Nor sin, nor shame, nor sense of wrongCan yet a mother's love control;It waiteth, watcheth, hopeth long,And grows immortal with the soul.
Nor sin, nor shame, nor sense of wrongCan yet a mother's love control;It waiteth, watcheth, hopeth long,And grows immortal with the soul.
Nor sin, nor shame, nor sense of wrongCan yet a mother's love control;It waiteth, watcheth, hopeth long,And grows immortal with the soul.
Nor sin, nor shame, nor sense of wrong
Can yet a mother's love control;
It waiteth, watcheth, hopeth long,
And grows immortal with the soul.
The next morning, a carriage, one of the few superb equipages that give an air of elegance to Broadway, equal to that of any public drive I have yet seen, stopped at the corner of Franklin street. The grey horses and deep green of the carriage were well known in that thoroughfare, and it had been too often seen before Stewart's, and Ball & Black's, for any one to remark the time during which it remained in that unusual place.
Had any one seen Ada Leicester as she descended from the carriage and walked hurriedly toward the City Prison, it might have been a matter of wonder, how a creature so elegant and so fastidious had forced herself to enter a neighborhoodwhich few women visit, except from force or objects of philanthropy.
Jacob Strong walked by the side of his mistress. Few words passed between them, for both seemed painfully preoccupied. Jacob betrayed this state of mind by a more decided stoop of the shoulders, and by knocking his great feet against every loose brick in the sidewalk, as he stumbled along. The lady moved on as one walks in a dream, her eyes bent upon the pavement, her ungloved hand grasping the purple velvet of her cloak and holding it against her bosom. The people who passed her thought it a pretty piece of coquetry, by which she might reveal the jewels that flashed upon the snow of that beautiful hand. Alas, how little we can judge of one another! The delicate primrose gloves had dropped from her grasp unheeded, and lay trampled in the mud close by her own door. The maid had placed them in her palsied hand, as she had performed all other duties of the toilet that morning, but the wretched woman was quite unconscious of it all.
They entered the prison. A few words passed between Jacob and the warden in an outer office; then a door was flung open, and they entered an open court within the walls; stone buildings ranged all around, casting gaunt shadows athwart them. They crossed the court, passed through a low door, and entered the hall where male prisoners are kept. Ada was scarcely conscious that a score of eyes were bent on her from the galleries overhead, along which prisoners charged with lighter offences were allowed to range. At that moment a regiment of soldiers might have stood in her way, and she would have passed through their midst, unconscious of the obstruction. She mounted to the third gallery, following after Jacob, until he paused at one of the heavy iron doors which pierced the whole wall at equal distances from pavement to ceiling. An officer, who had preceded them, turned the key in the lock, and flung the door open, with a clang that made Ada start, as if some one had struck her.
"Shall I go in with you?" said Jacob.
She did not answer, save by a short breath, that seemed to tear her own bosom without yielding a sound, and entered the cell. Jacob leaned forward, and closing the door after her, began to walk up and down the gallery, but never passing more than six or eight paces from the cell.
Ada Leicester stood face to face with her father. He had been reading, and had laid the old Bible on the bed by his side as the noise of her approach disturbed him. His steel-mounted spectacles were still before his eyes, dimmed, it may be, by traces of tears, shed unconsciously, for he could not distinguish clearly through them, and with a motion so familiar that it made her tremble, he folded them up and placed them within the pages of the book.
She paused, motionless, after taking one step into the room, and but for the shiver of her silk dress, which the trembling of her limbs disturbed, as the leaves are shaken in autumn, she might have been a draped statue, her face and hands were so marble-like.
The old man looked at her, and she at him. He did not attempt to speak, and a single word died on her lip again and again, without giving forth a sound. At length that one word broke forth, and rushed like an arrow from her heart to his—
"Father!"
It was the first word that her infant lips had ever uttered. The old man was blinded by it. He saw nothing of the stately pale woman, the gleaming eyes, the rich drapery; but a little girl, some twelve months old, seemed to have crept to his knees. He saw the ringlet of soft golden hair, the large blue eyes, the little dimpled shoulder peeping out from its calico dress; he reached forth his hands to press them down upon these pretty shoulders, for the vision was palpable as life. They descended upon the bowed head of the woman, for she had fallen crouching to his feet. He drew those hands back with a moan. The innocent child had vanished; the prostrate woman was there.
"Father!"
