Part 10
How still the night is! A mother robin, brooding her fledglings in the tall linden, beside the open window, twitters drowsily, from time to time. A persistent June bug, bouncing clumsily against wall and ceiling, wantons jarringly with the solemn silence. On the bureau stands May-blossom's own pet vase--a Parian hand. It still holds a faded cluster of lady's delights, placed there, but yesterday, by her own sweet hand. The long July night wears on. Harmy, at regular intervals, steps softly to the bedside, and, bending tenderly over her charge, listens a while to the laboured breathing of the child, and then, with a stealthy side glance at the silent watcher,--whose presence, to _her_ mind, but ill accords with the occasion,--returns to rock softly, and moan, under her breath, "Dear, dear, dear o' me! I s'pose it's the Lord's will; but, when I look at that precious child, I can't, nohow, help prayin' straight agin it! P'r'aps I may as well read a few chapters (taking a heavy Bible from a stand beside the fireplace); the Scripters is wonderful comfortin' in times of affliction."
And now, Harmy Patterson,--good old-fashioned Christian, never once doubting that God Himself literally penned every word between the covers of her "King James edition,"--gets mightily edified and reassured by a pious perusal of the Book of Lamentations! Harmy likes long chapters, and many of them; and, having exhausted Lamentations, she reads on and on, until (if you should put her to the rack, you couldn't make her _confess_ it) she falls fast asleep.
Hark! Is it the robin twittering in the linden? Ah, no! a sadder and more hopeless sound disturbs her repose. It is the death-rattle! A moment more, and she is hastening to the child. Peter Floome has already anticipated her; and, kneeling by the bedside, is clasping, in his rough brown palm, the slender white hand of his precious nursling. A cruel spasm convulses the tender frame. The little arms are up-flung in agony! A moment; and it has passed--thank God! the last mortal pang! And now the sweet Carrara marble face is lighted by a dawn that is not of earth. A smile of ecstasy sweetens the dying lips; and, as the conscious gray eyes look fondly upon the familiar bowed head beside her, she whispers in rapturous surprise: "Why, Peter! Peter! It is morning!" A faint gasp--a single flutter of the failing breath, and all is over. Harmy Patterson, bending her stiff old knees, grasps the hand of Peter Floome, and the two weep silently together. Peter's adoring gaze is still fastened upon the dear dead face, and, with his right hand still clasping that of May-blossom, he presses in his left that of Harmy, and broken-heartedly wails: "Oh, Miss Patterson, Miss Patterson! the' ain't _nothin'_ left!"
"It's the will of the Lord, Peter," piously exhorts Harmy; "an' we must all bow down to it, an' bear up under it. But, O land, (rising abruptly to her feet)! how in the world I'm to break it to Miss Paulina (an' she not here at the last minnit) is more'n _I_ know; but I must _do_ it, an' right off, _too_." And, leaving her fellow-mourner still upon his knees, she hurries from the room on her distasteful errand. Harmy, in spite of her best intentions, delays awhile. "It's a pity"--she says to herself--"to wake her up to her trouble, and she so sound, an' quiet. I've a mind to let her lay a minnit longer." And she _does_, but, ere long, the two women are beside the dear dead form. Miss Paulina--true to her own sweet self--holds in abeyance the sorrow of her aching heart, while she kindly seeks to comfort the poor bowed creature still clinging to his beloved nursling. Tenderly clasping his disengaged hand, she strives with gentle force to draw him from the room. The hand is nerveless, and chill. The entire form seems strangely limp and listless! The truth at last dawns upon her her--"Peter Floome is dead!" Yes, his fond, faithful spirit, following hard upon the flight of that--
"Little fair soul that knew not sin,"
had gone softly and painlessly out of mortal life; and who shall say that, in the "house of many mansions," the convict, "delivered from the body of his sin," may not dwell, side by side, with the innocent prison child?
Rough-handed men come, with heavy tread, to bear the dead man from the room, but it is Miss Paulina, herself, who tenderly disengages the interclasped hands, and, then stooping reverently to the bowed gray head, she lays her own in silent benediction upon it, and voicelessly transposes the gracious words that, centuries ago, fell from the blessed lips of the divine man: "His sins, though many, are forgiven, for he _loved much_."
