Why have we three gathered here,With aching hearts and aching brain?Death must fill another bier,Before we three shall meet again.
Why have we three gathered here,With aching hearts and aching brain?Death must fill another bier,Before we three shall meet again.
Why have we three gathered here,With aching hearts and aching brain?Death must fill another bier,Before we three shall meet again.
Why have we three gathered here,
With aching hearts and aching brain?
Death must fill another bier,
Before we three shall meet again.
"How do you do, madam? Anything in my way? Capital beets these—the most delicious spinach. Celery, bright and crisp enough to suit an alderman—sold five bunches for the supper-room at the City Hall, not half an hour since. Everything on the stand fresh as spring water, sweet as a rose. Two bunches of the celery, yes ma'am: anything else? not a small measure of the potatoes? Luscious things, always come out of the saucepan bursting their jackets; only one measure? Very well—thank you! Cranberries, certainly!"
Thus extolling her merchandise, busy as a bee, and radiant with good humor, stood our old huckster woman, by her vegetable stand in Fulton Market, on the morning after Julia Warren was cast into prison. No customer left her stand without adding something to the weight of his or her market-basket. There was something so hearty and cheerful in her appearance, that people paused spite of themselves, to examine her nicely arranged merchandise; and though all the adjoining stalls were deserted, Mrs. Gray was sure to have her hands full every morning of the week.
On this particular day she had been busy as a mother bird, serving customers, making change, and arranging her stall, now and then pausing to bandy a good-humored jest with her neighbors, or toss a handful of vegetables into some beggar's basket. The words with which our chapter opens, were addressed to a quiet old lady in deep mourning, who carried a small willow basket on her arm, and appeared to be selecting a few dainty trifles from various stalls as she passed along.
"Cranberries! Oh, yes, the finest you have seen this year, plump as June cherries; see, madam, judge for yourself."
The good woman took up a quantity of the berries as she spoke, and began pouring them from one plump hand to the other, smiling blandly now at the fruit, now at her quiet customer.
"Yes, they are very fine," said the old lady; "do up a small measure neatly, they are for a sick person."
Mrs. Gray looked over her stand for some paper, but her supply was exhausted. Nothing presented itself but the Morning Express, with which she usually occupied any little time that might be hers, between the coming and departure of her customers. This morning she had been too busy even for a glance at its columns; but as her neighbor seemed to be out of wrapping paper also, she took up the journal, and was about to tear off the advertising half, when something in its columns arrested her eye. She held the paper up and read eagerly. The rich color faded from her cheeks, and you might have detected a faint motion disturbing the repose of her double chin, a sure sign of unusual agitation in her.
"You have forgotten the cranberries!" said the customer, at length, looking with some surprise at the paper, as it began to rustle violently in the huckster woman's hands.
Mrs. Gray did not seem to hear, but read on with increased agitation. At length she sat down heavily upon her stool, her hands that still grasped the paper, dropped into her lap, and she seemed completely bewildered.
"Are you ill?" inquired the old lady, moving softly around the stand. "Something in the paper must have distressed you."
"Yes," answered the huckster woman, taking up the journal, and pointing with her unsteady finger to the paragraph she had been reading, "I am heart sick; see, I know all these people; I loved some of them. It has taken away my breath. Do you believe that it is true?"
The lady reached forth her hand, and taking the paper, read the account of Leicester's murder and Mr. Warren's arrest, tothe end. Mrs. Gray was looking anxiously in her face, and, though it was white and still as the coldest marble, it seemed to the good woman as if it contracted about the mouth, and a look of subdued pain deepened around the eyes.
"Do you believe it?" questioned Mrs. Gray, forgetting that the person she addressed was an entire stranger.
"Yes," answered the lady, speaking with apparent effort—"yes, he is dead!"
"What! murdered by that old man? I don't believe it. It's against nature!"
"He died a violent death," answered the lady, shrinking as if with pain.
"Then he killed himself," answered Mrs. Gray, recovering something of her natural energy, "it was like him."
"Oh! God forbid!"
The lady uttered these words in a low, gasping tone, as if Mrs. Gray's speech had confirmed some unspoken dread in her own heart. The noble old huckster woman saw that she was giving pain, and did not press the subject.
"Then some other person must be guilty; it was not old Mr. Warren; I haven't seen much of him, true enough, but he's a good man, my life on it! He's sat at my table—a Thanksgiving dinner, ma'am! I remember the blessing he asked, so meek, so full of gratitude, with as fine a turkey as ever came from a barn-yard tempting him to be short, and he with hunger stamped deep into every line of his face. I haven't heard such a blessing since I was a girl. This man charged with murder! I wouldn't believe it though every minister in New York swore against him."
The old lady opened her lips to speak again, but Mrs. Gray suddenly laid a hand upon her arm.
"Hush! you see that old woman coming up the market, it is his wife!—Mr. Warren's wife!—see how broken-heartedly she looks about from stall to stall; maybe it is this one she wants. Yes! how her poor eyes brighten. A friend in need is a friend indeed; she knows where to look, you see."
By this time the forlorn old woman, who came wandering like a ghost up the market, caught a glimpse of the portly figure and radiant countenance, that always made the huckster woman an object of attention. Her pale face did indeed brighten up, and she forced her way through the people, putting them aside with her hands in reckless haste.
Mrs. Gray left her customer by the stall, and went down the market in benevolent haste, the snowy strings of her cap floating out, and the broad expanse of her apron rippling with the rapidity of her steps. She met Mrs. Warren with a kindly, but subdued greeting, and, without releasing the thin hand she had grasped, led the heart-stricken woman up to her stall.
"There, now, sit down upon my stool," she said, giving another gentle shake of the withered hand, before she relinquished it. "You are tired and out of breath; there, there, keep quiet; cry away, if you like, I'll stand before you!"
The good woman had seen tears gathering into the wild eyes of her visitor from the first—for if tears are locked in a grateful, heart, kindness will bring them forth—and with that intuitive delicacy which made all her acts so genial, she left the poor creature to weep in peace, shielding her from notice by the breast-work of her own ample person.
"Oh, the cranberries! I have kept you waiting!" she said to the customer who stood motionless by the stall, apparently unconscious of all that was passing, but keenly interested, notwithstanding this seeming apathy.
