A FRIEND IN NEED
“I did not do it. I have not _that_ on my conscience to weigh me down. I
am to suffer for another’s crime, and though it is a bitter trial, yet
it is better so than that I was really guilty and could go free. I had
rather be in my place, dreadful as it is, than in that of the real
thief, and I will make my misfortune serve me a good turn in spite of
all. I will fit myself for the very highest position in life, and then,
when my three years are ended, _I will go out and occupy it_. I will not
be crushed. I will rise above the disgrace. I will live it down, and men
shall yet be _proud to call me friend_.”
So mused our hero as, for the first day in —— prison, he was doomed,
according to the rules of that institution, to solitary confinement.
Earle Wayne’s was no weak nature, to yield himself up to useless
repining and vain regrets.
The die was cast, and for the next three years he was to be like any
other criminal, and dead to all the world, except that portion of it
contained within those four dreary walls, and the one or two outside who
should continue faithful to him. Nothing could help it now, unless the
real thieves should confess their crime, which they were not at all
likely to do, and he bravely resolved to make the best of his situation,
hard though it was.
He went cheerfully to his work; he uttered no complaint, he sought no
sympathy, and improved every hour that he could call to his own to the
utmost.
Richard Forrester proved himself “a friend in need” at this dark time.
Obtaining permission of the authorities, he stocked a bookcase for Earle
with everything needful to complete a thorough course of study, and
drafted a plan for him to follow.
Once in three months he visited him, and between each visit he received
from him a synopsis of what knowledge he had acquired during that time,
which he criticised and returned with many useful hints, and then, when
he came, talked it all over with him.
He was surprised during his visits to see how thorough and clear he was
upon all points which he had been over.
“Earle, my boy,” he said, at one time, “you will make a better lawyer
than I, and I do not see where you find time for all that you have
learned.”
“I have nothing to distract my mind here, you know, and _I will not
brood over my fate_,” he replied, with a sad smile, “so it is easy to
concentrate my thoughts, and I learn rapidly.”
“How much better it would be for all these poor fellows here if they
could do the same, and be prepared for a better life when their time is
out,” said Mr. Forrester, reflectively.
“Most of them, instead, are only laying plans for more desperate deeds
than they have ever yet been guilty of; and I begin to think that these
severe measures of the law, instead of reforming men, only tend to
arouse their antagonism and make them worse,” Earle answered.
“But what would you do with them? They have violated the laws and must
be made to suffer for it in some way.”
“That is true; if they do mischief they must be put where they will be
restrained; but in order to reform them, and create a desire within them
for higher and better things, I think only such men as are actuated by
the highest principles—men who are honest, brave, and true—should be
allowed as officers within the walls of a prison. No man can accomplish
any _real_ good where he is not respected, and there is no one in the
world so quick and keen to detect a fraud as these criminals. There are
a few men here who are just in the right place—men who would not be
guilty of a mean or dishonorable act, and who, while they treat every
one with kindness, and even courtesy, yet demand exact and unhesitating
obedience. It is astonishing, and sometimes amusing, to observe how
differently they are respected and treated from the others.”
“You believe, then, that these men might be reformed by kindness and
judicious treatment?”
“I do,” Earle replied, gravely; “of course there are exceptions, but I
really would like to see the power of true, disinterested kindness tried
upon some of these reckless fellows.”
In after years he did see it tried, and of the result we have yet to
tell.
* * * * *
Upon leaving the court-room with her father, after bidding Earle
good-by, Editha appeared very much disturbed and kept shooting indignant
glances from beneath her vail at her unconscious companion.
At last, when they were seated in their carriage, and rolling smoothly
toward home, her wrath broke forth.
“Papa, I think it was real shabby of you not to shake hands with Earle,
and express a little genuine sympathy for him.”
“I do not know as I particularly desire to shake hands with, or that I
experience any great amount of ‘genuine’ sympathy for, the man who is
supposed to have robbed me,” returned Mr. Dalton, with exasperating
indifference.
“Papa Dalton! you _know_ Earle Wayne did not rob you as well as I do,”
Editha said, her eyes sparkling angrily; for the sweet little maiden
_could_ show anger upon occasion. “And as for myself,” she continued,
spiritedly, “I am _proud_ of him; I was proud to shake hands with him
before the multitude, and I shall be proud to greet him as my friend
when his term expires and he comes among us again.”
“Very likely,” Mr. Dalton answered sarcastically, his thin lips curling
with scorn; “and after the very marked exhibition to-day, I should be
prepared to know of your being ‘proud’ of him in almost any capacity.
But pray, Editha, do not _gush_ any more about it; it’s all very well
for a young lady to express her sympathy and proper feeling in a proper
way and at a proper time; but it was exceedingly mortifying to me to-day
to see you carry quite so much sail.”
