 | XLV.
THE PRISON. Lucy Arlyn |  |
45. XLV.
THE PRISON.
AFTER the funeral, Hannah went to carry the
news of the event to Guy. She took the cars,
and was soon walking up the broad shady street
in the town where he was. Before her, half hidden by great
elms, gleamed a marble-fronted edifice, the finest in the
county. Beyond this rose old Mount Solomon, with all his
shaggy forests and emerald peaks. The line of verdure,
which creeps slowly up the mountain-slopes in spring, had
reached the sunny summit, where it smiled. Near the street
the river glided; in the elms the hang-bird swung his nest.
A lovely region, — as if the purpose were to give those, who
entered that fine structure to sojourn long, a last look of the
world as they went in, and glimpses of it afterwards over
rear walls, which should lend their solitude ingenious stings.
Sadly Hannah went to deliver her sad message, not knowing
how she could endure to see Guy in a felon's cell, and
add this weight to his trouble. She instinctively delayed her
steps under the swaying and pendent boughs, not to admire
changes, — how she was once an outcast, in despair, and near
to death; and he rescued her, and gave her back to life and
happiness, — he who was now in turn an outcast, in despair,
and near to death, and she could not rescue him!
“Hannah Hedge! where in the world be you going?”
And Rhoda Burble came trudging fast after her, bearing a
basket.
Hannah started from her revery, and guessed she was
going to the same place Rhoda was.
“I want to know if you be! — to see him? Wal, he'll
be glad to see any of his friends, I should think. I hain't
forgot, and I'm sure you hain't, how he befriended you
once: though I don't often mention the time when he
found you beat out by the road, knee-deep in water, and
deeper yet in trouble, and brought you home, and had you
took care of till your baby was born; and I wouldn't speak
on't, only I like to remember his kindness to others, now
everybody is turned aginst him!” And the quick tears
rushed into Rhoda's eyes.
“I can't believe he is guilty!” exclaimed Hannah.
“Believe? — I know!” replied Rhoda. “He no more
had a hand in Pelt's death than you or me had. You've heard
how the gold was flung into our winder after he was in jail;
and how could that be, if he had been the robber? It's
absurd on the face on't!” she answered her own question
triumphantly.
“How does he bear up under it?”
“Beautiful! — he does, re'lly! Cheerful as ever, and
just as mild as a lamb. He a man to commit murder!
Between you and me, Hannah, I believe 'twas them Biddikins.
That old man Biddikin never'd act as he does if he
wasn't guilty. He's just like a wild man. He won't speak
to anybody, but makes the strangest motions, and runs into
the woods to hide when he sees folks coming. It's a wonder
to me they don't have him took up and put into jail, and let
my poor boy out.”
“How does the colonel feel?”
“O Lord! if you ever see a man in the depths of despair!
He don't say much; but I know he feels he's to
blame, and would give any thing to git Guy clear. He has
sent to have him have the best lawyers, and every thing comfortable,
at his expense. I've got some clo'es for him here,
and some little nick-nacks, besides some posies Ann Mari'
picked to send. Do you know them folks, Hannah?” For
just then a buggy dashed by; and Hannah, with a start,
caught Rhoda's arm. “Sakes alive! you are white as a
sheet!”
“I'm a little faint, that's all!” gasped Hannah.
“Then don't pull your veil down so! You want all the
air you can git. Here, set down on this seat a minute:
you look like death!” And getting Hannah upon the
bench, and setting the basket beside her, Rhoda began to
fan her briskly, and to rub her trembling hands.
The buggy bore two persons, — a man and a woman.
The latter alighted at the side-door of the marble-fronted
building, and the man drove back alone past the two women
under the trees.
All this time, in a room in that stone structure, sits one we
know, writing. It is a narrow apartment; the furniture
scanty, — a bed, a table, and two chairs; the walls bleak,
and staring with whitewash; and the square of sunshine that
falls on the bare floor is crossed by the shadows of iron bars.
For the building is the court-house; and this is in the indispensable
rear-half of it, — the county jail.
The writer is disturbed by the jingling of keys, the turning
of locks, and a face at the grated door announcing,
“A lady to see Mr. Bannington,” — much as if the jail
were his own house, and the sheriff's son his valet.
