SYBIL'S CHILD.
| But thou wilt burst primeval sleep, |
| And thou wilt live my babe to weep; |
| The tenant of a dark abode, |
| Thy tears must flow as mine have flowed.—Byron. |
Summer ripened into autumn. Sybil and her faithful friend employed the golden days of September and October in the graceful and pleasing feminine work of making up garments for the expected little stranger.
But meanwhile, outside the prison walls, a cloud, black as night, was gathering over the young prisoner's doomed head.
The rumor got abroad that the Governor meant to follow up the long respite with a full pardon.
His course in this matter was canvassed and commented upon severely in every bar-room, grocery, street corner, political meeting, and elsewhere.
The press took up the matter, and vindictively reprobated the course of the Governor, putting his conduct upon the motives of partiality for the aristocracy.
Had the murderess been a woman of the people, it said, her life would have paid the forfeit of her crime.
But she was a lady of the county aristocracy, a daughter of the house of Berners; and however notoriously that house had been cursed with demoniac passions, and however deeply dyed with crime, its daughter, however guilty, was not to be held amenable to the laws!
Was such outrageous worship of the aristocracy by partial judges and venal governors to be endured in a country of freemen?
No! the voice of the people would be heard through their organ, a free press! and if not listened to, then it would be heard in thunder at the polls in the coming autumn elections!
Such was the spirit of the people and the press in regard to Sybil.
It was strange how the people and the press clamored for the sacrifice of Sybil Berners' life—the "female fiend," as they did not hesitate to call her, "daughter of demons," "the last of a race of devils, who should have been exterminated long before," they declared.
It was because they honestly ascribed to her a nature she did not possess, and imputed to her a crime she had not committed, thus making her innocently suffer for the sins of her forefathers.
Of course there were honorable exceptions to this general and unmerited reprobation of a guiltless young creature, but these exceptions were mostly among Sybil's own set, and were too few to have any force against the overwhelming weight of public sentiment.
And it was the general belief that, if the Governor should outrage public opinion by pardoning Sybil Berners, he would be politically ruined. Sybil Berners could not be permitted to live. She must die before the Governor could be re-elected by the people. And the election was coming on in the ensuing November.
Would he purchase success by the sacrifice of this young sufferer's life?
Ah! her best friends, asking themselves this question, were forced to answer, "Yes!"
This state of affairs had a most depressing effect upon Sybil's husband, especially as he had sustained a great loss in the departure of her zealous advocate, Ishmael Worth.
The young lawyer, soon after he had brought down Sybil's respite from the Governor, had been called away on business of the utmost importance, and had eventually sailed for Europe. He had gone, however, with the most confident expectations of her liberation.
How these expectations were destined to be defeated, it was now plain to see.
It required all Mr. Berners' powers of self-control to wear a calm demeanor in the presence of his unsuspicious wife. He had carefully kept from the cell every copy of a news-*paper that contained any allusion to the condemned prisoner and her circumstances, and he did this to keep Beatrix, as well as Sybil, ignorant of the impending doom; for he wished Beatrix to preserve in Sybil's presence the cheerful countenance that she never could wear if she should discover the thunder-cloud of destruction that lowered darker and heavier, day by day, over the head of her doomed companion.
But Sybil herself was losing her good spirits. The autumn had set in very early; and though now it was but October, the weather was too cool and often also too damp to make it prudent for the poor prisoner to spend so many hours in the prison garden as she had lately been permitted to do. She sat much in her cell, sad, silent, and brooding.
"What is the matter with you, my darling?" inquired Beatrix Pendleton one day, when they sat together in the cell, Beatrix sewing diligently on an infant's robe, and Sybil, with her neglected needle-work lying on her lap, and her head bowed upon her hand, "What is the matter with you, Sybil?"
"Oh, Beatrix, I don't know. But this autumn weather, it saddens me. Oh, more than that—worse than that, it horrifies me so much! It seems associated with—I know not what of anguish and despair. And I want to leave this desolate and gloomy place. It is so lonely, now that all the visitors have gone but ourselves. How can you bear it, Beatrix?"
"Very well, dear, so long as I have your company," answered Miss Pendleton, wondering that Sybil should miss the throng of visitors that had existed only in her own imagination.
"But I am homesick, Beatrix. Oh, Beatrix! I am so—so—homesick!" said Sybil, plaintively.
"Never mind, dear. Try to be patient. It would not do for you to undertake the journey now, you know," said Miss Pendleton, soothingly.
"Oh, but, Beatrix, I did so want to be at home to welcome my first dear child! There was never a Berners born out of Black Hall since the building was first erected," she pleaded.
"Never mind, dear. Everything now must give way to your health, you know. We could not endanger your health, by taking you over all these rough roads to Black Hall just now," said Miss Pendleton, gently.
"Ah, well! I will try to content myself to stay here in this gloomy place. But, oh! Beatrix, after all, I may die, and never see my home again. My dear home! Oh, if I should die here, Beatrix, I should be sure to haunt my home!"
"But you will not die. You must put away such gloomy fancies!"
As Miss Pendleton spoke, the cell door was opened, and the warden appeared bearing in the tray containing the supper service for the two ladies. It was not usual for the warden to wait on them in person; and so, to Miss Pendleton's silent look of inquiry, he answered:
"You must excuse my daughter for this once, ma'am, as she has gone to a merry-making in the village—this, you know, being Hallow Eve."
"Hallow Eve!" echoed an awful voice.
Both the warden and the young lady started, and turned around to see whence the unearthly sound came.
They beheld Sybil fallen back in her chair, pallid, ghastly, and convulsed.
Beatrix seized her vial of sal volatile and flew to the relief of her friend.
"What is it, dear Sybil? can you tell me?" she anxiously inquired, as she held the vial to the nostrils of her friend.
"Hallow Eve! Hallow Eve!" she repeated in a terrible tone.
"Well, dear, what of that? That is nothing."
"Oh yes, yes, it is horrible! it is horrible!"
"Hush, hush, dear! try to be composed."
"Black night! fire! blood! Oh, what a terror!"
"It was only a dream, dear. It is over now, and you are awake. Look up!"
"Oh, no! no dream, Beatrix! an awful, an overwhelming reality!" exclaimed the awakened sufferer. Then suddenly, with a shriek, she threw her hands to her head and fell into spasms.
"For heaven's sake run and fetch a doctor," exclaimed Beatrix, in the utmost distress, appealing to the terrified warden.
He immediately hurried from the room to procure the necessary medical attendance.
Beatrix ran after him, calling loudly:
"Send for her husband and her old nurse from Black Hall, also. I know it is after hours, but I believe she is dying."
The warden nodded assent, and hurried away, leaving Miss Pendleton in attendance upon the agonized woman, who recovered from one convulsion only to fall into another and severer one.
It was midnight, and a sorrowful and anxious group were gathered in Sybil's cell. She lay upon her bed, writhing with agony, and upon the very verge of death.
Near her stood her old family physician Dr. Hart, her old nurse Mrs. Winterose, and her faithful attendant Miss Tabby.
In the lobby, outside the cell door, sat her husband, with his face buried in his hands, wrestling in prayer with heaven.
What was he praying for? That his idolized young wife should be spared in this mortal peril? No, no, and a thousand times no! With all his heart and soul he prayed that she might die—that she might die e'er that dread warrant, which had arrived from Richmond only that morning, and which fixed her execution for an early day, could be carried out!
This agony of prayer was interrupted. The doctor came out of the cell, and whispered:
"It is over. She is the mother of a little girl."
There was no expression of parental joy or thankfulness on the father's part. Only the breathless question: