University of Virginia Library

26. XXVI.
THROUGH PRISON-BARS.

But now the heavy doors of the jail were clanging
behind him, and the keys turning in the locks. He
was no longer of the world.

Henceforth solitude, hopeless toil, years of corroding
misery, which seemed a lifetime to look forward
to, and years of reflected infamy afterwards, if he was
so unfortunate as to live to be old, — a despised and
broken-spirited old age; such was the dismal vista of
the future.

There was no escape now. The cold walls of the jail,
the suppressed, sad voice and compassionating look of
the sheriff, as he took leave of him, the portentous click
and jingle of the retiring keys, the grated windows, and
the wild, white-maned storm plunging by outside, as
if to mock him with the terrors and beauty of its
magnificent freedom, — all conspired to assure him that,
marvellous and past belief as such a fate appeared to
him, it was no dream, but a stern, stony reality.

An hour ago there was hope; but now there was no
hope. Then it seemed not impossible but the bitter cup
might pass from him; and the thought of returning to

his humble occupation, to his mother and his child, to his
old home, and the old life of care and trial, which did
not seem so bad a life after all, would thrill his heart
most tenderly. But that is denied him — inexorably!
The lot of a felon is his.

To go with inglorious cropped hair; to work at his
trade under a task-master, in a silent company of convicts;
to be dressed like them in the shameful prison
uniform; to be marshalled in degrading mechanical order
to the workshops in the morning, and driven back
in a dull tramping row at night, — himself one of that
jeering, grotesque, melancholy file, stamping with bi-colored
legs, in sullen time with the rest; crowding close
at the prison-doors, with some reckless horse-thief before
him, and some muttering murderer treading close
behind; turning his head now over his red shoulder, and
now over his blue one, for a breath of untainted air; to
take his turn at the kitchen slide, receiving his morsel of
black bread and tin plate of mush, and carrying them to
his allotted cell in the row of cells; his lonely supper; no
wife, no child, to comfort him, no friend dropping in of
an evening, no plans for to-morrow, or for next week,
or for next year; no human face to cheer him ever, —
only the dreary face of the chaplain, the unsympathizing
countenances of his keepers, and the morose, brutal visages
of his fellow-convicts; a spectacle to curious visitors,
who come to stare and make careless remarks while
he marches in or out, or feeds, or cringes at his work,
forbidden to look up; and this life day after day, and

week after week, and month after month, and year after
year; — O merciful God! must it be?

Did the judge, who enunciated the sentence with business-like
precision, or the listeners, who heard it with
keen relish of the tragical, measure the depth and
breadth of its fearful significance; or weigh well one
little grain of the load of grief and shame those few easily-spoken
words heaped irretrievably on the convict's
head?

And Abel was innocent; but what if he had been
guilty? It seems, when we think of it, a very special
act of divine favor that any man is innocent of crime.
The coil of circumstance has such subtile entanglements;
and the glue of evil, wherever we move, is so
plentiful and adhesive, and the way to the pit is so
often in appearance the very path of necessity, and to
advance step by step is so easy, while to return is so
difficult; and ever the illusions of sin are so seductive,
and the human heart so weak, — how is it any one escapes?

Guilty! innocent! — are these mere words? Who is
there that never did a wrong act, or felt a sinful desire?
And what is the mighty difference, in God's sight, between
wicked wishing and wicked doing? or between
the great and daring transgressor, and the small, weak,
timid one? or between him who is powerfully tempted,
and sins accordingly, and him who is tempted not at all,
and so never, as we say, sinned? Man provides punishment
for a few; but how about the rest, who may be

equally deserving? Are there no murderers, loose in
society, whom the law cannot touch, whose victims
died, not by bludgeon and drug, perhaps, yet by the
poison of secret wrong, and the strokes which make
broken hearts? How many robbers, think you, walk
abroad with high heads, respectable, and defiant of
grand and petit jury; who have committed no literal
larceny, indeed, nor positive act of pocket-picking; but,
by more cautious practices in craft, have possessed
themselves of their neighbors' goods, rendering no
equivalent? On the other hand, how many comparatively
honest men, like Abel Dane, have been subjected
to punishment and life-long dishonor more by the iniquity
of others than their own? And, to pry closely
into the roots of things, what precious right have you,
sir, or you, madam, to condemn your brother or your
sister? Have you thought of it, ye proud, who esteem
yourselves better than the rest? And you, O virtuous
judge! have you considered it, sitting there on your
cushioned bench, and uttering judgment, while your less
fortunate brother stands trembling in the dock to be
doomed?

