Cruel as the grave
arched, her eyes dark luminous gray, with drooping lids and long
fringes; her nose small and straight, her lips full, small, and plump,
and her chin was round and well set. There were some flaws in this
otherwise perfect beauty and grace of form and face; for her complexion
was very pale, her expression pensive, and her walk slightly limping.
While Sybil was observing her with both admiration and pity, and
wondering whether she did not suffer from some hereditary malady that
had carried off her mother and all her sisters and brothers, Rachel
spoke:
"I think you have everything here that you require; but if you should
need anything else, please call, and I will come and attend to your
wants."
"Thanks!" answered Sybil, sweetly, forgetting her assumed character, and
beginning to speak in her natural voice, for it seemed so difficult to
act a part in the presence of this girl.
But Lyon set his coarse boot upon Sybil's foot, and pressed it as a
warning, and then answered for both, saying:
"Thank y', honey, but I don't reckon we'll want anything but our supper,
and the old man said how he'd send that up here himself."
"Then I will leave you. Good night. I hope you will have a good sleep,"
answered Rachel, bending her head.
"What a fine face that girl has," said Lyon Berners, as she withdrew.
"Yes; and what a sweet voice!" answered Sybil.
"But she is very pale, and she limps as she walks; did you notice?"
"Yes; I suppose she has ill health--probably the same malady that
carried off her mother, and all her sisters and brothers."
"Very likely."
"Consumption?" suggested Sybil.
"Scrofula," sententiously replied Lyon.
"Oh, what a pity!" said Sybil, when their conversation was cut short by
the entrance of the landlord, bringing a waiter with the plain supper
service and a folded table-cloth, and followed by a young man bearing
another waiter piled up with materials for a supper more substantial
than delicate.
The little table was quickly set, and the meal arranged and then the
landlord, after asking if anything more was wanted, and being told there
was not, left the room, followed by his attendant.
Lyon and Sybil made a good supper, and then, as there were no bells in
that primitive house of entertainment, he put his head out of the door
and called for some one to come and take away the service.
When the waiter had cleared the table, and the travellers were again
left alone, Lyon said to Sybil:
"I must leave you here, dear, while I go down to the water-side and
inquire what ships are about to sail for Europe. You will not be afraid
to stay here by yourself?"
"Oh, no indeed! this is not the Haunted Chapel, thank Heaven!" answered
his wife.
"Nor Rachel, the damp girl," added Lyon.
"No, poor child; but she may very soon become one," sighed Sybil.
And Lyon put on his broad-brimmed hat and went out.
Sybil locked the door, took off her red wig, and her coarse outer
garment, and took from her travelling bag a soft woolen wrapper and a
pair of slippers and put them on, and sat down before the fire to make
herself comfortable. At first the sense of relief and rest and warmth
was enough to satisfy her; but after an hour's waiting in idleness, the
time hung heavily on her hands, and she grew homesick and lonesome. She
thought of the well-stocked library of Black Hall; of her bright
drawing-room, her birds, her flowers, her piano, her easel, her
embroidery frame, her Skie terrier, her tortoise shell cat and kittens,
her fond and faithful servant, the many grand rooms in the old hall; the
negroes' cabins, the ancient trees, the river, the cascade, the
mountains--the thousand means of occupation, amusement, and interest,
within and around her patrimonial home, the ten thousand ties of
association and affection that bound her to her old place, and she
realized her exile as she had never done before. Her spirit grew very
desolate, and her heart very heavy.
But Sybil really was not a woman to give way to any weakness without an
effort. She got up and tried to engage herself by examining the two
little rooms that were to be her dwelling place for a day or a week, as
chance might direct.
There was not much to interest her. The furniture was poor and old, but
neat and clean, as anything under the care of pale Rachel was sure to
be. Then Sybil looked about to try to find some stray pamphlet or book,
that she might read. But she found nothing but a treatise on tanning and
an old almanac until, happening to look behind the glass on the chest of
drawers in the inner room, she discovered a small volume which she took
to be the New Testament. She drew it from its hiding-place and sat down
to read it. But when she opened the book, she found it to
be--"Celebrated Criminal Trials."
At once it seemed to have a fearful interest for her, and this interest
was terribly augmented when, on further examination, she discovered that
a portion of the work was devoted to the "Fatal Errors of Circumstantial
Evidence."
To this part of the book she turned at once, and her attention soon
became absorbed in its subject. Here she read the cases of Jonathan
Bradford, Henry Jennings, and many others tried for murder, convicted
under an overwhelming weight of circumstantial evidence, executed, and
long afterwards discovered to be entirely innocent of the crimes for
which they had been put to death. Sybil read on hour after hour. And as
this evening, while sitting in solitude and idleness and thinking of her
home and all its charms, she had first realized the bitterness of her
exile, so now, in reading these instances of the fatal effects of
circumstantial evidence upon guiltless parties, she also first realized
the horrors of her own position.
She closed the book and fell upon her knees, and weeping, prayed for
pardon of those fierce outbursts of hereditary passion, that had so
often tempted her to deeds of violence, and that now subjected her to
the dread charge of crime. Yes, she prayed for forgiveness of this sin
and deliverance from this sinfulness, even before she ventured to pray
for a safe issue out of all her troubles.