Miss Editha tossed her pretty head somewhat defiantly and impatiently at
this curtain lecture, but a vivid scarlet burned upon her cheeks,
showing that she felt its stinging force, notwithstanding.
Mr. Dalton continued, with increasing sarcasm:
“You and the young culprit formed the center of attraction during your
tender little episode, and I doubt not, almost everybody thought you
were taking a heart-broken leave of your lover, instead of a poor
_protege_—a mere nobody—whom your philanthropic uncle had picked up.”
Editha had started violently as Mr. Dalton spoke of Earle as her
“_lover_,” and the burning blood rushed in a flood to her brow, over her
neck, arms, and hands, and tingled to the very tips of her toes.
Could it be possible that she had behaved in so unmaidenly a manner, and
given the gaping multitude such an impression?
Earle Wayne her lover!
She had never had such a thought before; but a strange thrill shot
through her heart now, bowing the defiant, sunny-haired head, and making
the sweet blue eyes droop half guiltily.
But she quickly rallied, and, tossing back the waves of hair from her
flushed face, she bravely returned to the combat.
“Well, and if he were—if—he were—what you have said of him, papa, I
should _still_ be proud of him, and—I’d be _true_ to him, too. I’d
_marry_ him—_yes_, I _would_—just as soon as ever he got through with
those hateful three years;” and she enforced her words with an emphatic
tap of her small boot.
Mr. Dalton leaned back in the carriage and laughed heartily at this
spirited outburst.
On the whole, he rather enjoyed seeing his charming daughter in a
passion.
It was not often that he had the opportunity, for she was generally the
happiest and gayest of maidens, and, being an only child, no cloud had
ever been allowed to overshadow her.
But Mr. Dalton had been extremely annoyed at the scene in the
court-room, deeming it vulgar in the extreme to be made so conspicuous
before the rabble, and he had uttered words sharper than had ever been
addressed to the petted child before during all her life.
But Editha was true and loyal to the core, and, when once she had made a
friend, no adversity could turn her from that friend; and her whole
nature had arisen to arms against the cruel injustice and wretched fate
which had condemned one so noble and good as Earle to durance vile.
Her father’s laugh capped the climax; the excitement, the pain in her
heart, and, above all, his last insinuation, had been almost more than
she could bear; but when his hearty laugh rang out so full of mocking
amusement, she could endure no more, and, girl fashion, she burst into
tears, believing herself the most deeply injured and abused maiden in
existence.
“Come, come, pet, don’t take it so much to heart; but in the future try
and be a little less demonstrative,” Mr. Dalton said, somewhat moved by
her tears.
But Edith was deeply wounded; her tears must have their way now, and not
another word was spoken during their drive.
Once at home, she darted into the house and up to her own room, where,
after she had wept her weep out alone, and something of the burden from
her heart, she sat down to think.
Her cheeks burned hotly every time she recalled her father’s light
words.
“Earle Wayne my lover!” she murmured, with tremulous lips, and burying
her face in her hands, with a feeling of shame that she should dare to
think of it, when Earle, doubtless, had never dreamed of such a thing
himself.
Nevertheless, the words possessed a strange fascination for her.
When she knelt in prayer and spoke his name, claiming Heaven’s tenderest
care for the smitten one, the burning flush returned to her cheek, the
thrill to her heart.
“Earle Wayne my lover!” she repeated, softly, as she laid her head upon
her pillow, and her dreams were full of a manly face, with deep, dark
eyes, in which shone a light tender and true, with lips that wore a
smile as sweet and gentle as a woman’s, but such as no woman’s ever wore
for her.
She still seemed to feel the clasp of his hand, the charm of his low
spoken words, and the music of his voice and, when at length she awoke
with the break of day, she was gay, careless Editha Dalton no longer.
A graver, quieter light looked out of her sunny eyes as she arose and
dressed; lines of firmness and decision had settled about the smiling,
happy mouth, and all the world had a deeper meaning for her than ever
before.
“Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet.”
It was as if she had suddenly turned a new page within her heart, and
read thereon something which was to make her life in the future more
beautiful and sacred, and yet which brought with the knowledge something
of regret for the bright and careless days now gone forever.
She remembered that this was Earle’s first day in prison—the first of
those long, long three years—and the tears sprang to her eyes, a sob
trembled on her lips.
It was only a few hours since she had seen him, but it seemed as if
weeks had passed; and, if they had been so long to her, what must they
have been to him?
Could he ever endure it? Could she ever wait with patience so long?
She could not go to him—he had said he could not bear to have her see
him there—and so she had nothing to do but wait.
“But I will not forget him,” she murmured; “let papa say what he may, I
have promised to be a friend to him, and I shall keep my promise. He has
no one in all the world, or seems to have no one, save Uncle Richard and
me. Every week I will send him something, just to let him know that
there is one, at least, who cares a little and is sorry for him.”