And now, already the red rose of dawn blooms in the summer sky, and, like belated ghosts, that may not bide for the coming sun, we steal noiselessly from the chamber of death.
* * * * *
Year after year the blue-eyed periwinkle blooms upon a low, short grave in that "City of the Silent," the Saganock burying-ground. Its headstone is a shaft of Carrara marble. A carven lily, broken on its stem, in emblem of the unfilled promise of a life, droops over this simple inscription:
"Her name was Mabel."
In the old burying-ground beneath the pines is another grave, and, before the sod had greened upon it, it was Miss Paulina's pious care to order for it a modest headstone, and, mindful of Peter's heart's earnest wish, she had "_verses cut on to it_."
Resolutely turning her face from her own sad world of graves, Miss Paulina lives unselfishly on, in other lives. Gentle deeds of beneficence and love blossom thickly along her gracious life-road, as roses flower upon their stems, and never dream that through them the world is made more sweet.
Harmy, at seventy, still considers herself quite equal to any domestic exigency. Reuben, "taking heed to his ways," has minded her sage admonitions. He has "jined the church." Mandy Ann and he have become one. This marriage scarce makes a ripple in their tranquil lives, which are still consecrated to the service of the House of Parker.
Timothy Tucker no longer keeps the iron doors of the prison guard-room. Soon after the sudden departure of Warden Flint, and the consequent subtraction of May-blossom from his uncongenial existence, he migrated to California. He has become, in sunny San Francisco, the pleased proprietor of a flourishing bird store. As duly set forth on his sign of blue and gold, "birds, cages, and seed, with bouquets and cut flowers of every description," may be obtained at this mercantile establishment. The ex-turnkey's favourite customer is a little maid, of ten sweet Californian summers. Her eyes are like the sapphire of a noon-day heaven. Her hair is the braided sunshine of her own golden clime.
No one (not even the charming little buyer herself) guesses why the bird and flower dealer invariably gives this fair creature twice her money's worth of violets, pinks, or roses, or why, last winter, he trained, to the utmost of their pretty possibilities, two yellow canaries as a Christmas "gift for his fair." But one day, as this little maiden, bearing in her hand a lavish bunch of Parma violets, turned smiling from his door, the listening parrots heard him thus pensively soliloquize: "Blue eyes, but jes' such hair, an' _her_ step, to a T! An' a wonderful takin' little creetur you air, to be sure. But (sorrowfully shaking his grizzled head), you ain't _her_. No, no, no! Not by a long shot!"
ESCAPED.
In this roomy corner cell, which rejoices in a glazed window, and is far more cheerful than the ordinary hospital compartment, a pale, earnest man, with sensitive face and iron-gray hair, sits writing.
Looking over his shoulder, you would perceive that (absurd though it may seem) he is making entries in a regular nautical log-book. This has been, for many years, his daily practise; for this convict, whose bowed form and subdued mien retain no traces of the sometime "jolly tar," is a born sailor.
His prison name is Robert Henderson. His is the old, old story--a wild bout in port; a drunken quarrel with a drunken shipmate; a reckless assault; an unintentional murder, and a consequent life-term in the State Prison. Although in hospital for treatment, Henderson is still on his feet, and quite competent to undertake the care of the feebler sinners who are, from time to time, consigned to the other cot in this--his sleeping cell.
Eighteen slow years behind the bars have brought in their weary train salutary repentance and unavailing regret; and, under their pressure, he is gradually going to pieces. Time has been when his whole being was dominated by a restless, homesick yearning for the sea--a form of that nostalgia, recognized in medicine as a real malady, the passionate craving of the land-locked sailor for his wide, billowy home--the sea.
Long before his coming up to hospital, I had noted this mild-mannered convict, and had heard his story from official lips.
By his correct demeanour, and careful adherence to prison rules, he had found favour in the sight of the warden, who tacitly gave him such sympathy as, without in the least palliating crime, may be bestowed even upon a murderer, when his fatal act is the unfortunate result of momentary frenzy, and does not indicate innate depravity.