The lady started at this address, and without answer watched Mrs. Gray as she twisted half of the torn newspaper over her hand, and afterward filled it with berries. She took the paper, mechanically laid down a piece of silver, and waited for the change. All this was done in a cold, strengthless way, like one who does every thing well from habit, and who omits no detail of a life that has lost all interest. She stood a moment after receiving the parcel, and then drawing close to Mrs. Gray, whispered—
"Ask her where she lives!"
Mrs. Gray looked around, and saw that the pale face was bowed still, and that tears were pouring down it like rain. She leaned forward and whispered—
"Do you live in the old place yet?"
"No," was the broken answer, "I could not stay there alone, if the rent were paid. As it is they would not let me, I suppose."
"Where is your home, then? Where is your family?" said the lady, in her gentle way.
"They are in prison; my home is the street!"
"But where do you sleep?"
"Nowhere, I have not wanted to sleep since they tookhim!" was the sad reply. "I walk up and down all night; it is a little chilly sometimes, but a great deal better than sitting alone to think."
"She will go home with me," said Mrs. Gray, addressing her customer, and drawing one hand across her eyes, for their soft brown was becoming misty. "Of course she will—I don't know you, ma'am, but somehow it seems as if you would like to help this poor, unfortunate woman. She needs friends, and has got one, at any rate, but the more the better!"
"If—if you could only persuade the judge to let me stay in prison with them," said Mrs. Warren, lifting her face to the lady with an air of pleading humility. "I don't want a better home than that."
"They! Was it not they you said?" questioned the huckster woman. "Who is in prison besides Mr. Warren? Not Julia—not my little flower-angel—you do not mean that?"
"They let all go in but me!" answered Mrs. Warren, with a look of pitiful desolation.
"I never said it before!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, untying her apron, rolling it up and twisting the strings around it with a degree of energy quite disproportioned to this simple operation—"I never said it before, but I'm ashamed of my country—it's a disgrace to humanity. I only wish Jacob knew it, that's all!"
"Hush!" said the lady, with her cold, low voice. "There's one stronger than the laws who permits these things for his own wise purposes."
Mrs. Warren looked up. A wan smile quivered over her face. "That is so like him—he said these very words."
"He is right! you must not feel so hopeless, or be altogether miserable—have faith! have charity!" added the gentle speaker, turning from the mournful eyes of Mrs. Warren, and addressing the huckster woman. "You cannot know how many other persons are suffering from this very cause. Let us all be patient—let us all trust in God."
She glided away as she spoke, and was lost in the crowd, leaving behind the hushed passion of grief and a feeling of awe, for the calm dignity of her own sorrow subdued the resentment which Mrs. Gray had felt, like the rebuke of an angel.
"Did you know her?" she questioned, drawing a deep breath, as the black garments disappeared. "One would think she understood the whole case."
Mrs. Warren shook her head.
"I suppose she was right," continued the huckster woman—"Iknowshe was right, but we can't always feel the pious faith she wants us to have; if we did there would be no sorrow. Who minds wading a river when certain just how deep the water is, and while banks covered with flowers lie in full sight on the other side? It is plunging into a dark stream, with clouds hiding the shore, and not a star asleep in the bottom, that tries the faith. But after all, she speaks like one who knows what such things mean. So be comforted my poor friend, the river is dark, the clouds are heavy, but somewhere we shall find a gleam of God's mercy folded up in the blackness. Isn't there a hymn—I think there is—that says, 'earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot cure?'"
"Oh! if they would let me stay with him!" answered the poor old woman, with her wan smile, "I could have faith then, that is heaven to me!"
"You shall see him—you shall stay with him from morning till night, if you would rather! I'll go into court myself. I'll haunt the alderman like an office-seeker, till some of them lets you in. I'll—yes, I'll go after Jacob, he can do anything; you never saw Jacob—my brother Jacob, he's a man to deal with these courts. Strong as a lion, honest as a house-dog; been half his life in foreign parts. Knows more in ten minutes than his sister does in a whole year; he'll set things to rights in no time. Your husband is innocent—innocent as I am—we must prove it, that's all!"
Mrs. Warren did not speak the thanks that beamed in every lineament of her face; but she took the hand which Mrs. Gray had laid upon hers, and pressing it softly between her thin palms, raised it to her lips.
"Poh—poh, they will see you! Cheer up now, and let us consider how to begin. If Jacob were only here now, or even my nephew, Robert Otis, he would be better than nobody!"
"Thank you, aunt Gray—thank you a thousand times for this estimate of modest merit," said a voice at her elbow, whose cheerfulness was certainly somewhat assumed.
Mrs. Gray turned with a degree of eagerness that threatened to destroy the equilibrium of her stately person.
"Robert—Robert Otis," she cried, addressing the noble-looking youth, who stood with his hand extended, ready for the warm greeting that was sure to be his. "I was just wishing for you—so was poor Mrs. Warren; you remember Mrs. Warren's grand-daughter—she is in trouble—great trouble!"
"Yes, I know," said young Otis, remarking the painful expression that came and went on that withered face. "I have been to the prison!"
"Did you see him? Did they let you in?" exclaimed Mrs. Warren, beginning to tremble. "Oh! tell me how he was—did he miss me very much? Was he anxious about his poor wife?"
"I was too early—they did not let me in," replied the young man, bending a pair of fine eyes, full of noble compassion, onthe old woman; "but I learned from one of the keepers that your husband was more composed than persons usually are the first night of confinement."
The old woman sunk back to her seat, with an air of meek disappointment.
"And Julia, my grandchild—did you inquire about her?"
Robert's countenance changed; there was something unsteady in his voice, as he replied; it seemed embarrassed with some tender recollection.
"I saw her!"
"You saw her! How did she look?—what did she say?"
"I got admission to speak with Mrs. Foster, the matron, a fine, pleasant woman, you will be glad to know; but it was early for visitors, and I only saw your grand-daughter through the grating."
"Was she ill?—was she crying?—did she look pale?"
"She looked pale, certainly, but calm and quiet as an angel in heaven."
"Oh! she is like an angel, that dear grand-daughter!"
"She was leading a little child by the hand, up and down the lower passage—a beautiful creature, who kept his quiet, soft eyes fixed on hers, as we sometimes see a house-dog gaze on its owner. I had but one glimpse, and came away."
"Then she did not seem unhappy?" questioned the old woman.
"I could not say that. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had cried a good deal in the night, but she was calm when I saw her."
