THE CONDEMNED.
Condemned to death—Oh! dread
The thoughts of coming suffering—there
The scaffold stands in morning’s air,
Crowds wave-like round her spread,
Their eyes upraised to see her die,
No heart to breathe a pitying sigh—
The prison stones her bed.—_Michell._
Malcolm Montrose, nearly maddened by despair, threw himself into a
carriage, and drove swiftly after the prison van in which Eudora was
taken back to gaol.
He was met at the prison entrance by the warden, of whom he urgently
demanded:
“Where is she? How is she? Has she recovered her consciousness? Oh,
Anderson! let me go to her at once!”
“Mr. Montrose, I am very sorry for you, and my heart bleeds for her; but
I must do my duty, and tell you that you cannot see her,” said the
warden, sorrowfully.
“Why, how is this?” groaned Malcolm.
“Ah, sir! all is changed when a prisoner is condemned to death. The
rules that govern us in taking care of them are very strict. From the
moment sentence is passed they are cut off from the living, as one may
say, and have no more to do on this earth but to use the few days left
to prepare for death!” said the warden, with a heavy sigh.
“Great Heaven! Anderson, do you mean to say that no friend may go to her
to try to alleviate her sufferings through this horrible calamity?”
“Sir, the gaol chaplain will visit her. Two female turnkeys will always
be with her; and by applying to the sheriff, you may obtain an order to
see her, though even then only in the presence of others.”
“Oh, Eudora! Eudora! has it come to this! Oh, God! what a world of chaos
and horror is this, in which the innocent are sacrificed and the guilty
are triumphant!” cried Malcolm distractedly.
“But there is another world, Mr. Montrose, in which the ways of God
shall be justified to man,” said the warden, solemnly.
“Aye, there _is_ another! and thank God that this life which leads to it
is short! A few more years of this mystery of iniquity—this whirling
confusion in which truth is lost and good trampled to dust by evil, and
each sinner’s or sufferer’s share in the madness of life will be over
forever! Would to God it were over with that poor, sweet victim even
now! Oh, would that she might never have waked again to consciousness of
suffering here!” exclaimed Malcolm with impassionate earnestness.
“Mr. Montrose, you are dreadfully agitated. Pray come into my apartment
and sit down, and try to compose yourself, while I go to the cell to see
how she is doing and bring you word,” advised the warden, opening a
side-door, and admitting his visitor into the office.
Malcolm paced up and down the floor with disordered steps until the
return of the warden from his errand.
“Well, sir, how is she?” he hurriedly inquired as Mr. Anderson entered.
“Lying still in a deep swoon,” replied the warden.
“Thank Heaven! every hour of that swoon is a respite from anguish! Oh,
that while she is in it her spirit may pass peacefully away to Heaven!
Who is with her?”
“Mrs. Barton and my wife. They are doing all that they possibly can for
her relief, and believe me Mr. Montrose, every care and comfort shall be
given her that her unhappy condition and our painful duty will permit. I
would do as much, sir, for the poorest and most friendless stranger that
might be committed to my charge, to say nothing of the daughter of the
noblest man I ever saw and the best friend I ever had,” said the warden,
earnestly.
“I am sure you would. And—I hope you do not believe her guilty?”
The warden winced. Since the disclosures of the trial his faith in the
innocence of Eudora was much shaken. He would gladly have evaded the
inquiry, but as the looks of Malcolm were still eagerly questioning him,
he was obliged to answer:
“I do not know what to believe, sir. As the daughter of her father, I
should say she could not be, sir; but then her mother was an
East-Indian, and no one knows what venom, might have mixed with the good
old Leaton blood in crossing it with _that_ breed.”
“That is enough! You cannot help believing what all the world, except a
very few, believe. Oh, Heaven! my poor Eudora, that even your dead
mother’s race should rise up in evidence against you! But we must be
patient; aye, patient until the very judgment-day, when all shall be
made clear! Would to God that it were to-morrow! Where can the sheriff
be found this evening, that I may go to him at once to get that order
you spoke of?”
“He is in the village now, staying at the Leaton Arms. But, Mr.
Montrose, you cannot in any case see Miss Leaton before to-morrow
morning, for the hour for closing has already arrived, and it is against
the rules to open to anyone.”
Deep grief is never irritable, else Malcolm might have uttered an
imprecation on the rules, instead of asking, with quiet despair:
“How early in the morning may I be admitted?”
“With the sheriff’s order, at any time after nine.”
With this answer Malcolm bowed, and again earnestly commending Eudora to
the care of the warden, took his leave.