Henderson, being a creature of superabundant vitality, it is but inch by inch that he has physically succumbed to an environment absolutely antipodal to both temperament and training. Naturally reserved and reticent, he seldom complained; but, on a certain day, when the scent of some foreign fruit that I had brought him may have stirred within him old memories of tropical seas and gracious sunny lands, he gave voice to his yearning. It was on a prison reception-day, and I was his "visitor;" and long after, when the end came, I remembered his words, and thanked God that he had at last given this long-denied being the desire of his soul.
"Yes, lady," he said, "I was born and reared on the sea, my mother being a sea-captain's wife, and at the time making the round voyage with my father. Why! even _now_" he murmured passionately, "I could cross the Atlantic in my shirt-sleeves, lady, but _here_! in a close, damp cell! My God! I shiver with cold, and moan and fret like a sick baby. Often, of a night, I cannot sleep for thought of it all. I pace my den hour after hour, like a caged beast. I cry to Heaven, the sea! the sea! Almighty God, give me but once more to look upon it, to smell brine, to see a ship bound bravely over its broad billows! After that, let what will come, I can die content."
From the slow monotony of the prison shoe-shop, Henderson has, at last, been released by ill-health, and is now permanently established in the hospital; and, dismal though it be to find oneself a tenant of a hospital cell, and facing the blank certainty that there is for him no egress, save by that final inexorable door opening into the blind unknown, he is comparatively happy. So sweet is the merest taste of liberty to long-denied lips!
Now he may, hour by hour, stroll in the prison-yard, brightened in summer by its small oasis of verdure and bloom (the flowerbeds), and, in winter, still wholesomely sweet with keen, bracing air and genial sunshine. The old sea-longing still haunts his enfeebled mind; but now, it is a thing to be borne. He has outlived the fierce vehemence of human desire; and, with little positive suffering, is slowly wearing away of lingering consumption, complicated with incurable disease of the heart.
* * * * *
The prison clock is on the stroke of nine, and the prison itself (already in its nightcap) composes itself for a long night's rest.
In the deserted guard-room and along the now empty corridors, silence undisturbedly reigns. Here in the hospital the quiet of the hour is less unbroken. Five consumptives (as is their wont, poor fellows!) will cough the slow night away; and, in yonder cell, a man, with a great carbuncle under his ear, groans, _sotto-voce_, at every breath.
On the second floor, in the large cell or room at the head of the stairway (which is, as occasion requires, used for the sick, for the holding of prison inquests, or for an operating-room, and but one of whose several cots is now occupied), a convict is dying. He has been long about it, for his vitality is tremendous. In his single body there would seem to be the makings of, at least, two centenarians.
Nature, however, _makes_ us men, and the devil _mars_ them. And here, before the coming of his first gray hair, lies the sin-spoilt material for a brisk old patriarch of a hundred years!
He is not, however, to be lightly put out of existence. Even this nefarious old prison does not readily dispatch him. Consumption, the chosen "red slayer" of its "slain," he flouts with his last fluttering breath.
This daring and desperate sinner has proved himself, even under the disadvantages of restraint, a splendid villain. Unweariedly indefatigable in his efforts to regain his forfeited liberty, and, prolific of resources to that end, his custody (even when in close confinement) has sorely vexed the official soul. By repeated assaults upon his fellow convicts and the prison officers (for which sanguinary purpose he has fashioned the deadliest weapons from the most inconceivable of articles), he has well-nigh lost all claim on human sympathy; and the entire prison community has long since given him over to his diabolic possessor. Failing health, and its attendant necessities, have partially subdued this fierce, unresting spirit; but even now, in the last stage of consumption, unable to lift himself from his pillow, and already on the solemn outskirts of an unknown world, the abnormal evil is yet strong within him. For a past day or two he has been delirious; and though far too wasted to require physical restraint, he is, even in his helplessness, half terrible. The passing soul still revels amid remembered scenes of debauch, or gloats upon the foul details of crime. The night-watcher's labour is here one of love; yet, tender as the convict is to his ailing comrade, this dying wretch scarce appeals to his humanity; and night-watching zeal is, in this case, inconveniently cool. Robert Henderson--who in this favouring month of June somewhat renews his failing strength--has kindly volunteered to sit up to-night with this unpopular patient. The superintendent, ever ready to encourage good intent, and scarce aware of Henderson's unfitness for the hard mental strain of a lonely night beside so uncanny a death-bed, accedes to his request, and at nine o'clock he takes his place in the dismal apartment. The cells are, as is customary, secured for the night. The superintendent leaves the hospital; the cook, who, with his attendant, is also a hospital nurse, retires to his rest; and Henderson, locked in, is left alone with his charge. It chances to be his first watch beside a dying bed, and an exceptionally trying one it proves.