If these be riddles to the wise, well may they puzzle
the poor wits of honest Abel Dane. Social order must
be had. The time has not come when the prison-house
can be safely demolished. The world is not yet wise
and good enough to put into practice the sublime and
sweet doctrine of love, which knows neither gallows
nor chain. In the mean while appearances and the rule

of force have their day. The outward semblance of
good-citizenship shall pass for good-citizenship. The
gross transgressor, who maintains but one virtue to a
thousand crimes, if that one virtue be a hen-like prudence
hiding the evil brood under its wings, shall
be, perhaps, one of the guardians of society. And the
man of many unknown virtues, and one poor little crime
that betrays him, shall be delivered over to the judgment.
What else? Peace, loud-mouthed reformer!
Patience, ye seething brains, that have begun to think,
or to think you think! Charity, all! charity not for
the criminal only, but for those, also, who hate the criminal;
and, if they did not help to make him what he is,
at least help to keep him so. God lives; and his infinite
providence enfolds alike the noble and the ignoble, the
accuser and the accused; and the proud have their reward,
and the meanest are not forgotten; and perfect
justice is perfect mercy; and that shall comfort us.

But was Abel Dane so comforted? The hour of anguish
is not just the time to compute carefully the compensations
of suffering. No doubt truth shall triumph
in the long run; and the gloss of appearances shall not
always avail; and every wrong shall be made right at
last. At last! — but is that a salve to quiet the grief
of a present wound?

Staggering and heavy within him was the soul of
Abel, as he stood and looked around him in the jail,
and tried to understand, to feel, to be assured of himself.
A convict! a jail-bird! one of the despised and

outcast of the earth! How was it? He had endeavored
to prepare himself for this emergency, but somehow
it found him altogether unprepared. He had anticipated,
even if condemned, a light sentence, — not more
than a year, at the most; and he had believed he could
endure so much. But FIVE YEARS! — the thought bewildered
him. He remembered how lately he had said
in his heart that it would be easy to go to prison for
another's sake; but now that seemed an idle conceit, a
flower of sentimentalism that could not stand the withering
heat of this terrible day; and the memory of it
sickened him.

He could not help feeling that there was some mistake
about the sentence. In his shaken state, he even had a
dim hope that it had been pronounced only to try his
manhood; or that the judge would think better of it, and
order him to be released. Yes! there were the rattling
keys again, — the sheriff was coming to set him free.

Abel indulged in these miserable fancies, as sometimes
men, in the most utter hopelessness, will play with
the phantoms of hope, — as the child at its mother's
funeral will gaze on the pallid face; and though it knows
what death is, and that this is death, thinks it impossible
but that the closed eyes shall open again and the
cold lips smile once more.

But the sound of the keys and of opening locks was
no delusion. And what was this that flew like a bird,
yet with a human cry and sob, to the grated door, and
looked in upon him, clinging to the iron bars?

“Abel! O Abel!”

He had sat down, without knowing it, upon a wooden
bench. His face was buried in his hands. But at the
call, he lifted his head, and then got up, moving slowly
to the door.

“Eliza!” he said, in a hollow voice, trying to smile.

He reached her his hand. She seized it and kissed it
through the bars.

“Why, Eliza — Eliza,” — he spoke in the same hollow,
broken voice, but tenderly and soothingly, much
as in old times, — “don't cry, child! there, there!
don't cry.”

“O Abel! I never thought it would be so!”

“Neither did I, my girl. But so it is. I try to believe
there is a God!” he said, and paused, — the blackness
of atheism rising like a cloud in his soul, shedding
a sullen gloom, and darting defiant lightnings. He
stood, with clenched teeth, grim and dark.

“O brother! don't!” sobbed Eliza. “There is a
God!”

“I say, I try to believe it,” returned Abel; “and I
suppose this is all right, if we could only see it so. But
there is a black devil in my heart. He says to me what
Job's wife said to Job, — `Curse God, and die!”'

Eliza could only wring his hand and weep.

“Why did you come to me?” he asked. Haven't you
begun to think of me as the world will think? I am
going into a living tomb; to be buried five years; to
rot in the memories of men, and be eaten by worms.

There are worms that eat the body, and there are worms
that consume heart and hope and good name. In a little
time my friends will think of me with loathing, — that
is the worst to bear.”

“Never! never!” Eliza interrupted. “You must
not imagine such a thing. I would die for you now,
Abel! And do you think I will ever forget you, or
distrust you, or anything but love you?”

“You are a good girl. I know you are sincere, and
mean all you say. But I see!” — And the prisoner
sighed with unutterable sadness, and shook his head.
“In a little while you will be a wife, and happy, and full
of interest for your husband and household and little
ones. And you will have new acquaintances, and a bright
world all open to you, and occupation, and diversion; and
what will I be to you then?”

“What no one else will ever be!” she answered, with
strange energy. “No one can ever fill your place, — not
even my husband. Abel, you never knew how I loved
you, — I never told you, — but I will tell you now; and,
oh, if my love could only give you strength and comfort!
If I could give up all my happiness, which you
speak of, and save you, how gladly I would do it!”

“What! your husband, your future, your friends, —
all, Eliza?”

“All! I would give all to you, and feel that I was
more blessed by the sacrifice. Then don't say I will
ever forget you. Don't think I will in spirit forsake
you one moment in all those dark coming years. Never

imagine, though all should neglect you, that I shall for
an instant neglect you in my wishes and in my prayers.”