He first went and secured the order from the sheriff, and then sought
out Mr. Fenton, who was staying at the same over-crowded inn. He found
the unsuccessful advocate in deep despondency. They shook hands
silently, like friends meeting at a funeral, and the lawyer began to
say:
“I did all that man and the law could do to save her, but—” His voice
broke down and he could say no more.
“I know you did,” moaned Malcolm.
“The evidence was too strong for us—”
“But not too strong for your faith in her.”
“No, no; I am an old practitioner with a long experience among
criminals, and I could stake my salvation that that child is not
guilty—”
“Despite her East-Indian blood?”
“Yes; and, if there were time, something might even yet be done to save
her—”
“Fenton!” exclaimed Malcolm, starting forward and gazing with breathless
eagerness, in the lawyer’s face.
“I mean, though the detectives we have hitherto employed have failed to
discover the least clue to this hideous mystery, yet if there were more
time, we might engage others who might be more successful.”
“More time! Oh, God! When is the day of her—martyrdom ordered?”
“This day, fortnight, I understand.”
Malcolm recoiled and sank into his seat. There was silence between them
for a few minutes, and then Malcolm suddenly exclaimed:
“Fenton, I know it is a desperate chance, but I cannot bear to have her
perish without another effort. Draw up a petition for a respite, and
after I have seen her to-morrow, I will myself take it up to town, and
lay it before the Home Secretary.”
“I will do so, and get as many signatures as I can in the meanwhile,”
replied the lawyer, feeling a sense of relief at the thought of doing
anything, however hopelessly, for his unhappy client; and knowing
besides, that if it did Eudora no good, it might help to console Malcolm
with the thought that nothing had been left untried to save her.
They talked over the terms of the petition, and then Malcolm, leaving
the lawyer to draw up the document, took his departure.
Loathing the thought of rest while Eudora lay in the condemned cell, he
bent his steps towards the prison, and spent the night in walking up and
down before the walls that confined the unhappy girl.
Meanwhile Eudora lay extended on the iron bed of the condemned cell. She
was still in a deep swoon; her form was rigid, her features livid, her
pulse still.
The two watchers, while conscientiously doing all they could to restore
her sensibilities, silently hoped that she might never more awake to
suffering, but that her soul might pass in that insensibility. During
that long, deep trance, her spirit must have wandered far back over
leagues of space, and years of time to the beautiful land of her birth,
and the days of her childhood, for when at dawn of morning she recovered
her senses, she looked around her with eyes full of the innocent, soft
light of girlhood, modified only by a slight surprise.
“What place is this? Where am I?” those eyes seemed to inquire, as she
gently raised herself on her elbow to examine the cell.
The watchers were silent from awe and pity; but the narrow stone walls,
the iron door, the grated window, sternly though mutely answered the
questioning gaze.
And as the truth slowly grew upon her memory, her face changed from its
look of girlish curiosity to one of terror and anguish, and with a
piercing cry, she fell back upon the pillow, and covered her eyes with
her hands.
The kind women that filled to her the double office of warders and
attendants, took her hands from her face, and began to address her with
words of sympathy; but what words of theirs had power to reach her
heart, snatched far away from ordinary human comprehension as she was by
her great woe!
She never answered, or even seemed to hear them. After the first sharp
cry that marked her returning consciousness, she lay in silent anguish.
And so the hours of the morning crept slowly on until the rising
sunbeams glanced into the cell. Then the two weary watchers were
relieved by Mrs. Barton, who came in and sent them to take some rest,
while she herself remained to put the cell in order, and assist the
nearly dying girl to get on her clothes.
“Come, my poor dear, it is better for you to try to rouse yourself a
little. Rise up and bathe your face in this nice cool water, and then
dress yourself, for some of your friends will be getting an order from
the sheriff to come and see you, they will, and you should be ready to
receive them,” said Mrs. Barton, as she poured the water into the basin,
and took the hand of Eudora to assist her to rise.
In mute despair the poor girl suffered herself to be guided. Silently
she followed all Mrs. Barton’s directions.
“Come, come, don’t give up so; while there’s life there’s hope; and I
myself have known more nor one person pardoned or commuted after they’ve
been condemned to death,” continued the good woman, trying to comfort
the prisoner while assisting at her toilet.
But the shuddering young creature seemed incapable of reply.
“Oh, dear, dear! what can I say to you? Can’t you still trust in God?”
sighed the woman.
No, Eudora could not. Innocent, yet condemned, she felt her faith in God
and man utterly fail; and lacking this support in her hour of extremity,
she sank beneath her weight of affliction; and as soon as she was
dressed and out of the hands of Mrs. Barton, she fell again upon the
bed, and buried her head in the pillow.