"Would they let me look at her as you did, if I promised not to speak a word?"
"There is no reason why you should not speak with her and your husband too. If the keepers refuse, I will obtain an order from the sheriff."
"Do you think so, really? Can I see them to-day?"
"Be at rest; you will see them within a few hours, no doubt," replied the young man. "But your grand-daughter, atleast, will, I trust, be at liberty. It was on this subject that I came to see you, aunt."
"And right glad I am you did come, nephew," replied the huckster woman. "I wanted to help the poor things somehow, but didn't know what on earth to begin with. I know just about as much of the law as a spring gosling, and no more. It costs heaps of money, that every one can tell you; but how it is to be spent, and what for, is the question I want answered."
"Well, aunt, the first step, I fancy, is to get the poor woman's grandchild out of that horrid place. I can tell you it made my blood run cold to see her among those women!"
"Yes—yes. But how is it to be done?"
"You must go up to court and give bonds for her appearance; that is, you agree to give five hundred dollars to the treasury, if this young girl fails to appear when her grandfather is put on trial. If she appears, you are free from all obligation. If she fails, the money must be paid."
"Fails! I thought better of you, nephew. How can you mention the word? Haven't I trusted her with fruit? Didn't I go security for half the flowers in Dunlap's green-house at one time within this very month? Robert, Robert, the world is spoiling you. How could you speak as if that girl—I love her as if she were my own niece. Robert—how could you speak as if she could fail, and her poor grandmother sitting by?"
Was it this energetic rebuke that brought the blood so richly into the young man's cheek, or was it the little word "niece" that fell so affectionately from the old huckster woman's lips? It could not be the former, for a bright smile kindled up the flush, and that, a rebuke, however kindly intended, was not likely to excite.
"You cannot feel more confidence in her than I do, dear Aunt Gray," he said; "but I thought it right to place the responsibility clearly before you!"
"That was right—that was like a man of business. Never mind what I said, nephew," cried the great hearted woman,shaking the youth's hand till the motion flushed his face once more. "Aunt Gray always was an old fool, seeing faults where they never existed, and making herself ridiculous every way, but never mind her—she'll give bonds for the poor child, of course; but then the old gentleman, how much will the law ask for him?"
"I'm afraid it will be out of your power to free him, aunt."
"What, they ask too much, ha? You think Aunt Gray must not run the risk; but she will, though. I tell you that old man is honest, honest as steel. They might trust him with the prison doors open; he will do what is right without fear or favor. I'll give bonds for him up to the last shilling of my savings, if the court asks it. He's innocent as a creeping babe, and I, for one, will let the world, yes, the whole world, know that this is my opinion."
"You will not hear me, out. Aunt Gray, I did not advise you against giving bonds, far from it; but Mr. Warren is charged with a crime for which no bonds can be received."
"I did not know that," answered Mrs. Gray, sinking her voice, "still something can be done; see how earnestly she is looking at us! My heart aches for her, Robert."
"Heaven knows I pity her," said the young man, "for I tell you fairly, aunt, the evidence against her husband is terribly strong."
"But you, Robert—you cannot think him guilty?"
"No, aunt, I solemnly believe Mr. Leicester killed himself. But what is my belief without evidence?"
"Then you solemnly believe him innocent?"
"As I believe myself innocent, good aunt."
"I won't ask you to kiss me, Robert, because we are in the open market, and people might laugh—but shake hands again. Next to faith in God I love to see trust in human nature—faith in God's creatures—it's a beautiful thing! The good naturally have confidence in the good. That old man is a Christian, treat him reverently in his prison, nephew, as youwould have bowed before one of the apostles; his blessing would do you good, though it came from the gallows."
"I believe all this, aunt; something of mystery there is about the man, but it would be impossible to think him guilty of murder! Still there must have been some connection between him and Mr. Leicester yet unexplained."
"I know nothing of this—nothing but what the papers tell me; but one thing is certain, Robert, no one ever had anything to do with Mr. Leicester without suffering for it. He was kind to you once, but somehow it seemed to wear out your young life. The flesh wasted from your limbs; the red went out from your cheeks. It made me heart-sick to see the boy I loved to pet like a child, shooting up into a thoughtful man so unnaturally. I remember once, when Leicester boarded at our house, Robert, there was a cabbage-rose growing in one corner of the garden. I haven't much time for flowers, but still I could always find a minute every morning before coming to market for these rose-buds when the blossom season came. That summer the bush was heavy with leaves, still there was but a single bud, a noble one, though, plump as a strawberry, and with as deep a red breaking through the green leaves. I loved to watch the bud swell day by day. Every morning I went out while the dew was heavy upon it, and saw the leaves part softly, as if they were afraid of the sunshine.
"One morning, just as this bud was opening itself to the heart, I found Mr. Leicester bending over the bush, tearing open the poor rose with his fingers. His hands were bathed in the sweet breath that came pouring out all at once upon the air. The soft leaves curled round his fingers, trying to hide, it seemed to me, the havoc his hands had made. It was hard to condemn a man for tearing open a half-blown rose, nephew, but somehow this thing left a prejudice in my heart against Mr. Leicester. The flower did not live till another morning. I told him of this, and he laughed.
"'Well, what then? I had all the fragrance at a breath,' he said. 'Never let your roses distil their essence to the sun,drop by drop, Mrs. Gray, when you can tear open the hearts and drink their sweet lives in a moment.'
"I remember his answer, word for word, for it came fresh to my mind many times, when I saw you, my dear boy, pining away as it were, under his kindness. It seemed to me as if he were softly parting the leaves of your young heart, and draining its life away!"
"And you really thought my fate like that of your rose, dear aunt?"
The youth uttered these words with a pale cheek and downcast eyes. The good woman's words had impressed him strangely.
"It kept me awake many a long night, Robert."
"But you did not think that Uncle Jacob was at hand? Had he been in your garden, Leicester would not have found an opportunity to kill your pet rose—he might have breathed upon it, nothing more."
The huckster woman looked earnestly into that noble young face; and Robert met her glance with a frank, but somewhat regretful smile.
"And Jacob, my brother, stood between you and this bad man," she said at length, with a degree of emotion that made the folds of her double chin quiver.
"He made me wiser and better—he was my salvation, Aunt Gray."
"God bless my brother—God bless Jacob Strong!" cried the huckster woman, softly clasping her hands, while her eyes were flooded with tears—grateful tears, that hung upon them like dew in the husks of a ripe hazelnut.