As he listens to the muttered ravings of this frenzied creature, he already half regrets the humane impulse that tempted him to brave the horrors of such a night. An hour passes. The man raves on. Terrors, vague and supernatural, begin to seize upon the watcher's unnerved mind. Surely already evil fiends are swooping on their prey--the parting soul! And in the silence that now alternates with these fierce outbreaks of insanity, he half fancies in the dusky room the whirr of their uncanny wings. He wishes to God it were morning, and he well out of this! The night, however, has scarce begun; and so, manfully bracing himself to his task, he resolves to stick to his post, doing his best, let what will come. Suddenly the patient ceases to rave, and seems to struggle gaspingly with some strong and terrible foe!
White foam flecks his blue lips, and great beads of agony start to his brow. Hurrying to his side, Henderson tenderly wipes the pain-distorted forehead, and offers him drink. His teeth are fast clenched. He makes a rude attempt to drive the comforter from him. Obeying the motion, Henderson seats himself and awaits the issue.
By and by the convulsive gasping ceases. Again he bends over the sufferer. How strangely quiet the man is! No motion, no sound--not even a breath! Heaven help him! he has gone at last!
How dismal will the long night be locked in here alone with a corpse! Death sits horribly on these evil features. Upon the hard, set face, one may still trace the footprints of unholy and unbridled desire. The mouth is much drawn. Its strong white teeth show grimly between the blue parted lips, and, to the watcher's nervous fancy, they seem, even in death, to snarl viciously at the beholder. Livid circles underline the sunken eyes, now wide and glassy, beneath their heavy brows, and, as Henderson morbidly conceives, turned wrathfully upon _him_. If he could but close those terrible eyes! Alas! he dare not with his shaky hand attempt so bold a thing! A moment ago he could have turned his back upon the ugly sight; _now_ it is too late. By some hypnotic fascination beyond his control, his gaze is riveted to the corpse.
The slow hours wear on. The living and the dead, set face to face, grimly confront each other. The dead man never winces. The living man, at last, succumbs to the stress and horror of the situation. The walls of the apartment reel and totter. The corpse dims and fades before him, and he falls limp and unconscious to the floor.
Sensation gradually returning to the overwrought watcher, he finds himself still miserably faint and weak. It is, however, _something_ to have escaped the spell of those death-glazed eyes, and, thanking God, he strives to get upon his feet. In his effort to rise, he stumbles clumsily over a small dark object upon the floor, close beside the bed. Regaining his poise, he discerns that it is the coarse, heavy shoe of a convict. He lifts it, thinking to place it beside its fellow beneath the cot. His hand is weak and nerveless. It escapes his grasp, and falls clattering to the floor. As it strikes, his ear is surprised by the click of some metallic substance. A small shining implement lies at his feet. He picks it up. It is a miniature steel saw, and must somehow have been concealed in this shoe of the dead man. Curiously examining _it_ and the shoe, he discovers (what in the dim light had at first eluded his notice) a displaced inner sole, thin, but firm and nicely fitted. Removing it, he sees that the shoe is still intact, and that this neatly adjusted super-sole was but an ingenious blind, adroitly concealing the precious implement, which, had fate proved less unkind, should have opened to the dead prisoner the long untrodden way of liberty.
It is not in Robert Henderson's nature to peach on a comrade, living or dead, and, carefully restoring the saw to its hiding-place, he readjusts the sham sole, and, with a touch of that reverence which one instinctively yields to the belongings of the dead, puts the shoe aside.