Her breakfast was brought her by another turnkey, and Mrs. Barton took
it from his hand and set it on the little table, while she entreated the
prisoner to rise up and try to partake of it. And Eudora, in the perfect
docility of her spirit, sat up on the side of the bed, and took the cup
of coffee in her hand and attempted to drink it, but in vain; and then,
with a deprecating look she handed the cup back to Mrs. Barton, and sank
down upon the bed. The good woman saw that she could not swallow, and so
she sent the untasted breakfast away.
A few minutes after this, Malcolm Montrose, attended by the governor of
the gaol, came to the cell. Mr. Anderson left him at the door, and
retired to a short distance in the lobby.
Malcolm had forced himself into a state of composure, and nothing but
the deadly paleness of his face betrayed his inward anguish.
When he entered the cell Eudora was still lying on the outside of the
bed, with her face buried in the pillow, while the female turnkey stood
by her side.
“How is she?” breathed the visitor, in the hushed tones of deep woe.
“Oh, sir, she has not uttered one word, or swallowed one morsel since
her conviction. Speak to her, sir; perhaps she will answer you,” said
Mrs. Barton.
“Do _you_ speak to her; tell her that I am here,” requested Malcolm, in
a faltering voice, as he struggled to retain an outward composure.
The woman bent over the stricken girl, and whispered:
“Miss Leaton, dear, here is your cousin, Mr. Montrose, come to see you.
Won’t you turn and look at him?”
The name of Malcolm broke the spell of dumb despair that bound her.
Starting up, she caught the hands of her cousin in both her own, and
gazing in an agony of supplication in his face, she exclaimed:
“Oh, Malcolm, save me from this fate! No one will save me unless you
do!”
He dropped upon his knees beside the bed, and bowed his head upon her
clinging hands, and answered, in a broken voice:
“Eudora, all that man can do shall be done to save you! I would pour out
my heart’s best blood to deliver you.”
“Malcolm,” she exclaimed, still clinging to his hands as the drowning
cling to the last plank, and gazing down on his bowed face, with her
eyes dilated and blazing between wild terror and mad hope, “Malcolm, I
did not do what they say I must die for! you _know_ I did not! Oh,
surely there must be some way to prove it—some way that you can find
out! Oh, Malcolm! try—try hard to save me from this fate! Oh! do not
think that I am a coward, Malcolm! It is not death I fear. I should not
dread dying in my bed with some devoted friend beside me, as sweet
Agatha died! But to be hung! to die a violent, struggling, shameful
death, with all the people looking at me!—oh! for Heaven’s sake,
Malcolm, save me from such maddening horror!”
“Eudora! child! love! it is not necessary for you to urge me so
earnestly. I would give my body to be burned if that would save you! and
all that human power can accomplish shall be tried to deliver you. I
have not been idle since your conviction. Already I have set on foot a
scheme by which I hope to serve you!” replied Malcolm.
“Oh, Malcolm, devoted friend, before you came in I feared that even God
had forsaken me, but now I do not think so. Your plan, dear friend, what
is it?”
Mr. Montrose had not intended to tell her of his mission to London, lest
he should only raise false hopes; but it was not possible to behold her
agonizing terror of pain and shame, or hear her earnest appeals for
comfort and deliverance, without immediately responding and yielding her
hope.
“I have a petition drawn up, praying the Crown to respite you during her
Majesty’s pleasure; I shall take the petition to London and lay it
before the Home Secretary. If he favors it, as I hope, and trust, and
believe he will, it will give us time to investigate this dark mystery,
discover the criminal and deliver you.”
“Oh, Malcolm, do you think he will?” cried Eudora, with clasped hands.
“I shall know, dearest, in twenty-four hours. I shall take the first
train, to London, that starts at ten o’clock. I came here to see you
before setting out, and to implore you to trust in God, to pray to him,
and to keep up your spirits until I return.”
“Will you be gone long?” asked Eudora, still clinging to his hands.
“Two or three days perhaps; but I will write to you by every mail, and
telegraph you the moment I get a favorable answer.”
“Oh, may God speed your errand!” she exclaimed, fervently clasping her
hands.
“Amen. And now, dear one, I have but twenty minutes to catch the train.
Eudora, in parting with you for a short time, I would recommend you to
see the chaplain of the prison. He is a truly righteous man, and his
conversation will do you good.”
“I will see him, if only to please you,” she answered.
“And, now, dear one, good-bye for the present, and may the Father of the
fatherless, and the God of the innocent, watch over you!” said Malcolm,
lifting her hands to his lips with reverential tenderness before leaving
the cell.
Half an hour later Malcolm, with the petition in his pocket, was
steaming onward in the express train for London.
It was soon known throughout the town that Mr. Montrose had gone to the
city with a memorial to the Crown for a respite or commutation of Eudora
Leaton’s sentence; but not one human being that discussed the subject
believed for one instant that his desperate enterprise could possibly be
successful.
