Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 November 1883 — SAVED, OR LOST? [ARTICLE]

SAVED, OR LOST?

BY LILY M. CURRY.

Had he crucified me, I must still have loved him! I said this over and over to myself, that awful night, as I ran on in the darkness and the rain, skimming heap and hollow alike in my race with death. It cannot hurt me to think of it now, or to write it all down as I sit waiting for them to come and take me away to a certain safe retreat, of which they have spoken, where I may, by and by, forget completely the scorching fire of the lurid eye and the thunder dance of the monster, whiqh seemed to shake the world from under my feet forever. Shriek ? I thought I was past crying Imt. And yet, I ran onward in the dark and the rain, hoping and praying aloud to Heaven to give me strength and speed and bring me there in time—in time to rescue the innocent; in time to snatch his soul from the clutch of the demon, Murder! I felt, as I ran, the sudden conviction that I had long known him unworthy; that my father had rightly warned me —my patient, slow-judging father. Still, granting this knowledge, there had been no hour past, there would he no hour future, when I could renounce him. I had felt tenderness for him—for Claude—from the beginning, when ho had come to us, a wanderer, ancLfather had more than willingly accepted his offer to work for a home—just to work a little in the green-house. For this was father’s occupation, to keep a nursery and winter-garden, just up from the village whence he forwarded all to the city, a five-hour’s journey. Claude was truly welcome. He had a bright glance, and always could think of a merry story, laughing himself in wholesomd, boyish fashion, and leading us also to laugh. He said he was anxious to settle down and to tramp the country no longer. If his mother had lived, he said, his own mother—if his father had not married a young woman who hated her husband’s son, it would never have been thus. When he said this I went aw r ay quickly out of the room. My eyes were blind with sympathy, though my father had not taken a second wife. In this way Claude had come to us—young, perhaps 20 (and I was 17); comely, cheerful when he had rested and supped—cheerful, with snatches of ®ong or whistled tune, and tales of the -city, whither we never went. Not stranger-like, hut as son and brother, -who had come home.

I would not have him go for anything • —anything on earth, I said, as I fell that night. He had brought isunsliine and music to our poor abode. He must remain; he should and would. Ah! you would hot smile if you knew the dull, dead life I led—the stagnant village below, the barren hills above and about, with little to do but read my few old books or father’s weekly paper, and listen longingly to the shriek and hum of the railroad trains that passed on the farther side of the town —passed and repassed on high trestle-work, or along narrow cuts,with a foot’s space between the rail and the edge of the embankment, with gulleys and ravines just below. Night after night, to the West and the East; day after day, to the.. East and the West—so went the through express, stopping only on signal at the village station. It was early in the spring when Claude had come to us, and now the summer had gone. Father had been busy, as usual, freezing his roses at the “dog-days” with ice, purposely stored the winter previous, that they might bloom again for the holidays—those luscious roses, crimson and golden, for which the city dealers paid us so little! And I! I had been happy! Happy with wild throbbings of my heart and wakeful hours at night! Not happy constantly, for there was that which counterbalanced joy. Claude had failed to help with the work, as he had promised, and father was sorely disappointed. Yes, it had come to be the exception when Claude went into the greenhouse instead of sauntering off to the village and there remaining all day. By-and-by, he spent only the nights at home; still, father was very patient. Perhaps he, too, had grown to love the boy, and felt something of the heartache that I knew at the hour when Claude, on finishing his breakfast, would glance about for his cap. Were I to live a thousand years I should never forget that slow pang as he rose from the table each morning and went; or the longing, the anxiety for the well-known step at night when tea awated him. For many days I rose an hopr ealier than usual and worked at what father must surely see, si fancy Claude had done. I hoped thus to keep father patient and satisfied. Bat the autupin was advancing, and

