected event, and the murder. Every eye was bent on Captain Campbell as he passed; some knowing him to be the brother of the condemned; others supposing him to be her false lover, and the elderly lady on his arm, her mother. These insolent stares were met by such fixed, fierce glances on the part of the young man, that every eye fell, and every one shrank back to let him pass.

They reached the prison, and were admitted by the warden, who glanced at Captain Campbell in the deepest distress.

"We wish to be admitted to my sister's cell, Mr. Dent," said Captain Campbell.

"Yes, sir; but if you please, sir——"

"There—there! I know what you would say," impatiently interrupted the young man. "But my sister will receive this lady. Lead on, sir."

With a deep sigh of compassion, the old man obeyed; and they followed him through a long, gloomy hall, until they reached a door, before which the warden paused.

Fumbling among a large bunch of keys, he produced one which unlocked the door; and stepping back, he flung the door open and signed to them to pass in.

They did so, and paused on the threshold. For there before them was a sight that struck them dumb; that sent the life-blood curdling in horror to their hearts.

Crouching in a corner, and glaring upon them with her wild, vacant black eyes; every trace of color faded from her lips, leaving even the beautiful lips blue and livid; her long hair streaming wildly down her back; her hands held out before her, as if to keep them off, she sat. Well might they stare, while the very life-blood froze in their hearts.

CHAPTER XXXII.

ANOTHER STORM WITHIN AND WITHOUT.

                            —"Let her rave,
And prophesy ten thousand, thousand horrors
I could join with her now, and bid them come;
They fit the present fury of my soul.
The stings of love and rage are fixed within,
And drive me on to madness."—ROWE.

Loathing the sunlight, hating himself, frantic, maddened, Willard Drummond fled from the courthouse, with the terrific words of the judge searing his heart, burning his brain, scathing his memory, ringing in his ears, like the last awful trump of the mighty arch-angel.

Whither he went, what became of him, he cared not, knew not. Driving his spurs into his horse's Hanks, until the maddened beast fairly flew over the ground, he fled on, and on, and on, with heart on fire, his head in a whirl—feeling as though a wheel of flame were crashing through it; knowing, feeling conscious of but one thing, that Sibyl was condemned to die.

And through him—through his fault; that was the thought that whelmed his soul in anguish and despair. All his treachery, all his falsehood, all his duplicity were known to her now; and dying, she would loathe, hate, and despise him. He could have cursed himself; he could have cursed earth, and heaven, and all mankind in that moment, while the tempests of agony, remorse, despair, and anguish were raging in his soul.

And on, still on, he flew, unheeding the passing hours—unheeding whither he went, until his exhausted and panting horse fell helpless beneath him.

That was the first thing that brought him to his senses. He sprang off the back of the foam-covered and trembling animal, and conscious that his headlong speed and frenzied looks must excite distrust and suspicion, he strove to calm himself, and lead his horse to the nearest inn.

He lifted his head to look about him, and found he had nearly reached N——. Assisting his horse to rise he led him slowly toward an unpretending little farm-house that chanced to be near, and knocked loudly at the door.

The summons was answered by a boy, who stared at Willard with a look of blank dismay.

"I have ridden my horse until, as you perceive, he is unable to proceed any farther. Can he remain here for the night?" he asked, abruptly.

The sound of his voice brought a man to the door, smoking a short, black pipe.

"What is it?" he asked.

"This 'ere man wants to know, if his hoss can stay here to-night, and be took care of," explained the lad.

"Sartin, sartin," responded the man, heartily; "and you, too, sir, if you'll honor us with your company. Johnny, take the gentleman's hoss off to the barn. Walk in, sir—walk in; you look quite as near used up yourself as your beast does. Walk in, and sit down."

Accepting his hospitality with a brief nod, Willard followed him into a large, clean-looking room, where a woman sat knitting, and two girls sat sewing.

The female portion of the establishment got up and dropped him a courtesy, while the old man presented him with a chair. Willard removed his hat from his hot and throbbing brow, and shook back his long, dark, clustering locks, while the girls glanced at him askance, with looks of mingled admiration and fear at his wild and excited appearance.

"Come from the town, I reckon?" said his host, drawing a chair opposite Willard's and resuming his pipe.

A brief "yes," was his sole reply.

"Great doings going on there, I hear; lots of people crowding to it every day."

Another "yes," brief and cold, was his answer.

"Great talk, too, about this trial. You've heard tell of it in course?"

Still another "yes," briefer, sterner, and colder than before, was Willard's answer; but his talkative host was not abashed.

"Very sad affair, I must say," he went on, shaking his head; "and very strange all through. It's wonderful how wimmin will do things when they's in a passion. They say this Miss Campbell went over jest a purpose to kill this other gal, and chucked her body into the sea when she was done."

Here he waited for a reply, but received none; for Willard, with his face shaded by his hand and his falling hair, was thinking, with a bursting heart, of Sibyl, and heard not a word the garrulous old man said.

"This Miss Campbell's beau—what she was going to be married to when she got took up—must be a precious villain. They say he was married to the other young gal on the sly, and nobody ever knowed nothing about it. I'd like to get my hands on him, and give him a good hoss whipping—I vow I would. A little hanging wouldn't hurt him a mite morn'n her!"