“Eliza! angel!” murmured the prisoner, thrilling
from head to foot, and regarding her with a look all
love and tears; “if we had only known each other,
I should not now be here, — I should not now be the
son of a worse than childless mother or the father of a
worse than fatherless child, or the husband of — of anybody
but you, darling Eliza!” he said, with ineffable
tenderness, folding her hand between both his, as if it
were the most precious thing to him in all the world.

“We do not know,” said Eliza with a strange abstraction,
her face full of pain and vague yearning, her eyes
full of sorrow and tears, looking, not at him, but, tremulously,
far away. She seemed neither to be offended nor
much surprised by what he said; but to accept it as simple
truth that might be spoken and heard without shame,
now that prison-bars and the gulf of years were between
them. “God only knows,” she added. “And
his ways are best, Abel. Oh, believe that! Oh, let us
never doubt that, whatever comes!”

“Pray for me!” said the prisoner, his whole manhood
shaken. “I am afraid I have lost the power to
pray for myself. I tried to, as I sat on the bench there,
but couldn't. My thoughts were like lead. Frozen
clods weighed me down. And I said, `I will pray no
more, for God will not hear.' But you awaken something
in me that I thought was dead. For your sake, for
your love's sake, Eliza, I would not be lost. For your

sake, for your love's sake, I would live through the
dreary years before me, and keep my faith in God, and
in man, and in justice. Pray; and save me from that
scepticism that is ten times worse than death!”

Eliza did not answer. She was weeping softly and
unrestrainedly now, holding his hand pressed close
against her cheek. Her head was bowed against the
iron bars, through which, reaching, he laid his other
hand soothingly upon it.

“Don't cry!” he said again, with wondrous depth
and sweetness of love in his tones; “I am better now
and stronger. You have given me strength. Bless
you, sister, — dearer than any sister! Go to your husband.
Be happy, dearest. I want you to be very happy.
It will lighten my heavy loneliness, thinking of you and
your happiness. From this day I am but as a dead
man. But you are still in the world, and you do right
to enjoy it.”

“How can I ever?” burst forth the heart-broken
girl. “O Abel, how can you say so?”

“I am not speaking bitterly, but in all soberness and
truth. It will solace my solitude to remember you, and
know you are happy. And, though I am dead, I shall
hope for the resurrection, in this world or the next,
when we shall meet again. Go now, darling. I want
you to carry the news to my mother — and my wife.
My horse is at the tavern; you can drive him home.
Make haste; for I don't want mother to hear the news
from anybody but you. You will know how to be

gentle and tender with her. Heaven comfort her poor
old heart!”

“How can I tell her? Abel, it will kill her; she
loves you so, and you are all she has!”

“Not all, — she has you now. Stay a little while
with her, Eliza, if you can. It will not be long that she
will need you.”

“I will never leave her while she lives, — be sure of
that!” said Eliza.

“Then I am content. I have settled up my affairs,
so that I think the little remnant of my property will
last out her days. As for my wife, — she has friends
she can go to, if necessary. But Ebby, — my boy, —
what will become of him?”

“If his own mother cannot provide for him, I will
take him, and be thankful for the privilege. I will be
his mother; and I will love him for your sake, Abel.”

“Will you? Then my mind is at rest. He may
call you mother; but, darling, do not forget, nor let him
forget, that I am his father. I could not bear to have
him learn to call any one else father, — even so good
a man as your husband. And, Eliza, you will bring
him up to think of me with affection, and without
shame for the name he bears. Forgive me for saying
it; I know you will be true to us both. There, wipe
your tears, child. You must go.”

“Go! and not see you again? Oh, I can't,” she
sobbed, “I can't say good-by!”

“I am told I shall not be removed till to-morrow,”

said Abel; “so any one that wishes to visit me, can
do so this afternoon. If Faustina wants to come, maybe
you will come with her. And bring Ebby. I would
like to kiss him for the last time, and have one last look
to remember him by; he will be changed, he will be another
child, five years from now. You must bring him to
me in prison, at least once a year, Eliza. I can't bear
the thought of his growing beyond my remembrance.”

With incoherent words, Eliza promised. And now,
consoled by the thought of returning to him again in
the afternoon, she found strength to take leave.

“I hope mother will not think of coming with you,”
said Abel. “She couldn't stand it, and it would be too
much for me. By all means, persuade her to stay at
home. Yet” — a spasm twitched the muscle of his
mouth — “perhaps I shall never see her again. But
it will be better, — yes, it will be better for her not to
come. The storm is dreadful.” And he looked up at
the gusts of snow driving by the jail-windows.

“Kiss me, brother,” whispered Eliza.

Between the bars of the grated door their lips met.
Their hands clung together in a last embrace. Neither
spoke. Then Eliza, hiding her face in her veil, disappeared
in the dark passage. At the end of it was another
door, which had been locked behind her as she
entered. She gave the necessary signal; it was soon
opened again, and closed again; and Abel was alone
and she was gone.