he was extra busy; and one morning, when he remonstrated with Claude. Clande grew very angry (I knew this was wrong); he grew so angry that he packed his few things and went away forever. As he opened the door to go, I thought my heart would burst. I followed him down the path to the gate; I think my face must have shown my suffering. “Claude, Claude!” I cried, “Are you going away? What shall I do, if you go ? How can I live ?” Unwomanly? Perhaps it was. My books would say so, but my heart did not. Besides, why should I pretend? Pretense is lying. He turned and looked half startled; then he smiled. “I guess I’d better go, John” —he always called me John, though my name was Effie Effie Dix. A moment iater he spoke seriously: “ John, you’ve always been my friend, and I hate to be cut off from seeing you; but I can’t come here any more. Don|t you know any friend’s house in the village where we could see each other once in a while?” That was the way I came jo meet him, unknown to my father; day after day, day after day, oftenest at a certain hour toward dusk, by the great tree at the first turn of the road. How little it seemed! I would have gone miles to see his face. I cannot tell when it was that we first fell into each other’s arms, with lovewords and kisses, tender, passionate, eternal kisses, that burn iu spirit now upon my brow and lips. Will I ever forget ? As the weeks passed, I lived only for these stolen moments. I went about my work in a feverish way, fearing to hear father speak, as lie did occasionally, with regret and disapproval, of Claude. I could not hear my lover condemned or even criticised; it seemed to me I must defend him fiercely at any cost. Yet, father was never unreasonable ; he had been stung by an ingratitude for which there was no excuse. This I acknowledged, but, to me, the sins of my lover were not sins. It was late in October, when I wondered for the first time how Claude would spend the winter, and at what he was working, for I knew he had little, if any, money. I spoke of it one evening, with my face resting on his shoulder; spoke earnestly, and sought a sober reply. But he hade me not to worry; he had a scheme at hand, which would call him to the city very soon, he hoped—a good scheme, with money in it. “To the city!” I cried sharply; “away from me?” His kisses hushed the cry. “You will come with me,” he said. He would knpw shortly, and I must be ready at any moment. I was not certain whether he meant an attempt at reconciliation with father, or whether he meant an elopement. Little I cared —crazed with love. I went home with my head on fire, and father said, half-chidingly, that I was a foolish girl to race about till my face was wind-burnt. I laughed in reply, “It makes me happy.” Father had been to the village that morning, and spoke at tea of having seen Claude.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that the boy is going steadily''downward. ” “Why, father.” My heart was choking me, hut I kept my voice controlled. “He was in had company to-day; badlooking at least. Idle, vagabondish fellows. Effie, have you seen him since he left?” I started, but answered slowly. “Yes,” I said, for I could not lie. “Effie, I know you thought a good deal of him —so did I, ” sighing. “But I wouldn’t go about with him, if I were you. ” Then I knew some one had seen us together, and prated of it. There were two weeks more to come —weeks of pain and passion—ere the end. But this I could not know. In the course of those weeks a change had come over my lover—a serious change. We met iess often, because he was busy. He was worried too, and irritable, even with me. He said, ah Heaven! He said and did careless, cruel things. Twice I watched for him at the old place, shivering in the bleakest wind; he did not come. I only loved him more wildly. He spoke, too, so indefinitely about our going away. Still I waited. Ah! I wonder if I can write of that last night ? Hitherto, when I have recalled- it, my brain has become as a seething whirlpool, and all I‘l ave known has been blackness and the rain beating on my bare head, and the distant thunder of the monster with lurid eye and the scorching heat close upon me—and so, do you wonder —I have ended in shriek and swoon ? It was raining; raining slowly, with a rising wind, when I crept from the house and down the road to the turn, and the great tree, where he was waiting. My heart swelled gratefully that he should have come so far in the rain. But his first words chilled me through and through. “I cau’t stay but a moment, John, I’m going away to-night, only for a day or two, to Jonesville (twenty miles off). If I’m detained longer, I’ll write you. So good-by, for I have to catch the train.” “But,” I stammered, “but the train is not, dub for three hours.” “Well, I have to see the stationmaster and put up the signal. ” His impatience cut me cruelly; still I was quiet enough. “Claude,” I said, “please—if you have a pencil and scrap of paper—please write me an address at Jonesville. Then, if you you are too busy to write, I can do so. It—it will help pass the time.” I wordd not hide the sob that came into my breast. I wanted him to know I loved him fondly and forever —down to eternity. Hej drew some loose papers from his pockfet and scribbled on one, as well as he cduld in the darkness, his name—- “ Claude Garrison” —and the town. I haveithe card yet; it lies next my heart; it is all I have left. “Now, good-by,” he said, thrusting the other papers carelessly into his hippocket ; and, after one long, last kiss, he strode away rapidly, more rapidly than I had ever seen him.