At this expose of his feelings, the worthy man again paused for a reply that came not; for Willard Drummond, buried in his own bitter thoughts, was dead to all the world around.

"Yes, there's a great crowd going to town," resumed the old man, thoughtfully, as a light wagon, filled with people, rattled past; "but it ain't no circumstance to what will go to see her hung. I'll go to see that myself; and I'll take the old woman and the girls, too. I've been promising them a treat this long time. S'p'ose you'll be there, too?" he added, determined to get an answer by some means.

But still his strange guest maintained his moody silence, and the old man gave up the effort in despair, and turned the tide of his eloquence upon "Johnny," who entered at this moment, in numberless inquiries concerning the state of the "gentleman's hoss." The girls looked at each other and giggled, and the old woman peered at Willard suspiciously over her spectacles.

A summons to supper was the first thing that aroused him from his reverie; but, with a head giddy, a brain throbbing with tumultuous thoughts, the very sight of food was loathsome to him. Rising to his feet, and standing with difficulty, owing to his strange dizziness, he said:

"As you kindly invited me to remain all night, may I ask to be shown to my room? I do not feel quite well, and I believe I will retire."

The old woman gave her husband a warning glance that revealed plainer than words the danger of having so suspicious a guest in the house; but, the "good, lazy soul," totally regardless of it in his hospitality, exclaimed:

"Sartin, sartin, sir; but won't you take something first? Susan's tea and strawberry short-cake is jest about the tallest sort o' vittals anybody can eat when they ain't well. Do sit down, sir, and take a little snack."

"Not any, thank you," said Willard, faintly, as his headache grew more intense. "I wish to retire immediately."

"Oh, very well, then!" said the old man, adding, in a distinct whisper, "Gals, you'll have to give your room up to the gentleman. This way, sir, if you please."

Willard followed his hospitable guide up a flight of rickety stairs, into a small and scantily furnished little bed-room, hung round with feminine articles of apparel, and containing a comfortable bed.

"I hope you'll sleep well, sir," said his host, as he ushered him in. "It's a poor place for the like of you, but it's the best we've got."

"It's all I could wish," said Willard, who couldn't have told for the life of him, whether it was sumptuously furnished or otherwise. And then returning his host a good-night, he threw himself on the bed, and strove to forget in sleep the dull, heavy aching of his head and heart.

"A queer chap, that!" said the old man, as he slowly plodded his way down stairs. "Looks as if he had seen trouble lately. Well, this world is full of trouble; nothing but trouble for rich and poor alike, and always will be to the end, I do believe." And with this hopeful and encouraging view of the world in general, he opened the door and entered the bosom of his family.

"Well, now, Jonathan," exclaimed his spouse, in a voice more remarkable for shrillness than sweetness, "I wonders at your harboring every highwayman and sulky stranger you don't know nothing about, in this way. How do you know we won't get our throats cut in cold blood afore morning, with that there dark-looking, silent man in the house? How do you know but he's a robber, or suthin'?"

"I don't believe he's a robber," said Jonathan, quietly, sitting down at the table; "he don't look like that. Seems more like as if he had some heavy trouble or other a-weighing on his mind. Anyway, you wouldn't have me turn away a tired critter from the door, would you, old woman?"

"Well, if he wasn't so suspicious-looking," grumbled the old woman; "but, for to go and sit there all the evening, and never speak one word, is a leetle too much."

"People don't talk when they are in trouble, I tell you!" retorted her spouse. "And now I think on't, perhaps he's some friend or other of that poor young girl that's going to be hung. I'm sure, if he is, it's enough to make him silent. Fill my cup, Susan."

"He's real good-looking, anyway," remarked one of the girls, "with the loveliest of black eyes."

"And the sweetest curling hair!" said the other.

"And the whitest teeth—did you notice?" added the first.

"No; but I saw his hands; they was white as a lady's!" chimed in the second.

"I don't believe he's a bad man, either; he don't look like it," said the first.

"I declare to massy! if Sary ain't gone and fell in love with him!" exclaimed Johnny, with a chuckle.

"I hain't neither!" said "Sary," angrily, with reddening cheeks.

"Well, there, don't get quarreling about him!" broke in the mother. "The man's going away to-morrow morning; that's one blessing!"

But neither that morrow, nor the next, nor the next did Willard Drummond go; for when morning came, they found him tossing in the delirium of a fever. In dire alarm, a doctor was sent for, who said he was ill from over-excitement of some kind, and was threatened with brain fever; but that with proper care it might be warded off.

Querulous as the good lady of the house might seem outwardly, at heart she was kind and motherly; and all her sympathies were aroused for the sick young stranger. She listened in wonder and pity to his wild ravings, from which she could easily gather that he was in some way connected with the dire event that was occupying every tongue—how, she could not tell. That he was of a station far superior to their own, they also could see; and with the most tender and unceasing care they watched over him night and day.

But with all their kind nursing, three weeks elapsed before he was able to leave his bed, and another passed before he was strong enough to walk about.