He held his hands one instant, quivering like withered leaves, over her head, and then dropped them gently down upon her shoulders.
"My daughter!"
Then came a rush of tears, a wild clinging of arms, a shaking of silken garments, and deep sobs, that seemed like the parting of soul and body. Ada clung to her father. She laid her cold face upon his knees, and drew herself up to his bosom.
"Forgive me! forgive me!—oh, my father, forgive me!"
The old man lifted her gently in his arms, and seated her upon the bed. He took off her bonnet, and smoothed the rich hair it had concealed between his hands.
"And so you have come home again, my child!"
"Home!"
She looked around the cell, and then into the eyes of her father.
"I have given you this home—I, who have sought for you—prayed—prayed, father, not as you pray, but madly, wildly prayed for one look, one word—pardon, pardon! I have got it—I see it—you pardon me with your eyes, my father; but oh, how wretched I am—I, who gave you a home like this!"
"No, not you, but God!" answered the old man. "I knew from the first that our Father who is in heaven had not afflicted his servant for nothing. All will be well at last, Ada."
"But you will die! Even to-day will they sentence you!"
"I know it, and am ready; for now I begin to see how wisely God has willed that the last remnant of an old man's life shall be the restoration of his child."
"But you are innocent, and they will kill you!"
"They cannot kill more than this old body, my child. Even now it feels the breath of eternity. What though the withered leaf is shaken a moment earlier from its bough!"
Ada held her breath, and gazed upon her father, filled with strange awe. The quiet tone, the gentle resignation in his words, tranquillized her like music. She could not realize that he was to die. Her soul was flooded with love; her eyesanswered back the holy affection that beamed in his. For that moment she was happy. Her childhood came softly back. She forgot her own sin alike with her father's danger.
"Now," said the old man, "tell me all that I do not know. By what means has God sent you here?"
At these words Ada half arose; all the joy went out from her face; her eyes drooped; the lines about her mouth hardened again; she attempted to look up, failed, and with both hands shrouded her guilty features.
"How much do you know?" she inquired, in a hoarse voice.
"I know," said the old man, "that you left an unworthy husband and a happy child, to follow a stranger to a strange land."
"But you did not know," said Ada, still veiling her face, "you did not know how cruelly, how dreadfully I was treated; how I was left days and weeks together in hotels and boarding houses, without money, without friends, exposed to all sorts of temptation. You cannot know all the circumstances that combined to drive me mad. Still do not say I abandoned the child. Did I not send her to you? Did I not give her up when she was dear as the pulses of my own heart, rather than cast the stain of my example upon her? Oh, father, was this nothing?"
"We took the child, and strove to forget the mother," said the old man sadly.
"But could not—oh, you could not! This thought was the one anchor which kept me from utter shipwreck, you could not curse an only child—wicked, erring, cruel though she was!"
"No, we did not curse her—we had no power to forget."
"I came back—Jacob Strong will bear me witness—I lost no time in searching for you at the homestead. Strangers were there. Had we met then—had I found the old place as it was—you, my mother, my daughter there—how different all this might have been!"
"God disposes all things," muttered the prisoner. "We left our home when disgrace fell upon us. We who had beensinfully proud of you, Ada, went forth burdened by your shame to hide ourselves among strangers; we could not look our old neighbors in the face, and so left them and gave up the name our child had disgraced."
"Father—father, spare me—I am wretched—I am punished—spare me, spare me!"
"Ada," said the old man solemnly, "do you heartily repent and forsake your sin?"
"I do repent—I have forsaken—he is dead for whom I left you; it was a solitary fault, bitterly, oh, bitterly atoned for."
The old man looked at her earnestly—at the glowing purple of her garments—at the delicate veil she had gathered up to her face with one hand. The other had fallen nervelessly down. The old man took it from her lap and gazed sadly on the jewels that sparkled on her fingers. She felt the touch, and the trembling hand became crimson in his clasp.
"And yet you wear these things!"
She shrunk away, and the glow of her shame spread and burned over every visible part of her person.
"Cast them from you, daughter—come to me in the pretty calico dress that became you so well—give up these wages of shame—become poor, honest and humble, as we are; then will your mother receive you; then your child may know that she has a mother living; then your old father can die in peace, knowing that his life has not been sacrificed in vain."
The old man looked wistfully at her, as he spoke. He saw the struggle in her face—the reluctance with which she understood him, and tightened his grasp on her hand.