The chaplain of the gaol was the Reverend William Goodall, a grave,
gentle, sympathetic young man, who greatly feared that the youthful
prisoner was really guilty, and earnestly desired to bring her into a
state of hopeful penitence.
With this view, early in the afternoon, he visited Eudora in her cell,
and sought by every argument to counteract the effect of that false hope
which had been raised in her breast, and which he firmly believed was
the only thing that withheld her from repentance and confession.
But to all his exhortations the unhappy girl responded:
“Oh, sir, this one little hope is the only vital nerve that quivers in
my bosom; kill it, and you destroy me, even before the appointed
death-day! Oh, Mr. Goodall, leave me this little hope!”
“But, my poor child,” said the young minister, gazing with the deepest
compassion upon the almost infantile face of the girl, “it is false,
delusive expectation, that is luring you on to certain and everlasting
destruction of soul as well as body, by keeping you from that full
confession and repentance which is your only chance of salvation.”
“But it does not, Mr. Goodall. I have nothing to confess or repent; at
least, nothing but my common share in erring human nature; and for
redemption from that I have been taught to trust in God’s mercy through
our Saviour.”
The young minister groaned in spirit as he replied:
“But, poor, blind child, while you keep a guilty secret in your breast,
that mercy cannot reach you; and while a single hope of life is left you
here, you will not part with that secret. Abandon all such delusive
hopes, Eudora; confess, repent, and cherish these heavenly hopes of
pardon and redemption that never yet deceived a penitent sinner.”
“It is useless for us to talk longer, I fear; we speak only at
cross-purposes. You believe me guilty, and urge me to abandon all the
expectations of mercy in this world, and to confess crimes that I never
committed; while I know that I am innocent, and upon that knowledge
found all my anticipations of deliverance. I am sorry that we cannot
agree; for I do need religious consolation and support, but it must be
administered by one who is a sufficiently subtle ‘discerner of spirits’
to recognize the truth when I speak it,” said Eudora, with gentle
dignity.
The young minister drove his fingers through his dark hair, and gathered
his brows into a deep frown, not of anger, but of intense perplexity;
for the clear, unflinching gaze of her eyes, the calm, unwavering tones
of her voice, and the keen and powerful aura of truth that seemed to
emanate from her whole presence shook his convictions of her guilt. He
felt the necessity of withdrawing from this disturbing influence in
order to examine his own conscience. Rising, he took her hand, and said:
“My poor child, I will leave you for the present; but I shall not cease
to bear you upon my heart to the Throne of Grace, and I will come to you
again in the evening.”
And then he left the cell.
Eudora clung to her little hope as the young cling to life. She had
called it the only vital nerve that quivered in her bosom. Yet it would
be scarcely true to say that she was the happier for it.
The days of Malcolm’s absence were passed by her in a high fever of
suspense. By every mail she received letters from him assuring her of
his undying devotion and zealous efforts in her behalf, and entreating
her still to pray and to trust.
The chaplain also kept his word, and visited her frequently, still
exhorting her, with tearful earnestness, to resign all expectations of
earthly life, and to turn her thoughts towards heaven. But still Eudora
clung with death-like tenacity to her hopes of deliverance.
“You think that I am sinking fast in this stormy sea of trouble that
threatens to overwhelm me, and you ask me to let go the slender plank
that keeps me up, and to resign myself to death—but I will not! I will
cling to this plank of life! I will not let it go! I will grasp it—I
will possess it—it shall save me!” was still Eudora’s answer to all the
young minister’s fervent exhortations.
“Ah, well! I see it is in vain to reason with you in your present mood
of mind. You still insanely hope against hope. But when Mr. Montrose
returns without the respite you expect, and you feel that your fate in
this world is sealed, when death stares you in the face, you will listen
to my counsels, disburden your bosom of its guilty secret, and give your
soul to repentance,” was ever the minister’s final reply when he
concluded each visit.
Alas! these interviews were productive of little satisfaction to either
party.
Eudora could derive no comfort from the conversation of even a good
minister, who founded all his exhortations upon the mistaken theory of
her guilt; and Mr. Goodall almost despaired of benefitting one whom he
considered an obstinate sinner, wickedly refusing to confess and repent.
But as the weary days passed, Eudora felt more keenly the protracted
anguish of suspense, and the increasing difficulty of holding fast the
little hope that sustained her; for, although Malcolm continued to write
to her by every mail, and in every letter endeavored to keep up her
courage, yet he gave her no definite information. His stay was
protracted from day to day, as though he were engaged in prosecuting an
almost desperate enterprise which he was resolved to accomplish.