"Amen!" said the young man, in a low voice.
"Now, aunt, let us go to this poor woman—observe how earnestly she is watching us."
The aunt and nephew had stepped aside as their conversation became personal; and old Mrs. Warren had been eagerly regarding them all the time. They were the only friends she had on earth. To her broken spirit, they seemed to hold the powerof life and death over the beings she loved so devotedly. Robert had promised that she should see her husband and her grandchild; the heart-stricken woman asked for nothing more. She never, for an instant, questioned his power, but sat with her eyes turned reverently upon his fine person and noble features, as if he had been an angel empowered to unlock the gates of heaven for her.
Robert and his aunt approached her as their conference ended, and the young man took out his watch.
"Is it time? Would they let me in now?" questioned the poor woman, half rising as she saw the movement.
"Are you strong enough?" he answered, observing that she trembled.
"Oh, yes! I am strong—very strong. Let us go!"
With her thin, eager hands, she folded the shawl over her bosom and stood up, strong in her womanly affections, in her Christian humility, but oh, how weak every way else!
Mrs. Gray folded herself in an ample blanket shawl, and tying on her bonnet, led the way out of the market, forgetting for the first time in her life, that her stall was unattended.
With the gloom of a prison, above and around,He lay down at night, like a child to its sleep;—His soul was at rest and his faith was profound,His anchor was strong and God's mercy is deep!
With the gloom of a prison, above and around,He lay down at night, like a child to its sleep;—His soul was at rest and his faith was profound,His anchor was strong and God's mercy is deep!
With the gloom of a prison, above and around,He lay down at night, like a child to its sleep;—His soul was at rest and his faith was profound,His anchor was strong and God's mercy is deep!
With the gloom of a prison, above and around,
He lay down at night, like a child to its sleep;—
His soul was at rest and his faith was profound,
His anchor was strong and God's mercy is deep!
If there is any portion of the city prison more cheerful than another, it is the double line of cells looking upon Elm street. Plenty of pure light pours in through the glazed roof, filling the space open from pavement to ceiling, with a pleasantatmosphere. The walls that form this spacious parade-ground are pierced with cells up to the very skylights. Each tier of cells is marked by a narrow iron gallery; and each gallery is bridged with that opposite, by a narrow causeway, upon which a keeper usually sits smoking his cigar, and idly reading some city journal.
In the day time the prisoners, who inhabit these various cells, take exercise and air upon the galleries. Even those committed for the highest crimes often enjoy this privilege, for the ponderous strength of the walls, and the vigilance of the authorities, render a degree of freedom safe here, which could not be dreamed of in less secure buildings.
I do not know that there is any rule requiring that persons charged with capital crime should be confined in the upper cells, but usually they are found somewhere in the third gallery, enjoying some degree of liberty till after sentence; but closed between that time and death, as it were, in a living tomb. Thick walls encompass them on every side. Doors of ponderous iron bolted to the stone, shut them in from the galleries. A slit in the walls, five or six feet deep, lets in all the breath and light of heaven which the wretched man must enjoy till he is violently plunged into a closer cell, whence breath and light are for ever excluded. A narrow bed, and perhaps a small, rude table, are all the furniture that can be crowded in with the prisoner. But books are seldom if ever denied him; and occasionally these little cells take a domestic air that renders them less prison-like, and less gloomy as the tastes and habits of the inmates develop themselves.
Old Mr. Warren was placed in one of these cells the day of his examination. He followed the officers along those dizzy galleries, submitting to the curious gaze of his fellow-prisoners with unshrinking humility, that won upon the kind feelings of his keepers. He entered the cell, looked calmly around, and then with a grateful and patient smile, thanked the officer for giving him a place so much better than he had expected.
The officer was touched by the grateful and meek air withwhich he spoke these simple thanks, and replied kindly, "that he was willing to render any comfort consistent with the prison rules." After this he looked around to see that everything was in order, and went out, closing the heavy door with a kind regard to the noise, shooting the bolt as softly as so much iron could be moved.
And now the old man was alone, utterly alone, locked and bolted deep into that solitude which must be worse than death to the guilty soul. At first his brain was dizzy; the tragic events that cast him into prison had transpired too rapidly for realization. They rose and eddied through his mind like the phantasmagoria of a dream. He could not think—he could not even pray.
He sat down on the hard pallet, and bowing his forehead to his hands, made an effort to realize his exact situation. His eyes were bent on the floor. Once or twice his lips moved with a faint tremor, for in all the confusion of his ideas he could recollect one thing vividly enough. His wife and grandchild—the two beings for whom he had toiled and suffered, were torn from his side. His poor old wife—her cry, as she strove to follow him, still rang in his ear. She had not even the comforts of a prison.
He looked around the cell—it was clean and dry—the walls snowy with whitewash—the stone flags swept scrupulously. In everything but size it was more comfortable than the basement from which the officers had taken them. True, it was but a hole dug into the ponderous walls of a prison, but if she had been there the poor old man would have been content—nay, grateful, for as yet he had found no strength to realize the terrible danger that hung over him.
Thus, hour after hour went by, and he sat motionless, pondering over all the incidents of his examination like one in a dream. None of them seemed real—but the voice of his wife—the wild, white face of his grandchild as she was borne away through the crowd—these things were palpable enough. He tried to conjecture where his wife would go; what place of refuge she wouldfind; not to their old home, the floor was still red with blood. She was a timid woman, dependent as a child. Without his calm strength to sustain her, what could she do? Perish in the street, perhaps; lie down, softly, upon some door-stone, and grieve herself to death.
There is nothing on earth more touchingly holy than the tenderness which an old man feels for his old wife. The most ardent love of youth is feeble compared to the solemn devotion into which time purifies passion. The mere habit of domestic intercourse is much, independent of those deeper and more subtle feelings which give us our first glimpses of Paradise through the joys of home affection. It was not the prison—it was not the charge of murder that held that old man spell-bound and motionless so long. His desolation was of the heart; his spirit fled out from those huge walls, and followed the lone woman who had been thrust rudely from his side, for the first time in more than thirty years.