"What—what would you have me do?" she said.
"Cast aside all that you possess, save that which comes of honest labor, and earn the forgiveness you ask."
"Father, I cannot do this; the wealth that I possess is vast; it was devised to me by will upon his death-bed; it was an atonement upon his part."
"The wages of sin are death."
"Death, father, death! Surely you are right. Leicester isdead; they will murder you. Nothing but this money, this very wealth that I am ordered to cast aside, can save you."
"And that never shall save me!" answered the old man with grave dignity; "the price of my daughter's sin, let it be millions, shall never buy an hour of life for me, were it possible thus to bribe the law."
"Oh father, father, do not say this; it crushes my last hope."
"Daughter," and the old man stood up, while his face glowed as with the light of prophecy, "it is not this ill-gotten wealth that shall purchase my life; but it is the death I shall suffer, which will purchase the salvation of my child. The way of providence is made clear to me now; I see it plainly, as if written upon the wall that has seemed so blank to my eyes till now."
The hand fell from her face. She gazed upon him with awe, for the solemn faith that beamed in his eyes held her breathless. That moment the cell door was opened, and Mrs. Warren came in, followed by her grand-daughter. The old woman paused motionless upon the threshold, hesitating and pallid. Ada stood up trembling and afraid in the presence of her mother. A moment the two stood face to face, gazing at each other; then the old woman stretched forth her arms, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Ada would have thrown herself forward, but the old prisoner interposed.
"No, wife, not yet; the time is at hand when our child shall come back to your bosom, like the lamb that was lost; but God has a work to accomplish first; have patience and let her depart."
"Patience, patience! Oh, Wilcox, she is our child Ada, Ada!"
He was not strong enough to keep them apart. Their arms were interwoven; they clung together, filling the cell with soft murmurs and smothered sobs. Broken syllables of endearment—all the pathetic language with which heart speaks to heart in defiance of words, gave power to the scene. Remember, reader, it was a mother meeting her only child—her sinful,erring child—for the first time in years. They met in a prison, with death shadows all around. Was it wonderful that, forgiving, forgetting, they clung together? Or that the turnkey, as he looked in, felt the tears bathing his cheek?
It is a mercy that intense feeling has its limits, else a scene like this might have broken the two hearts that rushed together, as torrents meet in a storm. Their arms unlocked at length, and the two women only held by each other from weakness.
"And this is my child, my little Julia," said Ada, turning her eyes upon the young girl who stood by, troubled and amazed by all she saw.
She bent forward, and would have kissed the girl, but the old man interposed again solemnly, almost sternly.
"Not yet—the lip must be purified, the kiss made holy, which touches the forehead of this innocent one."
"I will go, father, I will go—this is bitter, but perhaps just. I will go while I have the strength."
Ada left the cell. We will not follow her to the scene of her solitary and splendid anguish. We will not remain in the prisoner's cell. The scene passing there was too holy and too pathetic for description; yet was there more happiness that day in the prison, than Ada Leicester found in her palace-home. Truly it is much better to suffer wrong, than to do wrong!
As sunshine falls upon a flowerThat storms have beaten to the ground,Her heart began to feel the powerOf his deep love and faith profound.
As sunshine falls upon a flowerThat storms have beaten to the ground,Her heart began to feel the powerOf his deep love and faith profound.
As sunshine falls upon a flowerThat storms have beaten to the ground,Her heart began to feel the powerOf his deep love and faith profound.
As sunshine falls upon a flower
That storms have beaten to the ground,
Her heart began to feel the power
Of his deep love and faith profound.
The sentence was pronounced; the time of execution fixed. Each morning, as the prisoner awoke, he said to himself,another is gone; so many, and so many days are left. I dare not say that this man did not occasionally shrink from the agony that awaited him; or that the clouds of doubt did not grow black above his head, more than once; but at all times his mien was tranquil, his words full of resignation. Some hope, some sublime faith, stronger than death, seemed to bear him up.
His daughter came to him more than once, and always left the cell with a changed manner and subdued aspect. While there was a hope of saving the prisoner, she had been excited and almost wild in her demeanor. She appealed to the governor in person. She lavished gold. On every hand the great power of her personal influence was all tested to the utmost, but in vain. There exist cases in which the fangs of the law fasten deep, and no human power can unloose them. In this instance, mercy veiled her face, and justice became cruelty.