I tried to watch him; bnv it was almost night, and the ram fell steadily. When at length I, too, turned to leave the place, I caught sight of something he must have dropped from among his papers lying at my very feet. I picked it np and slipped it into my pocket with the address he had written. I would have run after him, but that he walked so fast he was now far beyond call. So I went home, and, entering softly through the wood-shed, prepared the tea. I was more uneasy and feverish than ever; but tried to listen patiently wiiile father described a new rose he was growing as an experiment. Occasionally I comforted myself with squeezing my pocket to find the precious address safely hidden there. Presently father took up his weekly paper, and I carried the tea things into the kitchen, where I halted for reflection. It occurred to me that the letter he had dropped might be of importance to him while at Jonesville, and if so I must send it to him at once. I took it out to see. It was a queer letter ; I could not find the postmark. I did not like the ' handwritting; but I opened and read it. I cannot well describe how strange I felt as I read slowly down the first page and turned the sheet to continue. Such feelings are indescribable. As nearly as I remember, it was, at first,.a dull stupidity which seemed to envelop my mind so thoroughly that I needed to read the opening sentence a halfdozen times or more ere comprehending. After this came a strong, cold shudder of mortal fear and agony, which lasted many moments; then quiet, absolute quiet in every nerve and fiber except the heart, which heat with clear regularity, like a calm voice devising and arranging. Now, I knew all; some mysterious veil was removed and I saw with acutest vision. I knew what my lover was involved in, what he purposed, and where he had gone to-night. I knew that my father had judged Claude’s companions correctly—that they were vagabonds, villains, who had planned to wreck the night-express at the great curve, before it could have reached the village. At the great cqrve! Oh, God! I could picture the scene. The heavy logs laid close across the track, the swift rush, the crash, the overturning coaches pitching and piling into the ravine—the shrieks, perhaps the flame —the awful doom of the innocent and helpless! And what madness to think that vengeance would not quickly fall upon such deeds. No doubt, no doubt they had made him —Claude —the merest tool, and would manage their own escape in some way, leaving him to the hands of village justice. Ours was a quiet town, but what place would not rouse at this fiendish work. Mohs, ropes, tree-limbs —oh, could I do nothing? “God in Heaven,” I moaned, “Aid me, give me strength!” I ran to the clock. It was long past 7, and the train should reach the village before 9, if on time. I prayed it might be late, for I had miles and miles to go in the night and the storm, I glanced into the sitting-room; father was asleep in his chair—he often dozed thus through the entire evening. I trusted his sleep would last, or he would think I had gone up to my bedroom, if he wakened. I caught a little jacket from the wall and slipped it on; no hat or bonnet, though—the less burdened the better. I thrust some matches in my pocket, and found the lantern hanging in the woodshed. I shook it and knew there was oil enough. Then I started. I tried to run steadily, with lips tight shut, to waste ho breath. I did not light the lantern, for I must not be seen. Nor did I fear running 'blindly onward since I knew the road—on this side the village at least. Sometimes I almost flew; sometimes I stumbled into puddles, and felt the water soaking through my shoes. If only I could reach there in time! I chose the darkest street of the village, when at length that far, slackening speed until out again upon the road beyond. It would not have served me to rouse the station-master, for telegraphing would not avail, since the train would have left the nearest station where there was an operator. Beside, could I trust any one with this secret? Nay; I must manage with my own strength and prayers. Still on madly, wildly! There was a sharp pain in my chest, but it should not check me. God would surely help me on; He would not let me die till I had accomplished this task. At last I struck the railroad at a road crossing, and thenceforth followed it, running as best I could between the tracks. I remember the wet cinders cringing under my feet; the rank weeds, unharvested by frost, and the burrs that gathered on my skirts. I remember feeling that I must be near the awful, spot, where lay thef death-line of low-piled logs. But, oh, God be thanked if I had come in time! Just for a second I stooped and tried to push the obstacles from the track. The strength of two men was needed, and I —was breathless. I opened the lantern and struck a match. The wind blew it out! I struck another and shielded the blaze. The lantern burned brightly, and, now, even now I fancied, began the faintest tremor of the rails. I passed the curve and ran desperately forward, trembling as I ran, to see the headlight burst from behind another, a lesser curve and woods, a half mile down. Was it coming? Could it stop in time ? I flew on. But, what was this? Another step besides my own, following, overtaking me, a grasp of my arm, a terrible grip that made me moan with pain—a voice that hissed into my very brain: “How came you here ?” I Kfted my lantern and stood face to face with Claude. Even then, at that awful moment, when my life was a trifle to undo what he had done—l loved him. At that awful moment when his glance was hatred—hared and vengeance com' mingled.

Had he crucified me, it must still have been the same. I raised the lantern higher. “Thank God if I have saved you!” 3 cried, shrilly. Then the headlight burst from behind the lower curve and grew a terrible glare. I started ahead, waving the lantern from side to side and shrieking hoarsely. “Danger, danger! Stop, for God’s sake! Danger, danger!” How the shrieks clove to my numb mouth and tongue! How he held me back! Need he have feared? Could he not trust me ? How I battled to swing the lantern free from his grasp! I was strong—strong for tfye moment as a tiger; and, though he tried to hinder me, I swung the light and shrieked against the thunder-danoe and the lurid eye that shook and scorched both.

Then—ah, Heaven! Ido not know how or why it happened, and therein lies my madness —if I be truly mad. But he, too, must have been mad, else he had not slipped or tumbled or whirled away into the path of the iron monster, and danced and whirled and kept on whirling up in the night and whirling down in the night and whirling forever and evermore. Had they not lifted me up when the dance was ended and the train stood quiet, three yards from the curve behind which Death was crouching—had they not lifted me up and borne me to shelter, from which I was at length carried home, I should still be lying there—lying there in silence,face downward, on the wet cinders and the straggling weeds. For why should I rise? Why, though I had saved the hundreds of innocents, and snatched his soul from the clutch of the demon murder? Why, indeed, when Claude was lost to me forever ?