It was not with this keen anguish that he thought of Julia, for in her character there was freshness, energy, something of moral strength beyond her years. She might suffer terribly, but something convinced the grandfather that the sublime purity of her nature would protect itself. She was not a feeble, broken-spirited woman like his wife. Yet his heart yearned as he thought of this young creature so pure, so beautiful, so full of sensitive sympathies, among the inmates of that gloomy dwelling.
It was of these two beings the old man pondered, not of himself. After awhile, this keen anxiety goaded him into motion. He stood up and began to pace back and forth in his cell. A narrow strip of the floor lay between his bed and the wall, and along this a little footpath had been worn in the stone by former prisoners.
Who had thus worn the prints of his solitary misery into the hard granite? What foot had trodden there the last sad step of destiny! This question drew the old man's attention for a moment from those he had lost. He became curious to knowsomething of his predecessor—what was his crime? How did he look? Had he a wife and child to mourn? Did he leave the cell for liberty, other confinement, or death?
The word death brought a sense of his own condition for the first time before him. He became thoroughly conscious that a terrible charge had been made against him, and that appearances must sustain that charge. From that instant he stood still, with his eyes bent upon the floor, pondering the subject clearly in his mind. At length a faint smile parted his lips, and he began to pace the narrow cell again, but more calmly than before.
I will tell you why that old man smiled there, alone, in his prison cell, because it will convince you that nothing but guilt can make one utterly wretched. He had thought over the whole matter—the charge of murder—the impossibility of disproving a single point of the evidence. Nothing could be more apparent than the danger in which he stood—nothing more certain than the penalty that would follow conviction. But it was this very truth that sent the smile to those aged lips. What was death to him but the threshold of heaven? Death, he had never prayed for it, for his Christianity was too holy and humble for selfish importunity, even though the thing asked for was death. He was not one to cast himself at the footstool of the Almighty, and point out to His all-seeing wisdom the mercies that would please him best. No—no, the religion of that noble old man—for true religion is always noble—was of that humble, trusting nature that says, "Nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done." He was only thinking when he smiled so gently, how much greater sorrow he had encountered than death could bring.
This gave him comfort when he thought of his wife also. She would go with him, he was certain of that as he could be of anything in the future. He remembered, with pleasure, that old people, long married, and very much attached, were almost certain to die within a few weeks or months of each other. How many instances of this came within his own memory. It was a comforting theme, and he dwelt upon it with solemn satisfaction.
The keeper, when he came to bring the old man's dinner, gazed upon his benign and tranquil features with astonishment. Never in his life had he seen a prisoner so calm on the first day of confinement. It was impossible for philosophy or hardihood to assume an expression so gentle, and full of dignity.
"Tell me," said the old man, as the keeper lingered near the door, "tell me who occupied this cell last? It is a strange thing, but with so much to distract my thoughts, a curiosity haunts me to know something of the man whose bed I have taken."
The officer hesitated. It was an ominous question, and he shrunk from a subject well calculated to depress a prisoner.
"I have made out a portion of the history," said the prisoner; "enough to know that he was a sea-faring man, and had talent."
"And how did you find this out?" inquired the officer.
"There, upon the wall, is a rough picture, but one can read a great deal in it!"
The old man pointed to the wall, where a few unequal lines, drawn with a pencil, gave a rude idea of waves in motion. In their midst was a ship, with her masts broken, plunging downward, with her bows already engulfed in the water.
"Poor fellow! I thought it had been whitewashed over," said the officer. "He did that the very week before—before his execution."
"Then he was executed?"
"Yes; nothing could have saved him."
"Was he guilty, then?"
"It was as clear a case of piracy as I ever saw tried; the man confessed his guilt."
"Guilty! Death must be terrible in that case—very terrible!" said the old man, with a mournful shake of the head.
"He was a reckless fellow, full of wild glee to the last, but a coward, I do believe. I found his pillow wet almost every morning. The last month he kept a calendar of the days over his bed there, pencilled on the wall. The first thing everymorning he would strike out a day with his finger; but if any one seemed to pity him, he frequently broke into a volley of curses, or jeered at sympathy that he did not want."
"Have you ever seen an innocent man executed?" said the prisoner, greatly disturbed by this account; "that is, a man who met death calmly, neither as a stoic, a bravo, or a coward?"
"I have no doubt innocent men have been executed again and again, all over the world; but I have never seen one die, knowing him to be such."
The officer went out after this, leaving the old man alone once more. His face was sad now, and he watched the closing door wistfully.
"Why should I seek other examples?" he said, at length. "Was notheexecuted innocently? Is it not enough to know how my Lord and Saviour died?"
It was a singular thing, but, from the first, old Mr. Wilcox never seemed to entertain a hope of escaping from the prison by any means but a violent death. It was to this that all his Christian energies were bent from the earliest hour of confinement.
The night came on, but its approach was perceptible only by the shadows that crept across the loop-hole which served as a window. In the darkness that soon filled the cell the old man lay down in his clothes and tried to sleep. Now it was that his soul yearned toward the poor old wife who had been so long sheltered in his bosom; the fair grand-daughter too—it seemed as if his heart would break as their condition rose before him in all its fearful desolation.
Deep in the night he fell asleep, and then his brain was haunted with dreams, bright, heavenly dreams, such as irradiate the face of an infant when the mother believes it whispering with angels. But this sweet sleep was of brief duration. He awoke in the darkness, and, unconscious where he was, reached out his arm. It struck the cold, hard wall, and the vibration went through his heart like a knife. She was not by his side.Where, where was his poor wife? He asked this question aloud; his sobs filled the cell; the miserable pillow under his head soaked up the tears as they rained down his face. A dread of death could not have wrung drops from those aching eyes; but tears of affection reveal the strength of a good man. There are times when the proudest being on earth might be ashamed not to weep.
He did not close his eyes again that night, but wept himself calm with broken prayers. Low, humble entreaties for strength, for patience and for charity, rose from his hard bed. Slowly the cell filled with light, and then he saw, for the first time, a book lying on a small shelf, fastened beneath the window. He arose, eagerly, and took it down. A glow spread over his face. It was one of those cheap Bibles, which the Tract Society scatters through our prisons. As he opened the humble book, a sunbeam shot through the loop-hole, and broke in a shower of light over the page. Was it chance that sent the golden sunbeam? Was it chance that opened the book to one of the most hopeful and comforting passages of Scripture?