At no time did the old man sanction or partake of his daughter's efforts. Shall I say, that he did not even desire them to succeed? One sublime idea had taken possession of his mind, and when he prayed, it was not that he might be saved from death, but that the pang which sent him into eternity might open the gates of paradise to his child.
I have said that the old man was feeble, and scenes through which no human being could pass with unshaken nerves, had gradually undermined the little strength that age and privation had spared. Those who saw him every day scarcely noticed this, the change was so gradual; but the sheriff, who came but once each week, remarked how frail he was becoming, and how difficult it was for him to support the irons with which they had manacled his limbs. More than once he said to himself, "It will scarcely be more than a shadow that they force me to strangle." Still, as his strength gave way, the holy faith within him beamed out stronger and brighter, as a flame becomes more brilliant from increased purity of the oil on which it feeds.
All hope was gone—and Ada saw her father every day,always alone, and her visits lasted for hours. At such times, Jacob Strong, who kept sentinel at the door, would pause and hold his breath, struck, as it were, by the sweet, solemn tones that came through the door. Sometimes you might have seen him brush one huge hand across his eyes; and then, bowing his head upon his bosom, pace slowly to and fro, with a mournful but not altogether dissatisfied look.
After these visits, Ada would come forth with a subdued and gentle air, which no person had ever witnessed in her before. The entire character of her beauty changed. Her features became thin; her person lost something of its roundness, but gained in that refined grace which is indescribable. Her eyes grew darker and softer from the shadows that deepened under them. Something of holy light there was too, that brooded sadly there in place of the brilliancy that had kindled them so often almost into wildness. If Ada had been beautiful when we first knew her, she was far lovelier now. The heart yearned toward her as it felt the glance of her eyes. The earthly was becoming purified from her being, and the resemblance between her and the old man seemed to have found a spiritual link. Truly the solemn faith within him was near its reward.
He was a man of simple heart,Patient and meek; the Christian partCame to his soul as came the airThat heaved his bosom; hope, despair,Were chastened by a holy faith!Meek in his life he feared not death.
He was a man of simple heart,Patient and meek; the Christian partCame to his soul as came the airThat heaved his bosom; hope, despair,Were chastened by a holy faith!Meek in his life he feared not death.
He was a man of simple heart,Patient and meek; the Christian partCame to his soul as came the airThat heaved his bosom; hope, despair,Were chastened by a holy faith!Meek in his life he feared not death.
He was a man of simple heart,
Patient and meek; the Christian part
Came to his soul as came the air
That heaved his bosom; hope, despair,
Were chastened by a holy faith!
Meek in his life he feared not death.
The day of execution arrived, and every hearth-stone in the great metropolis was shadowed by a knowledge that at an hour to be fixed between sunrise and sunset, a human being was to bestrangled to death—forced brutally into the presence of his Maker. Children whispered to one another in the grey dawn as they crept awe-stricken from their little couches. Mothers—those who had hearts—grew sad as they thought of the household ties which the law would that day tear asunder.
I do not say that this law of blood for blood, which some good men cling to so tenaciously, should be altogether abolished. Women who from the natural and just arrangement of social life, have no share in forming laws, can scarcely arrogate to themselves the right of advancing or of condemning those which owe their existence to the greatest masculine intellect; and we, who reason so much from the heart, can never be sure that the angel of mercy, whom we worship, may not sometimes crowd Justice from her seat. But there is no law that should permit a solemn act of justice to become a jubilee for the mob. Executions, if they must darken the history of a nation, should be still as the grave—solemn as the eternity to which they lead.
Two wardens had been placed over the prisoner that night, for the sheriff feared that the poor old man might attempt suicide. It was a useless precaution for one who was so close to death, and yet slept so calmly. There he lay in the deep slumber which is so sweet to old age. The men kept a light in the cell, and it streamed softly over those calm, pale features, revealing a faint smile upon the lips, and the impalpable shadows scattered over his forehead by the white hair that lay around his temples. Sometimes, as the men gazed upon this picture, and thought of the morrow, with all its death horrors, they turned from each other with a sort of terror, and sat with downcast eyes, gazing upon the floor, for it made them heart-sick—the contrast of that peaceful slumber and the brutal death-sleep into which they were guarding the old man.