A very polite youth is the turnkey; who, at a motion
from Guy, unlocks the door with alacrity, and ushers in the
visitor.
Slowly she advances, muffled, mysterious, like a woman
made of cloud. An ash-colored veil and a gray gown drape
her from head to foot. She enters, and stands silent as a
ghost; while Guy, rising, regards her with mild astonishment,
and the turnkey closes the door with a clank.
Then, when they two were alone, she bowed her head low,
and knelt at his feet, lifting her hands clasped under her veil,
weeping audibly.
“Christina!” He had recognized her. He stooped to
lift her up. “My sister! what does this mean?”
“Oh!” she sobbed, “to think that I have done it all! —
deceived, deserted you, brought you here!”
“I have not thought so,” he answered, putting his arm
about her kindly, and placing her upon a chair. “No: I
have never blamed you. What is this strange dress?”
“I am doing bitter penance, Guy Bannington! When I
heard you were here, nothing would appease my soul but
I must put on this sackcloth, and with ashes on my head
come to you, humble myself again, and get forgiven.”
“Woman!” said Guy, trembling and pale, “am I glad or
sorry to see you? I cannot tell: I almost fear. There is
something I fear: what is it?”
“What is it?” she repeated in a voice hollow and appalled;
and, sweeping aside her veil, she showed him her
face harrowed with misery. “Is it death?”
“Death?” He smiled. “This world is beautiful, — oh,
I know it! and life is very sweet, for all the tears. But, if
my time is come, I am content.”
“But such a death! O Guy! I shall not be content!
I am the cause!”
“I find you guilty of no fault, my sister: only you left
with me a hyena you did not sufficiently tame.”
“Madison? Oh, I felt it! I did wrong, wrong!”
exclaimed Christina. “Tell me, what is it you fear?”
“That work of ours, — that divine work, as we believed,
— is it all over with it?” he said, pitifully smiling. “Was
it all delusion?”
“If I only knew! — if I could only tell you what I begin
to know!” — murmured Christina.
“Have I been altogether a fool?” he continued. “Had
I not some reason for my faith? If you have ever deceived
me, deceive me not now! Here I am, in the toils of the
law, — in the toils of my own soul's perplexity and doubt;
and as God lives, Christina, you will not be guiltless if you
keep back from me one word of the truth.”
“I will tell you all!” she answered, weeping the while as
she looked at him. “I have not meant to mislead.”
“Did not heavenly influences descend to us?”
“They did; they surely did!”
“I was obedient to them, and not without cause!” And
over the deep concern of his countenance there passed a holy
glow. “Before my Maker here, I can bear witness that I
had no selfish private ends in view. The love of humanity
was with me no idle profession. I have closely questioned
myself here; and this is no time, and this is no place, for
self-flattery. To serve my fellow-men; to be in my poor
way a savior of souls, at any sacrifice of myself, — I did
pray for that, my sister!”
“Oh, if we had all been as single-hearted as you! — if I
had only been!”
“You?” He clasped both her hands in his. “To you,
Christina, I owe my life! — not the life of this body, but the
life of my soul. You are more than a sister to me: you are
my spiritual elder sister. You first awakened in me that
again; which is more precious to me than any thing I have
lost or can lose; which comforts me even here.”
“To hear you speak so now, it is too much!” she exclaimed
betwixt joy and anguish. “I thought you would
upbraid me, rail against me, and against everybody and
every thing that you could charge with your misfortunes; for
that's the way the world does. Hear me now, and judge.
Those influences were divine, — we know they were; for did
they not pour a divine atmosphere around us? And were
there not signs and wonders to compel belief? Yet,” she
added, “we have seen how human wishes muddy even the
springs of inspiration!”
“I know it is so with many mediums; but not with you,
Christina!”
“Guy! can I tell you? — can I wound you?”
“Wound me, if the truth can wound. Keep nothing
back.”
“I have been weak, like the rest. The magnetism of
Biddikin's house deceived me first: it had been for years
impregnated with the very life of his mind, which was all
absorbed in that wretched phantom of a treasure.”
Guy regarded her steadily, struck pale and dumb; for,
after all the proofs of her seership, only this could have staggered
his faith, — the confession of her own lips.