He took an old pair of steel spectacles from his pocket, and sat down to read. Hours wore away, still he bent over those holy pages as if they had never met his eyes before. And so it really seemed, for we must suffer before all the strength and beauty of the book of books can penetrate the heart. A noise at the door made him look up. His breath came fast. It required something heavier than that iron door, to lock out the sympathies of two hearts that had grown old in affection. His hands began to tremble; he took off the spectacles, and hastily put them between the pages of his Bible. It was of no use trying to read then.
The bolt was shot, the door swung open with a clang, and there stood a group of persons ready to enter.
"Husband! oh, husband!" cried old Mrs. Wilcox, reaching both hands through the door as she stooped to come in.
The prisoner took her hands in his, and kissed them as he had done years ago, when those poor withered fingers wererosy with youth. The door closed softly then, for old Mrs. Gray was not one to force herself upon an interview so mournful and so sacred.
As ivy clingeth round a ruin,Still green within the darkest cleft,The human soul in its undoingHas still some lingering virtue left.
As ivy clingeth round a ruin,Still green within the darkest cleft,The human soul in its undoingHas still some lingering virtue left.
As ivy clingeth round a ruin,Still green within the darkest cleft,The human soul in its undoingHas still some lingering virtue left.
As ivy clingeth round a ruin,
Still green within the darkest cleft,
The human soul in its undoing
Has still some lingering virtue left.
Julia slept little during the night. The state of nervous terror in which she had been thrown, the shrinking dread which made her quail and tremble at the approach of her fellow prisoners—even the rude kindness of the strange being who took a sort of tiger-like interest in her—frightened sleep from her eyes.
A cell had been arranged for her, and the woman, who still shielded her from the other prisoners, much as a wild beast might protect her young, consented that the infant boy should be her companion through the night. This was a great comfort to the poor girl. To her belief there was protection in the sleeping innocence of the child, who lay with his delicately veined temples pressing that coarse prison pillow, softly as if it had been fragrant with rose-leaves.
Julia could not sleep, but it was pleasant in her sad wakefulness to feel the sweet breath of this child floating over her face, and his soft arms clinging to her neck. To her poetic imagination it seemed as if a cherub from heaven had been left to cheer her in the darkness. Sometimes she would start and listen, or cringe breathlessly down to her pretty companion, for strange, fierce voices occasionally broke from some of the cells on either side—smothered sounds as of spirits chained in torment—wailing and wild shouts of laughter; for with some of those wretched inmates, memory grew sharp in the midnight of a prison, and others dreamed as they had lived—shouting fiercely in the sleep which was not rest, but the dregs of lingering inebriation.
Of the mind and heart of this young girl, we have said but little. The few simple acts of her life have been allowed to speak for her extreme youth; the utter isolation of her life, even more than her youth, would, in ordinary characters, have kept her still ignorant and uninformed. But Julia was not an ordinary character; there was depth, earnestness, and that extreme simplicity in her nature which goes to make up the beauty and strength of womanhood. Suffering had made her precocious, nothing more—it sent thought hand in hand with feeling. It threw her forward in life some three or four years. Gratitude, so early and so deeply enkindled in her young heart, foreshadowed the intensity of affection, nay, of passion, when it should once be aroused.
In this country, the most abject poverty need not preclude the craving mind from its natural aliment, books. Julia had read more and thought more than half the girls of her age in the very highest walks of life. Her first love of poetry was drawn from the most beautiful of all sources, the Bible. Her grandfather was a good reader, and possessed no small degree of natural eloquence. Gushes of poetry, of solemn, sweet feeling were constantly breaking through the prayers which she had listened to every night and morning of her life; the very sublimity of his faith, the simple trust which never forsook him in the goodness of his Creator—the cheerful humility of his entire character, all this had aroused sympathetic emotions in his grandchild's heart. It is the good alone who thoroughly feel how keen and sweet intellectual joys may become. When we water the blossoms of a strong mind with dew from the fountains of a good heart, the whole being is harmonious, and the rarest joys of existence are secured.
But though the Bible contains the safest and most beautifulgroundwork of all literature, history, biography, ethics, poetry, and even that pure fiction, which shadows forth truth in the parables, the mind that has first tasted thought there, will crave other sources of knowledge. A few old volumes, so shabby that the pawnbrokers refused loans upon them, and the second-hand book-stalls rejected them at any price, still remained in her basement home. These she had read with the keen relish of a mind hungry for knowledge. Then old Mrs. Gray had a few books at her farm-house. She had never read them herself, good soul, and whenever the beauties of "Paradise Lost," were mentioned, had only a vague professional idea that our first parents had been driven forth from a remarkably fine vegetable and fruit garden just before the harvest season. Still she had great respect for the man who could mourn so great a loss in verse, and delighted in lending the volumes to her young friend whenever she had time to read.
From these resources and the patient teachings of her grandfather, Julia had managed to obtain the most desirable of all educations. She had learned to think clearly and to feel rightly; but she felt keenly also, and a vivid imagination kindling up these acute feelings at midnight in the depth of a prison, made every nerve quiver with dread that was more than superstitious. One picture haunted her very sleep. It was her grandfather's white and agonized face stooping over that dead man. Never had the beautiful, stern face of the stranger beamed upon her so vividly before. She saw every lineament enameled on the midnight blackness.
She longed to arouse the child and ask it if the face were really visible, but was afraid to speak or move. The very sound of his soft breath as the boy slept terrified her. But while this wild dread was strongest upon her, the child awoke and began to feel over her face with his little hands. Softly, and with the touch of falling rose-leaves, his fingers wandered over her eyes, her forehead, and her mouth. They were like sunbeams playing upon ice, those warm, rosy fingers. The young girl ceased to feel frightened or alone. She began to weep. She pressed hishands to her lips, and drew the child close to her bosom, whispering softly to him, and pressing her lips to his eyes now and then, to be sure they were open. But all her gentle wiles were insufficient to keep the little fellow awake; he began to breathe more and more deeply, and, overcome by the soft mesmerism of his breath, she fell asleep also.