Of Sibyl and the rest he had heard nothing during all this time. All exciting topics they had been forbidden by the doctor to speak of before him; and that, as the one exciting theme of every tongue, in particular. In fact had they been willing, they had very little to tell, for they had few visitors from the outer world to their quiet little cottage.

One evening, as still weak and languid, he sat by the window, watching the sun sink red and fiery behind a dense black cloud, and thinking bitterly how, by the impetuous violence of his own headstrong passions, his own life had been similarly clouded, the lad Johnny came in, with wide-opened eyes and mouth, all aglow with some wonderful news.

"Well, Johnny, boy, what is it?" said his father, who sat, as Willard had first seen him, serenely smoking his pipe.

"Oh, father! I've just seen old Toller, from Westport," said the boy, excitedly.

"Well, lad, what's the news from there?" inquired his father.

Willard, too, looked around with a start.

"Why, he says people are crowding to it now, from every place; that every house is full of people come to see the woman hung."

Willard Drummond's face grew livid, and his brain reeled at the words.

"He says she was raving crazy for awhile, and that delayed it so long; but the doctor's brought her to, and now the execution's going to take place day after to-morrow."

His mother's warning glance toward Willard came too late. With the look of a madman, he rushed from the house. A horse, the boy had been riding, stood saddled at the gate. He sprang on his back, and striking him a furious blow, dashed off under the first moment's fierce excitement, as he had done before, unheeding, uncaring whither he went.

He saw not, heeded not the coming storm; but one idea filled heart and brain—that of escaping, of flying far away, of never again beholding the scene of so many horrors.

Night was at hand, bearing in its dark, lowering face the storm that all day had been threatening. An oppressive stillness, a burning heat filled the air, and the old trees creaked, groaned, and tossed their long, weird arms with a dreary moaning noise, as though in pain. A hot, gusty wind lifted at intervals the heavy, dark hair off his burning brow, but without cooling it. It rustled the dry leaves till they whirled in a shower around him; but he heeded it not; he would hardly have heeded the wildest hurricane in that moment.

He had reached the forest, and now his course becoming from necessity less rapid, he could look around him and note the change of weather. By the last sickly light of the dying day, he saw a tempest was at hand, and he hailed it with a sort of mad exultation, to think that nature, convulsed by the storm, would be so much more in unison with the storm raging within his own breast.

He gave the frowning face of the sky but one momentary glance, for another and far more terrible sight was ever before his agonized eyes—it was the form, the beautiful form of his worshiped Sibyl, swinging between heaven and earth, convulsed in the agony of that horrible death; exposed to the gaze, to the shouts and derision of the mob; her lovely face darkened and convulsed until death would mercifully put an end to her tortures.

The awful vision seemed driving him mad. With something like the shriek of a maniac, he struck the animal he bestrode a furious blow to drive him on. The horse bounded madly on for a few paces; but at that moment a vivid sheet of lightning blazed across their path, and he suddenly stopped, reared himself almost upright, and with a snort of fear turned and fled. Faint from recent illness, Willard lost his seat, and was hurled, wounded and bleeding, to the earth.

And now, alone, wounded, and helpless in the vast old woods, the storm was upon him in its might.

It is said that, in the moment that elapses before some sudden and terrible death, all the events of our lives pass with the rapidity of lightning through our minds. So was it now with Willard Drummond. As he lay prostrate, bleeding, and helpless, all the great wrongs he had done, all he had made others suffer, rose before him with a bitterness exceeding that of death. Through him Christie was murdered; through him Sibyl was now to die a felon's ignominious death.

The storm was each moment increasing; and it howled, and shrieked, and tore through the trees, as though it had risen in vengeance against him. He thought of that other night of storm and tempest, on which his loving, much-wronged child wife had perished by the steel of the assassin. He thought of Sibyl, alone and doomed, waiting for death in her prison-cell. And then, with startling suddenness, flashed across his mind the strange vision that, years before, he had seen and scoffed at, in a far off land. One by one, three visions had been realized; and now only one—the death on the scaffold—was to come.

The night; the storm; the forest; the wounded man, all were here; and now was death to come, and end all this mortal strife, and close forever the dark drama of his life.

While these thoughts were yet passing through his mind, a sound smote his ear that startled him from the deadly stupor into which he was fast falling. It was no crash of storm, this; no sound of wind and rain among the trees; but the sound of human footsteps flying wildly through the storm. He strove to raise himself and cry out; but his voice was lost in the wild uproar around; and he was about to fall back in despair, when the fugitive from the storm struck against him, and fell over him on the ground.

The shock of the sudden concussion nearly stunned Willard; but the person who had fallen, uttering a sharp ejaculation, was up again in an instant, bending over him.

By the light of the rapid flashes of lightning, he beheld a woman with dark, flowing hair, and wild, maniac eyes—the same startling vision he had twice before seen in Campbell's Isle.

With a shriek that pierced high above the storm, she sprang up, and sped away through the woods with the speed of an arrow shot from a bow.

The unexpected sight of this unearthly-looking visitant was too much for nature, in his present exhausted state, to bear; and falling heavily back, the dark night of insensibility closed around him.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

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.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

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.