“For it is a phantom, Guy! With all that was good and
glorious, there were false and fanatical influences, — partly
enough, I might have disentangled them; but I was selfish
like the rest!”
“You, Christina? What had you to gain?”
“Look away! — do not see my shame when I confess.
I was ambitious. I craved the stimulus of excitement. I
loved you from the first, and I readily favored that which
brought me in contact with you.”
Guy covered his face, and groaned aloud.
“Believe me,” she said, “I did not know it was so. Not
until I lost you, and crucified myself, and put on this sackcloth,
was the truth revealed to me. I believed, as so many
believe of themselves, that I had the love of humanity at
heart: that snake of selfishness that hides in the grass of our
natures — he is so subtle!”
Guy rose, and paced the room with extreme agitation.
“Have I been ambitious? Have I been beguiled by the
pride of leadership? God knows!” He sat down again,
sighing heavily. “Christina, I have had inward whisperings
of all you have said; and I refused to listen to them.
I, too, have been guilty: I permitted my wishes, my logic,
to stifle my deeper convictions. I have taken truth at secondhand,
instead of drawing from the depths of my own spirit.
For that sin I am here!”
While he was speaking, the turnkey came to say that Mrs.
Burble and another woman were waiting to see him.
“I can't see them just now: in a few moments, James.
Rhoda will be patient.”
He had still so many things to say to Christina, and to
hear from her! The minutes grew to twenty, and he had
quite forgotten his other visitors; when again the keys jingled,
and Rhoda's face and basket came to the grate.
“I knew you had company; and I've been here 'most an
hour,” said she, “waiting. But I've got to git the next
train home; and I shall have to run for it now.”
“I am sorry, Rhoda; but you see how it is,” said Guy.
“Open the door, James.”
“Bless me!” whispered the housekeeper, lugging in her
basket, “ain't that the wonderful medium! I wish I could
git a communication! Ever since you've been here, I hain't
dared to open my mouth about speritualism: every thing is
laid to that. Ann Mari' can't set now, her father's so set
aginst it; and I'm starving to death.”
“Who came with you?” said Guy, assisting to empty
the basket.
“Nobody came with me,” replied Rhoda. “But Hannah
Hedge came in the same train, in another car; and I overtook
her in the street. She has been waiting here all this
time to see you. She wouldn't come in without she could
see you alone; and, as she has got to go back in the train
with me, she left me to do her errant.”
“From Lucy?” asked Guy in a low voice.
“The baby!” answered Rhoda softly: “that poor little
baby!” — the tears came into her eyes — “was buried this
afternoon!”
Guy took hold of the iron-grated door, and leaned against
it, his forehead pressing the cold bars. His little neglected
Agnes gone, and he could never see her again in this world!
The mother childless, and he not there to comfort her! The
stroke was heavy. For a minute he was not in the prison-cell
with the two women, — they had vanished; and he was
far away with love and memory and remorse.
He was aroused by the polite James, who said, “A gentleman
to see you,” and, throwing open the door, admitted —
the Honorable Cephas Snow.
Rhoda retired with the turnkey, and found Hannah in the
waiting-room.
“What! faint again? Dear me! don't haul your veil
down so in this close room! It don't agree with you to go
to jail, I declare! Some perty respectable folks come here,
though, as you see. That woman is the famous medium,
Miss Freze. But then you ain't so interested in speritualism
as I be, and maybe you never heard of her or of that gentleman.
That's the famous member of Congress, Mr. Snow.
Why, what do you hurry so for? We shall catch the train.”
“Did he — stop with Guy?” Hannah breathlessly asked.
“Yes: why? Did you ever see him?” said Rhoda, perplexed
by her strange conduct.
“He came into the room; but I scarcely looked at him.
Come! or we shall miss the cars!”
Hannah could not be at rest till they were seated in the
train and on their way. Then she lifted her veil, leaned her
still pale, and her large eyes full of trouble.
“I regret exceedingly to find you in this difficulty,” said
the Honorable Cephas with a patronizing air. “I trust it is
nothing serious.”
“On the contrary, sir,” said Guy, “it is altogether serious.