It would have been a lovely sight had any one looked upon those two calm, beautiful faces pillowed together upon that prison bed. Smiles dimpled round the rosy lips, upon which the breath floated like mist over a cluster of ripe cherries. The bright ringlets of the child fell over the tresses that shadowed the fair temple close to his, lighting them up as with threads, and gleams of gold. It was a picture of innocent sleep those green walls had perhaps never sheltered before since their foundation. It was natural that Julia should smile in her sleep, and that a glow like the first beams of morning when they penetrate a rose, should light up her face. She was dreaming, and slumber cast a fairy brightness over thoughts that had perhaps vaguely haunted her before that night. Memories mingled with the vision and the scenes which wove themselves in her slumbering thought had been realities—the first joyous realities of her young life. She was at an old farm-house, half hid in the foliage of two noble maples, all golden and crimson with a touch of frost. Her grandparents stood upon the door-stone with old Mrs. Gray, talking together, and smiling upon her as she sat down beneath the maples, and began to arrange a lapful of flowers that somehow had filled her apron, as bright things will fall upon us in our sleep. These blossoms breathed a perfume more delicate than anything she had ever seen or imagined, and, though coarse garden flowers, their breath was intoxicating.
Dreams are independent of detail, and the sleeper only knew that a young man whose face was familiar, and yet strange, stood by her side, and smiled gently upon her as she bent over her treasure. Was her slumbering imagination more vivid than the reality had been, or had her nerves ever answered human look with the delicious thrill that pervaded them in this dream?Was it the shadow of a memory haunting her sleep? Oh, yes, she had dreamed before—dreamed when those soft eyes had nothing but their curling lashes to veil them, and when the thoughts that were now floating through her vision left a glow upon that young cheek. It was true the angel of love haunted Julia in her prison.
The real and the imaginary still blended itself in her vision but indistinctly, and with that vague cloudiness that makes one sigh when the dream becomes a memory. An harassing sense that her grandfather was in trouble seemed to blend with the misty breath of the flowers. She still sat beneath the tree, and saw an old man in the distance, struggling with a throng of people, half engulphed in a storm-cloud that rolled up from the horizon. She could not move, for the blossoms in her lap seemed turning to lead, which she had no power to fling off. She struggled, and cried out wildly, "Robert—Robert Otis!"
The blossoms breathed in her lap again; flashes of silver broke up the distant cloud, and stars seemed dropping, one by one, from its writhing folds. Robert Otis was now in the distance, now at her side; she could not turn her eyes without encountering the deep smiling fervor of his glance. His name trembled and died on her lips in broken whispers, then all faded away. Balmy quiet settled on the spirit of the young girl, and she slept softly as the flowers slumber when their cups are overflowing with dew.
From this sweet rest she was aroused by a sharp clang of iron, and the tread of feet in the passage. The door of her own cell was flung open, and a tin cup full of coffee, with coarse, wholesome bread, was set inside for her breakfast. The dream still left its balm upon her heart, which all that prison noise had not power to frighten away. She smoothed her own hair, arranged her dress, and then arousing the child from its sleep with kisses, bathed and dressed him also. He was sitting upon her lap, his fresh rosy face lifted to hers, while she smoothed his tresses, and twisted them in ringlets around her fingers, when his mother entered the cell. She scarcely glanced at thechild; but sat down, and supporting her forehead with one hand, remained in sombre stillness gazing on the floor. There was nothing reckless or coarse in her manner. Her heavy forehead was clouded, but with gloom that partook more of melancholy than of anger.
She spoke at length, but without changing her position or lifting her eyes from the floor.
"Will you tell me the name?—will you tell me who the man was they charge your grandfather with murdering? Was it—was it——" The low husky tones died in her throat; she made another effort, and added, almost in a whisper, "was it William Leicester?"
The question arrested Julia in her graceful task; her hands dropped as if smitten down from those golden tresses, and she answered in a faint voice, "that it was the name."
"Then he is dead; are you sure—quite sure?"
"They all said so; the doctor, all that saw him!"
"You did not see him then?"
"Yes—yes!" answered the young girl, closing her eyes with a pang. "I saw him—I saw him!"
"Why did your grandfather kill him? Had Leicester done him any wrong?"
"I do not know what wrong he had ever done," answered Julia; "but I am certain if he had injured him ever so much, grandpa would not have harmed a hair of his head."
"Who did kill him then?" said the woman sharply.
"I think," said Julia, in a low, firm voice—"I think that he killed himself!"
"No. It could not be that!" muttered the woman, gloomily. "No doubt the old man did what others had better cause for doing; tell me how it happened!"
Julia saw that the woman was growing pale around the lips as she spoke; her hand also looked blue and cold as it shaded her face.
"Don't be afraid of me. Go on, I could not harm a mouse this morning," she said, observing that Julia hesitated, and satgazing earnestly upon her. "I have been in prison here two weeks, and never heard of his death till now!"
"Did you know Mr. Leicester?" questioned Julia.
"Yes, I knew him!"
There was something in the tone of her voice that surprised Julia; more of bitterness than grief, and yet something of both.
"Will you tell me what I asked you?" said the woman, with a touch of her usual impetuosity.
"Yes," answered Julia. "It distresses me to talk of it; but if you are really anxious to hear, I will!"
She went on with painful hesitation, and told the woman all those details that are so well known to the reader. The woman listened attentively, sometimes holding her breath with intense interest; again breathing quick and sharp, as if some strong feeling were curbed into silence with difficulty. When Julia ceased speaking, she folded both hands over her face, and lowering it down to her knees, rocked to and fro without sob or tear; but the very stillness was eloquent.
She got up after a little and went out. Half an hour after, Julia took the child to his mother's cell. The strange woman was lying with her face to the wall, motionless as the granite upon which her large eyes were fixed. She did not turn as they approached, but waved her hand impatiently that they should leave the cell.
Holding the child by his hand, Julia lingered in the passage. After a few careless, and in some cases, rude manifestations of interest, the prisoners left her unmolested, to seek what consolation might be found in observation and exercise.
Thus the day crept on. The confusion which her youth and terror created the day before, had settled down in that sullen apathy which is the most depressing feature of prison life. The women moved about with a dull, heavy tread; some sat motionless against the wall, gazing into the air, to all appearance void of sensation, almost of life; some slept away the weary time but depression lay heavily upon them all.
Julia lingered near the grating, for the gleams of sunshine that shot into the broad hall beyond, whenever the outer door was opened to allow access and egress to the officers, had something cheerful in it that filled her with hope. The child, too, felt this pleasant influence, and his prattle, now and then broken with a soft laugh, was music to the poor girl.
"Come, love—come, let us go away. People are at the door!" she cried all at once, striving to lead the child away.