At the most, it was but a brief gleam of life that the law claimed; and even that had grown faint within the last few days, so faint that it seemed doubtful if the officers of the law would not be compelled to lift its victim to the scaffold, when the hour of sacrifice came. The day dawned quietly, and sheda sort of still, holy light over the slumbering man. Then, for the first time, his keepers remarked hew deathly pale was the serene countenance—how feeble was the breath that scarcely stirred the coarse linen on his bosom.
Everything was still. The cold dawn, the quiet city, and the prison lying heavy and grim in its bosom. All at once this stillness was broken by the fall of a hammer, distinct and sharp as the beat of a death-watch. It made the officers start and look at each other with meaning eyes; but the old man slept on, and the sound might have been the sigh of an angel, instead of the hideous death-signal that it was, for it only disturbed that tranquil slumber pleasantly, as it would seem. A faint smile dawned upon the face, and he folded his hands softly upon his bosom, with a deeper breath, as if some vision of ineffable happiness filled his thought.
It seemed a cruelty to disturb the last sleep he was ever to know on earth, and so the morning deepened, and the prison was filled with that sort of muffled tumult which bespeaks the opening day within those walls, before the old man awoke.
Other persons than the keepers were in the cell then. The wife, who was so soon to be a widow, and the grandchild, half orphaned at heart, were seated at the foot of the bed, watching him dimly through their tears. He held forth his hands on seeing them, and with the same smile that had haunted his slumber, asked after their welfare. You should have seen that aged couple, in their humble but sublime sorrow, that day, for it was a beautiful sight, and one which is not often witnessed within the walls of a felon's cell. There they sat, hand in hand, linked together by that beautiful love that outlives all things, comforting each other with gentle earnestness—he reading passages from the Bible to her now and then, and she more than once smiling hopefully through her tears, when he spoke of their great age, and of the little time that they could possibly be kept asunder. It did not seem as if they were talking of death, but of some important and not unpleasant journey, in which the wife would soon follow her husband to a new home.
The grandchild sat by in silent grief. It seemed a long time for her to wait, she was so young, so cruelly full of life. She could not, with her sensitive feelings and quick imagination, cast off the consciousness of all the horrors that would that day overwhelm her grandfather. Her eyes were heavy with weeping. At every sound a shiver of terrible apprehension ran through her frame, and she would grasp at the old man's hand, as if scared with dread that they might tear him away before the appointed time.
Then came another—and that prison cell was crowded full of grief. Ada Leicester, modestly clad, with all the jewels stripped from her hands, and her superb beauty veiled and toned down by suffering, such as wrings all bitterness from the heart, stood with her parents once more, a portion of the household her own errors had desolated. Then the old man arose in his bed, and his benign features lighted up with such joy as the angels know over a sinner that repenteth.
"My child," he said, opening his arms to receive her, "my child, who was lost and is found!" For a moment he held her to his bosom; then lifting his head, he reached forth one hand, and drew his grandchild forward.
"It is your mother, Julia, your own mother; she has been far away for many years; God has sent her back. Ada, kiss your daughter; Julia, my grandchild, love your mother, reverence her, for this day shall I be one of those that rejoice over her in heaven."
Ada turned to her daughter, and timidly held forth her arms. A thrill so exquisite that it swept all the tears from her heart, passed over the bereaved girl. She moved forward; she nestled close to the bosom of her mother; she murmured the name over and over again, "Mother—mother—mother!"
I have dwelt upon this scene, perhaps, tediously, and only, gentle reader, because my heart and nerves shrink from a description of that which was going on without the prison. It is so much better to describe that which is holy and strong in human nature, than to yield oneself up to scenes that shockand revolt every pure feeling, every gentle affection. But in portraying life as it is, an author cannot always choose the flower nooks, or keep back the clouds that darken human nature.
It was a winter's day, cold and drear, without being stormy. The sky was clouded a little, and of that pale, hard blue which is more desolate than absolute storm. The air seemed full of snow, but none fell; and the sunshine, when it did penetrate the atmosphere, streamed mournfully to the brown, frozen earth. Had you gone into the streets that day, something in the aspect of the populace would have told you that an event of no common interest was about to transpire. Men were grouped at the corners and around the doors. Business was in a degree suspended. But few females were abroad, and they walked hurriedly, as if necessity alone had called them from home.
The time of execution was fixed at five in the afternoon, an hour when the gay world usually throngs Broadway. But for once that noble promenade was deserted; and though the cross streets began to fill long before noon, it was not by the class who usually make the great thoroughfare so full of life.