This is not a world of trifles, as some think.” And
his hand, which the Congress-man shook so affably, returned
no cordiality in its stern grip.
“It is a world of experience and of mutual benefits,” replied
the bland Cephas. “I came to see if there is any thing
I can do for you.”
“I thank you: there may be much you can do. But
let's understand each other, to begin with. One of the serious
things in the world is the word of man to man. You
have deceived me once: do not so again. Let us have no
more merely polite smiles, and promises made to be broken.”
“It is my fortune,” the Congress-man answered mildly,
“to be misunderstood.” A flush spread even to the edge
of his fine high forehead, then left it marble-white; and he
smilingly seated himself in the chair Guy placed for him.
“Suppose that I foresaw what your work was tending to,
was I not right in withdrawing from it my support?”
“The officer who deserts his post in the hour of danger,
and leaves his comrades to perish without giving them any
warning, is called by hard names. Yet you would justify
him?” said Guy. “But I don't suppose you foresaw any such
your engagements, and you exercised your ingenuity to find
excuses, you would hardly have failed to give the true reason,
your only valid excuse, for breaking such solemn pledges.”
“From your stand-point, it is very natural that you should
blame me,” said the conciliatory Snow; “and I must endure
it patiently.”
“But for you, and such as you,” answered Guy with iron
sternness, “I should not be here. Relying on your promises,
I assumed responsibilities which placed me in desperate
circumstances; when you betrayed and forsook me. Yet I
blame no one but myself. I only say, deceive me no more.
Perform all your obligations, Mr. Snow, — to friends and
enemies; to your parents, if they still live; and to your children,
if you have any. Then, if you will do any thing for me,
I will ask a favor.”
Christina looked sharply at Cephas, and perhaps knew better
than Guy what brought that nervous spasm into his bland
features. It was gone in an instant; and he warmly begged
to know what he could do for the prisoner.
“Those poor fellows whom we employed, and whom I
would have coined my heart to pay for their hard labor,”
said Guy, — “it grieves my soul to think of them! If I get
safely out of this, and live, I shall see that justice is done to
them. But, in the mean time, they may be suffering; and
perhaps the thing will go against me; for the evidence is
strong. So, if you can do any thing for them, I will be very
glad.”
“I will see; I will do what I can,” Cephas readily replied.
“But I may as well tell you now how I am engaged.
I have discovered what you have all been looking for, but
none have found, — the true idea of a social re-organization.
This is what I have been developing into a system whilst you
have supposed I was proving false to my trust. You will
see, when I unfold it to you, that I have been laboring as
faithfully as you, and perhaps more wisely, for the sacred
cause of humanity.”
Snow was himself again; and the smile with which he concluded
was finely persuasive. But Christina sighed wearily,
and Guy was grim.
“Talk no more of the sacred cause of humanity! We
have begun at the wrong end of reform: now let us take hold
of the right end. Let us commence with ourselves, set up
Christ's kingdom in our own hearts and lives, and receive the
peace of God in our own souls, before we prate any more
of a new divine order of things. When we have done this,
learned self-government, private charity, daily sacred duty,
and purity of life, then, if you live and I live, and we meet
again, and you have any large humanitary scheme to unfold,
I will listen to you gladly.”
“Thank you,” said Snow, — white Snow, spotless Snow.
And, persistently affable, he once more offered Guy his hand,
and received a stern, not cordial grip. “I trust that we shall
meet again, and that we shall understand each other better.
The jailer is coming: shall we go, Christina?”
“Cephas,” said she, “haven't you one deep, true word to
say to this man before we leave him? Then go: I will
come in a minute.” She seized Guy's hand, and bathed it
with tears. “Good-by! Forgive all! Oh, if I could stay
and comfort you, and share your fate! But that is not for
me!”
“No, my sister; and she who alone has that right will
not come. I do not complain; she has good cause; and”
— with a gush of grief and tenderness — “she needs comfort
now more than I, — my poor Lucy!”
“She shall come to you!” exclaimed Christina. “I will
show you that I am not all selfish and bad. If I have done
any thing to separate you, it shall be undone. Heaven help
me!”
So they parted; and the iron door closed between them.
| XLV.
THE PRISON. Lucy Arlyn | |