"No—no. It is brighter here, I will stay," answered the little fellow, leaping roguishly on one side. "It's only the matron; don't you hear her keys jingle? She will take me up into her pretty room, and you as well. Just wait till I ask her."
The door opened and a black-eyed little woman, full of animation and cheerful energy, stepped into the passage. She paused, for Julia stood in her way, making gentle efforts to free her dress from the grasp which the little boy had fixed upon it. The beauty of the young girl, her shrinking manner, and the crimson that came and went on her sweet face, all interested the matron at once. She smiled a motherly, cheering smile, and said at once—
"Ah, you have found one another out. George is a safe little playmate—ain't you, darling? Come, now, tell me what her name is, that's a man."
"She hasn't told me yet," lisped the child, freeing Julia from his grasp, and nestling himself against the matron.
"My name is Julia—Julia Warren, ma'am," said the young prisoner, blushing to hear the sound of her name in that place.
"I thought so; I was sure of it from the first; there, there, don't be frightened, and don't cry. Come up to my room—come, George! Tell your young friend that somebody is waiting for her up there—some one that she will be very glad to meet."
"Tell me—oh! tell me who!" cried the poor girl, breathlessly.
"Your grandmother, so she calls herself—and——"
Julia waited for no more, but darted forward.
"There—there. You will never get on alone!" cried the matron, laughing, while she turned a heavy key bright with constant use in its lock, and opened the grated door. "Come, now, I and Georgie will lead the way."
Julia stood in the outer passage while the heavy door was secured again, her cheeks all in a glow of joy, her limbs trembling with impatience. Little George, too, seemed to partake of her eagerness; he ran up and down in the bright atmosphere like a bird revelling in the first gleams of morning. He seized the matron by her dress as she locked the door, and shaking his soft curls gleefully, attempted to draw her away. His sympathy was so graceful and cheering that it made both Julia and the matron smile, and though they mounted the stairs rapidly, he ran up and down a dozen steps while they ascended half the number.
Neither Julia nor her grandmother spoke when they met, but there was joy upon their faces, and the most touching affection in the eyes that constantly turned upon each other.
"And now," said old Mrs. Gray, coming forward with her usual bland kindness, "as neither of you seem to have much to say just now, what if Robert and I come in for a little notice?"
Julia looked up as the kind voice reached her, and there, half hidden by the portly figure of his aunt, she saw Robert Otis looking upon her with the very expression that had haunted her dream that night, in the prison. Their eyes met, the white lids fell over hers as if weighed down by the lashes, through which the lustrous eyes, kindling beneath, gleamed like diamond flashes. She forgot Mrs. Gray, everything but the glory of her dream, the power of those eloquent eyes.
"And so you will not speak to me—you will not look at me!" said the huckster woman, a little surprised by this reception, but speaking with great cordiality, for she was not one of those very troublesome persons who fancy affronts in everything.
"Not speak to you!" cried the young girl, starting from her pleasant reverie to the scarcely less pleasant reality. "Oh! Mrs. Gray, you knew better!"
"Of course I did," cried the good woman, with a laugh that made her neckerchief tremble, and she shook the little hand that Julia gave with grateful warmth, over and over again. "Come, now, get your bonnet and things."
Julia looked at the matron.
"But I am a prisoner!"
"Nothing of the sort. I've bought you out; given bonds, or something. Robert can tell you all about it; but the long and short is, you're free as a blackbird. Can go home with me—grandma too, I'm old—I'm getting lonesome—want her to keep house when I'm in market, and you to take care of her."
"But grandfather—where is he? Oh! where is he?"
Mrs. Gray's countenance fell, and she seemed ready to burst into tears.
"Don't ask me; Robert must tell you about that. I did my best; offered to mortgage the whole farm to those crusty old judges, but it was of no use."
"We couldn't leave him here alone!" said Julia, with one of her faint, beautiful smiles.
Robert Otis came forward now.
"It would be useless for either of you to remain here on his account, even if the laws would permit it. You will be allowed to see him quite as frequently if you live with my aunt, and with freedom you may find means of aiding him."
Julia raised her eyes to his face; her glance, instead of embarrassing, seemed to animate the young man.
"It admits of no choice," he added, with a smile. "Your grandfather himself desires that you should accept my aunt's offer, and she—bless her—it would break her heart to be refused."
"Grandfather desires it—Mr. Otis desires it. Shall we not go, grandma?"
"Certainly, child; he wishes it, that is enough; but I shall see him every day, you remember, ma'am. Every day when you come over, I come also. It was a promise!"
"Do exactly as you please—that's my idea of helpingfolks," answered Mrs. Gray, to whom the latter part of this address had been made. "The kindness that forces people to be happy, according to a rule laid down by the self-conceit of a person who happens to have the means you want, is the worst kind of slavery, because it is a slavery for which you are expected to be very grateful. I have heard brother Jacob say this a hundred times, and so have you, Robert."
"Uncle Jacob never said anything that was not wise and generous in his life!" answered the young man, with kindling eyes.
"If ever an angel lived on earth, he is one!" rejoined Mrs. Gray, looking around upon her audience, as if to impress them fully with this estimate of her brother's character.
A sparkling smile broke over Robert's face.
"Well, aunt, I hope you never fancied the angels dressing exactly after Uncle Jacob's fashion!" he said, casting a look full of comic meaning on the old lady.
"Oh, Robert, you are always laughing at me!" replied the good-humored lady, turning from the young man to her other auditors. "It was always so; the most mischievous little rogue you ever saw. I thought he had grown out of it for a while, but nature is nature the world through."
Robert blushed. His aunt's encomiums did not quite please him, for the character of a mischievous boy was not that which he was desirous of maintaining just then. In the dark eyes turned so earnestly upon his face, he read a depth and earnestness of feeling that made his attempt at cheerfulness seem almost sacrilegious. Julia saw this, and smiled softly. She had not intended to rebuke him by the seriousness of her face, and her look expressed this more eloquently than words could have done.
When the heart is sorrowful, there are times when cheerfulness in those around us has a healthful influence. The joyous laugh, the pleasant word may fall harshly upon a riven heart at first, but imperceptibly they become familiar again, and at length sweep aside the gloom with which the mourner loves toenvelope himself. Give the soul plenty of sunshine, and it grows vigorous to withstand the storm. When grief is pampered and cultivated as a duty, it often degenerates into intense selfishness. Sorrow has its vanity as well as joy.