It was a singular thing; but that day, a little after twelve, a star became visible, hanging, pale and dim, like a funereal lamp in the cold sky. At every corner you saw groups of men and boys gazing upward, with superstitious awe, as if there must be some connection between this star and the human soul about to be launched into eternity. It might have been only the grey light; but every one who went forth that morning must have noticed how pallid were the faces that met his view in the streets. It is difficult to excite the masses of a great city; but in this case there had been so much to interest the public, that for once the multitude seemed perfectly aroused. The age of the prisoner, the exceeding beauty and touching loveliness of his grandchild, the position and fashionable associations of William Leicester—all conspired to arouse public interest to a state of unusual excitement. Hours before the time of execution, the city prison was besieged by an eager mob. Mechanics left their work; women of the lower classeswent forth, some with infants in their arms, some leading sons and daughters by the hand, all eager and full of open-mouthed curiosity to see a fellow-creature strangled to death in the face of high heaven.
It had been given forth that this execution would be private, in the court of the prison; that is, three or four hundred persons, favorites of the sheriff, or members of the press, might have the exquisite satisfaction of seeing how an old man could die, and these would duly report his struggles and his agonies, the next morning, through the daily press, that the crowd, heaving, swearing, and jostling together without the walls, might have their horrid curiosity satisfied.
All the cross streets around the prison filled rapidly up; and Centre street, down to Reade and above White, was crowded full of human beings. Then they began to swarm closer, filling the housetops and windows, choking up the door passages and alleys, till every standing place within sight of the prison was crowded full of eager, brutal life. I am saying now what might be deemed a cruel perversion of probability in fiction, but which many of my readers well know to be a disgraceful truth. But in the windows, and on the roofs of almost every house that overlooked the prison, appeared that day womennotof the lowest classes, who came there to witness a scene at which the very soul revolts—women whom, with all the proud love of country thrilling at the heart, an American blushes to call countrywomen. When the time drew near, this ocean of human life began to heave and swell tumultuously against the prison walls. Many climbed upwards, fierce for a sight of bloodshed, though at the peril of life and limb, creeping like animals along the massive stonework, or hoisted up on the shoulders of those below, till they hung on the gateway and walls, literally swarming there, like bees seeking for a hive.
As the hour drew near, the mob became more compact and more eager. Excitement grew ferocious; faces, before only curious, now gleamed upwards in groups and masses, haggard with impatient brutality. Ten minutes had gone by—tenminutes beyond the time, and the gallows still loomed up from the prison yard empty. Then the crowd began to murmur and bandy rude jests, like men who had paid for an exhibition, and feared to be baffled out of their amusement. Shouts went up; oaths ran from lip to lip; those upon the walls leaned over, with open mouths and gloating eyes, gazing down into the yard, then telegraphed their companions, or shouted their disappointment to the mob, while others crept up from the mass, crowding the possessors from their places, and occasionally casting one headlong downward.
All at once, when the whole mob was tumultuous with impatience, a cry of fire rung up from the prison walls. The crowd caught the sound, and echoed it fiercely, heaving to and fro, and trampling each other down, eager to see the flames burst forth. There was a wooden steeple or watch-tower, over the front building of the prison. Through the huge timbers of this structure the flames leaped upward, flinging long gleams of light over the upturned faces of the multitude, and adding another horrid feature to a scene already terrible. The alarm bells sounded; the crowd rushed to and fro, shouting, heaving up in waves, beating itself fiercely against the prison walls. Through the masses thundered three or four engines, and a stream of firemen swept through the tumult, pouring noise upon noise, with their trumpets and their voices.
The prison gates were flung open, and as the firemen entered, a portion of the crowd, now furious with excitement, forced through after them, with a sudden rush, filling the inner courts like a torrent let loose.
With nothing but bare timbers to feed upon—for the prison itself was fire-proof—the flames soon burned themselves out, after scattering brands and sparks among the throng, leaving a red glare and a cloud of smoke hovering luridly over the scene. When the mob saw the fire dying away, its attention was once more turned upon the execution, and the clamor became deafening both within and without the prison walls. The hour of death had gone by. Were the people to be cheated and putoff with a burning watch-tower? Were mechanics, who had lost half a day's time, in order to see a man hanged, to be kept waiting, when their appetite was whetted for a sight of blood? They packed the prison courts more densely; they swarmed close up to the gallows, and pushed forward into the prison corridors, abusing the sheriff, and calling on him vociferously to come forth and explain the meaning of all this delay.