Relieved, as every one feels who approaches our Father in simplicity and
faith, she arose from her knees, and sat down again before the fire to
wait for the return of her husband.
He came at length, looking really tired now, but speaking cheerfully as
he entered the room.
"I have been gone from you a long time, dear Sybil, but I could not help
it. I had to go to Portsmouth in search of our ship," he said, as he put
his hat on the floor, and sat down at the fire.
"Then you found a ship?" she inquired, with so much more than usual
anxiety in her expression, that he looked up in painful surprise as he
replied to her question.
"Yes, dear; I have found a ship that will suit us. It is the
'Enterprise,' Captain Wright, bound for Liverpool within a few days."
"Oh! I wish it were to-morrow," sighed Sybil.
"Why, love, what is the matter?" tenderly inquired her husband, taking
her hand, and looking into her face.
"_That_ is the matter," replied Sybil, with a shudder, as she took the
volume she had been reading from the chimney piece and put it in his
hands.
It was a work with which Lyon Berners, as a law student, had been very
familiar.
"Why, where did you get this?" he inquired in a tone of annoyance, for
he felt at once what its effect upon Sybil's mind must be.
"Oh, I found it behind the looking-glass in the other room."
"Left by some traveller, I suppose. I am sorry, Sybil, that you have
chanced upon this work; but you must not let its subject influence you
to despondency."
"Oh, Lyon! how can I help it? I was so strong and cheerful in my sense
of innocence, I had no idea how guiltless people could be convicted and
executed as criminals."
"My darling Sybil, all these cases that you have read were tried in the
last century, a period of judicial barbarism. Courts of justice are more
enlightened and humane now, in our times. They do not sacrifice sacred
life upon slight grounds. Come, take courage! be cheerful! trust in God,
and all will be well."
"I do trust in the Lord, and I know all will be well; but oh! I wish it
were to-morrow that ship is to sail?" answered Sybil.
"It will sail very soon, dear. And now we had better go to rest, and try
to get some sleep. In my character of market farmer, I have to be up
very early in the morning to attend to my business, you know," said Lyon
with a smile.
Sybil acquiesced, and the fugitive couple retired for the night.
Bodily fatigue so much overcame mental anxiety, that they slept
profoundly, and continued to sleep until near daylight, when they were
both aroused by a loud knocking at the door.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, who is that?" gasped Sybil, starting up in
affright, for every knock now, scared her with the thought of sheriff's
officers armed with a warrant for her arrest, and excited a whole train
of prospective horrors.
"Hush, darling, hush; it is only one of the men about the place waking
me up, according to orders, to be in time for the market. We must keep
up our assumed characters, my dear Sybil," said Mr. Berners, as the
knocking was repeated, accompanied by the calls of,
"Farmer! farmer!"
"Aye, aye! I hear you. You needn't batter down the doors. I'm a-going to
get up, though it's very early, and I an't as young as I used to be
twenty years ago, nyther," grumbled the "farmer," as with many a grunt
and sigh, as of an old and weary man, he got up and began to dress
himself.
"Sybil," he whispered to his wife before leaving the room, "I shall have
to take my breakfast at a stall in the market-house, and I shall not be
back until the market is out, which will be about twelve o'clock. You
can have your breakfast brought up here. And mind, my darling, don't
forget to put on your wig, and keep up your character."
"I shall be very careful, dear Lyon," she answered, as he kissed and
left her.
Lyon Berners went down stairs, where he found the landlord, who was an
"early bird," waiting for him.
"Morning, farmer. What is it that you've brought to market, anyways?"
he said, greeting his guest.
"Mostly garden truck," answered Lyon.
"No poultry, eggs, nor butter?"
"No."
"'Cause, if you had, I might deal with you myself."
"Well, you see, landlord, them kind of produce is ill convenient to
bring a long ways in a wagon. And I came from a good ways down the
country," explained Lyon, as he took his long leathern whip from the
corner where he had left it, and went out to look after his team.
He found it all right, and he mounted the seat and drove to the market
space, and took a stand, and began to offer his produce as zealously as
any farmer on the ground--taking care, in the mean time, to wear his
spectacles and broad-brimmed hat, and to keep up his character in voice
and manner; and, as the morning advanced, he began to drive a brisk
business.
Meantime Sybil, left alone in her poor room at the little inn, arose
and locked the door after Lyon, to prevent intrusion before she should
effect her disguise, and when she had thus insured her privacy, she
began to dress.
As soon as she had transformed herself, she opened the door and called
for Rachel.
The landlord's daughter entered, giving her guest good-morning, and
kindly inquiring how she had slept.
"I slept like a top! But I'm not well this morning neither. So I'd just
like to have my victuals sent up here," answered Sybil.
"Very well; what would you like?"
"Fried fish, and pork-steaks, and bri'led chickings, and grilled bacon,
and--let me see! Have you any oysters?"
"Yes, very fine ones."
"Well, then, I'll take some stewed oysters too, and some poached eggs,