Still weak and trembling, but no longer magnetically drawn to the corpse, he totters to the grated window, which, to eke out the sick man's failing breath, has been left open. Dropping upon the rude stool beside it, he leans his yet dizzy head upon the sill. A wandering breath of the summer night steals gently in. How balmy it is, this tender night wind! And he, a worn creature at a prison grating, might be a gentle lady at her lattice, so softly it caresses his wasted cheek!
Yet, kindly as it is, it does not wholly restore his wonted vigour. At intervals, a deathly faintness oppresses him. A fearful sinking of heart and limb, as if life and courage were, together, oozing away. What if the end were indeed come, and he were to die to-night, unattended and alone; his filmy eyes looking their last upon earth, still confronted by that odious dead face, that, even in the world beyond, may still pursue him, as, for years, _another_ dead face has!
His heart scarce beats at all! Ah, well, it is time he should be gone! But to die alone! Were daylight but here, he might summon help--might get from the dispensary some relieving draught, or soothing powder, wherewith to blunt the dreaded sting of Death.
A sudden thought flashes through his troubled brain. There, just beside the dead man's bed, stands his medicine! A small phial half-filled with dark-brown liquid; he read its label, idly, as he sat beside the sufferer--"Cough Drops." Summoning such strength as he can command, he staggers across the room, and, eagerly seizing the phial, drains it to the dregs. This composite remedy is well-freighted with morphine, and, though perfectly safe in moderate doses, is by no means to be administered _ad libitum_. Opium, as we know, is dual in effect, inducing irregular and excited brain action, as well as coma. This over-liberal potion of "Cough Drops" works swift wonders in Henderson's sensitive, excitable organism. He is soon upon his feet again, and, as he says gaily to himself, "As bright as ever, and well-nigh as strong." A sensuous delight in existence again thrills his torpid being; a wild eager craving to taste once more its long withheld joy! "Die to-night? Ah, no! How _could_ he have imagined a thing so unlikely? He is but a young man yet, and life lies long and pleasant before him. Stimulated by his energizing draught, he presses eagerly to the window, and, grasping its hindering bars,--in a spurt of the old-time Herculean strength,--wrenches at them mightily. They are fast and strong. In the scuttle they are wider apart, and, apparently, more slender. The summer wind steals deliciously in. Ah! these are but mere thimblefuls. Outside, now, a man might take his fill. The old sea longing is again hot within him. Outside these cruel bars it lies, broad and fair, as of old. The whole wide world is there! Liberty, happiness, and maybe health. At least, leave to die outside of prison walls.
"Why! Men smothering in subterranean dungeons have, like burrowing moles, groped their slow way to freedom; while he"--a swift thought illumines his seething brain, sending the life-tide swifter through his pulses, and electrifying his entire being! The saw! the dead man's saw! There it is, safe in the shoe, and not in vain has Heaven graciously discovered it to him! Still reverent of the belongings of the dead, he takes in his hand the precious shoe, removes from it the secreted implement, and, in a moment more, is eagerly at work. Noiselessly placing a small table beneath the scuttle, he finds it still beyond his reach. Placing a stool upon the table, he mounts it, and is soon sawing away at the bars above him. In this aperture, designed rather for sanitary than illuminating purposes, the bars are comparatively wide apart, and far more slender than the window gratings. The removal of a single bar will give egress to his emaciated form. The saw works well. His task is soon accomplished,--the dead man all the while (as he excitedly fancies) angrily staring from the bed. Faugh! How close the air is in this infernal place! A moment ago he was fast here, locked in with a horrible thing that grins and glares at a man, and is already decomposing! It is over now. In a moment more, he will have left it all; will be free. The coarse covering of an empty cot is soon torn into strong strips. Deftly knotting these together, sailor-wise, he tucks the improvised rope under his arm, and, holding it fast, climbs out upon the roof, and, creeping cautiously on all fours to its extremity, has secured it firmly to the spout.
Clinging desperately to his flimsy tackle, he lowers himself, hand over hand, to its end. He is still at a remove of twenty feet from the ground.