He did come forth, at last, looking white as death; but this was nothing. All were pale then, either from compassion or wrath. He came slowly forth from the prisoner's cell, and standing upon the third gallery, looked down upon the mob.
"Bring the old fellow out—let's see him—no put off with us!" Shouted a man near the staircase.
"I cannot bring him out, he is ——"
They drowned the sheriff's voice with clamor.
"Cheated the gallows—stabbed himself."
The sheriff again attempted to speak, but the tumult grew louder.
"Bring him out—dead or alive, bring him out!"
The officer waved his hand and pointed into the cell. Half a dozen men sprang up from the masses, and ran from one gallery to another, shouting to the crowd below.
"We'll see for ourselves—it's all sham—they mean to let him escape!"
Like a troop of wild animals they plunged forward, pushed themselves past the sheriff, and entered the cell. There they stood motionless, all their brutal ferocity struck dumb within them. They had their wish. The old man was before them; the last gleam of life in his eyes; the last breath freezing upon his lips. God had been very merciful, more merciful than the law.
The storms of life with her are passed,Stern memory leaves her soul at rest;She finds a tranquil home at last,Content with blessing, to be blessed.
The storms of life with her are passed,Stern memory leaves her soul at rest;She finds a tranquil home at last,Content with blessing, to be blessed.
The storms of life with her are passed,Stern memory leaves her soul at rest;She finds a tranquil home at last,Content with blessing, to be blessed.
The storms of life with her are passed,
Stern memory leaves her soul at rest;
She finds a tranquil home at last,
Content with blessing, to be blessed.
Mrs. Gordon never appeared again in the gay world. The reason was a mystery that no one could explain. The rich furniture, the statues and pictures that had made her home a palace, were quietly sold, and the rooms filled with everything essential to comfort, without the slightest approach to former profuse luxuriousness. Plain carriages and less spirited horses, took the place of her former superb equipage. The grounds still bloomed with flowers, the hot-houses teemed with fruit, but Ada seldom tasted the one or inhaled the other. She was far too busy and useful for the indulgence, even of her most harmless love of the beautiful. She had literally gone out by the wayside and hedges, forcing the poor to come in and partake of her hospitality. For months Jacob Strong might have been observed, side by side with his mistress, threading the alleys, searching in attic chambers, for objects of just charity. Old men and women, generally of the educated poor, who could not work, and were too proud for begging, soon became the inmates of those splendid saloons. Any day, when you passed that mansion, some old lady in her snow-white cap might be seen looking quietly from the casement, while others strolled in the gardens, or amused themselves in the marble vestibule. Occasionally Jacob Strong might be seen loitering about the door, but all the servants were changed. The very atmosphere of the place seemed that of another region. No French maids, no liveried footman, lent a foreign and meretricious air to the dwelling now. In the place of former splendor, gay tumultand heartless display, reigned a calm and pure tranquillity. Every face was serene; every being you met looked soberly content.
In truth, the little paradise—for still the beautiful reigned throughout that dwelling—did indeed at times seem haunted by an angel; for flitting about, now in the sunshine of the garden, now in the more bland sunshine of her mother's smile, Julia grew in beauty and in all those sweet qualities which are the essence of loveliness. If painful memories sometimes haunted the maiden—if a prison cell and an old man blessing her with his last breath—a tumult of people, and wild shouts that seemed terrible to her, even then, sometimes broke upon her in the still morning, or the more stilly night, it was but a passing cloud; and with tears in her eyes, she would thank God, that those who loved that good old man had been saved the crowning horror of his death.
And the old grandmother—it should have been no cause of grief when the meek woman went softly to sleep one night and awoke with her husband in heaven. It was the home she had pined for even when surrounded closest by her children's love. They laid her by his side in Greenwood, with many tears, for though certain that happiness awaits the departed, those who are left must mourn, or they cannot have loved.
Now we have one scene to describe, and our story is done. It was three years after the death of old Mr. Wilcox, and once more the home of Ada Leicester was lighted up for guests. The boudoir which we have so often mentioned was redolent with flowers, and the pure muslin curtains floated to and fro in the summer air that came balmily through the open windows. Beyond, was the bed-chamber. You could hear the rustle of light footsteps on the India matting, and see the gleam of snowy drapery, waving like a cloud in the distance. All was exquisitely chaste and full of simplicity. How unlike the gorgeous luxuriousness of those rooms, in other days!
The rooms filled, not with guests such as had made them brilliant once, but with persons who may interest the readerfar more. The first person whom Jacob Strong ushered into the boudoir, was his own sister, Mrs. Gray. Never in her whole life had the good lady appeared so radiantly happy. Her gown of silver grey silk rustled cheerfully as she walked, white satin ribbons knotted the lace cap under her chin and floated in glistening streamers adown the white muslin kerchief folded over her bosom. A pair of gloves—man's size, but white as snow—were neatly buttoned about her plump wrists. This, with her beautiful grey hair, her cheeks softly red like a mellow winter apple, and the double chin that had taken a triple fold since we last saw her, would have warmed your heart had you been a guest at that house, as she was. Then there was a quiet little old lady in black, who glided in like a shadow, and was completely lost behind the rotundity of Mrs. Gray's person; and another gentle creature clothed in black also, but of a beauty that made your heart ache, the sweet face was so touchingly sad, the countenance so waxen in its whiteness, and every movement was so painfully shy. It seemed as if the poor young creature might turn and flee, like a frightened doe, if an unfamiliar eye were turned upon her. Reader, these two persons are no strangers to you; they are the mother and the victim of William Leicester. Poor Florence, her mind was shaken yet, but not as it had been. She was gentle and mournfully sad, but not insane. Still it was a painful thing to see a creature so young, with that utter hopelessness of countenance. She sat down close to the little, aged woman, and looked up in her face, with meek, trusting eyes, holding shyly to a fold of her dress all the while. Not even the sunny smile of Mrs. Gray, could win a gleam of joy to those large eyes. Then there was a large woman with black eyes and an abundance of raven hair, that kept bustling in and out of the bed-chamber with a look of happy importance, that made her strong features quite handsome. You would hardly have recognized the prison woman, in that neatly clad rosy cheeked female, the expression and whole appearance was so changed. Home and care had done everything for her, and at this time she was housekeeperin the mansion. Had you asked her character of the old ladies who found an asylum there, the account would have astonished you. After all, where real strength of character exists, there is always hope of reformation. It is your weak sinner for whom one despairs the most. As this woman passed through the room, she always turned her eyes, beaming with fondness, on a little boy, half concealed by the flow of Mrs. Gray's gown. It was quite wonderful how much that gown could shelter; and the mother spoke in that glance eloquently as ever love was uttered in words.
Then there was Jacob Strong himself, with a new coat in its first gloss, too short for his long arms, and cut after a fashion of his own, which made him look more round-shouldered and ungainly than ever. A buff vest, and gloves of a deeper yellow, gave an air of peculiar smartness to his costume, which bespoke some very important occasion; for it was not often that Jacob gave way to weaknesses regarding his toilet; and when he did, the effect was indisputably striking.
Besides the persons we have mentioned, were a score of nice aged women in snowy caps and chintz dresses, looking the very pictures of contented old age, who whispered cosily together, and watched a door that led to the stairs with the greatest interest, as if some very important person was expected to enter from that way.
Their impatience was gratified at last; for a clergyman with flowing robes came sweeping through, escorted by Jacob Strong, who had been wandering about the dim vestibule during the last ten minutes. Directly after, the room opposite was flung open, and Robert Otis came forth, leading a fair young girl by the hand. There was something heavenly in the loveliness of that gentle bride, as the blush deepened and faded away beneath the gossamer sheen of her veil.
Jacob Strong rubbed his yellow gloves softly together, as he gazed upon her; and the rustle of Mrs. Gray's dress was absolutely eloquent of all the restless pride she felt in seeing the two beings she most loved united for ever.
Of all the persons present, Ada Leicester alone was sad. She remembered her own marriage, and the shadow of many a painful thought swept across her face, as the solemn benediction was uttered over her child.
When the ceremony was complete Florence arose, and quietly placing a folded paper in the lap of the bride, stole away, as if terrified by the strange eyes that followed her movement. Julia took up the paper, half unfolded it, and then, with a blush and a smile, placed it in the hand of her young husband. With that paper Florence had conveyed two thirds of her fine property to the daughter of William Leicester—the man who had swept every blossom from the pathway of her own life.
THE END.