THE READING OF THE DEATH-WARRANT.
Life! life! Oh, Heaven, for this!
To gaze again on God’s bright sun,
To see the moss-marged streamlet run,
To feel the wind’s soft kiss;
To meet loved eyes where pity glows,
To hear kind words to soothe her woes,
Life! life! Oh, bliss of bliss!—_Michell._
He remained for a few moments, sitting in silence where she had left
him, and then rose with an effort to shake off her influence, murmuring
to himself:
“What an incomprehensible creature! a mere girl, not more than fifteen
or sixteen years of age, and yet planning, by her own unaided efforts,
the rescue of a prisoner from the strong Abbeytown gaol! Is she mad or
inspired? If inspired, is it by a good or an evil spirit?—an angel or a
devil! If I were a mystic, now, and believed in people being possessed,
I should suppose that fragile, excited, half-frenzied girl, to be the
medium and agent of some tremendous spirit acting through her. But
whether she be mad, sane, or inspired, I will do what I promised, if it
afford one chance in a million of saving Eudora. Oh, Eudora! Eudora! as
the drowning catch at straws, I catch at this mad girl’s unknown scheme
to save you!”
He took up his hat and went out to walk to the prison.
He was immediately shown to the cell, where he found Eudora, as on the
preceding day, reclining on the outside of the bed. Her little dog was
coiled up contentedly by her side. Mrs. Barton was on guard. As Malcolm
approached and took the little wasted hand she held out to him, he saw
she was perceptibly paler, thinner, and feebler than on the day before.
This increasing weakness was evident not only in the emaciation of her
face and form, but in the faint tones of her voice and the slow motions
of her hands. As he noticed this, the heart of Montrose sank within him.
“And yet,” he thought, “why should I grieve for her waning life? It is
better, far better, that she should sink gently into death here—even
here in her prison-cell, where her soul might depart in peace and
privacy—than live to be dragged forth. Oh, God! oh, God!”
He groaned and buried his face in his hands, as if to shut out the image
that arose before his mind’s eye.
Eudora looked up at him uneasily, and with quick sympathy caught his
mental vision. She could not have been paler than she had been before.
But now her very lips blanched and quivered, and a spasm seized her
throat and choked her utterance. This passed in a moment, and then she
put up her hand and gently removed those of Malcolm, and looked in his
face.
That face was convulsed with anguish; but with a mighty effort, he
crushed down his emotions, seated himself by her side, took her hand,
and held it in silence, as was often now his custom.
For a few moments neither trusted themselves to speak, but at length
Eudora broke the silence by inquiring:
“Do you know why Annella has not been here these two days?”
“The officers of justice believe that her visits disturb you, dear,”
answered Malcolm, gently.
“Ah, I thought they would interdict her visits, poor child! She is so
rash in her zeal for me. Do you know, Malcolm, that she even tried to
bribe Mrs. Barton here to let her change clothes with me, so that I
might escape in hers? Did she tell you?”
“No, she never told me that; but I know she would run any risk on earth
for you, dearest, and so I am not surprised to hear it.”
“I wonder if the attempt came to the ears of the officers, and if that
was the reason why they stopped her visits?”
“No, Miss—oh, no, because there was nobody to tell but me, and I never
dropped a hint of it,” Mrs. Barton hastened to say.
“No, that was not the reason, dear Eudora; it was because she was
considered too young and flighty to do you any real good by her visits,
which it was also feared might disturb you,” said Malcolm.
“And shall I see her no more?”
“Oh, yes; she called at my lodgings this morning to tell me why she has
not been to see you these two days, and to send you her love, with the
assurance that she would come on Tuesday, having the sheriff’s promise
of permission to do so.”
Eudora shivered, for she remembered that Tuesday was the last day of her
allotted life, and knew that Annella’s next visit would be also her last
one.
The hour of grace sped quickly away, and Malcolm arose to go. He stooped
and pressed his farewell kiss upon Eudora’s brow. He dared not trust
himself to speak; he was thinking how swiftly the sands of her life were
running out. But one more quiet visit, and then—the dreadful parting
interview on Tuesday night—and then, unless the unknown scheme of
Annella should succeed—as he did not dare to hope—death for Eudora and
endless despair for himself! So he pressed his parting kiss in silence
on her brow, and turned away.
Mrs. Barton happened to be relieved of her guard by the entrance of the
other warder, and she left the cell at the same moment with Mr.
Montrose.
Malcolm beckoned her to his side, and as they walked down the lobby, he
said:
“I wished to speak to you alone, Mrs. Barton, to ask you about your
charge. She seems wonderfully composed for so young a girl in so awful a
position. I fear that it is only assumed composure, for I see that she
is sinking fast under her heavy misfortunes. Now, tell me, does she not
put herself under great restraint when I am with her?”
“Well, sir, she certainly do seem much more composeder when you are here
nor she do at any other time. I think, howsoever, that’s partly because
she do feel it to be a comfort and a support to her like to have you
along with her; and partly because she do try to keep down her feelings
for fear of hurting yours. Leastways, I know she don’t give way to ’em
as she does at other times,” answered Mrs. Barton, thoughtfully.
“How is she at other times?” inquired Mr. Montrose, anxiously.
“Why, sir, wariable, wery much so indeed; for sometimes she will be
quiet enough for hours and hours together; and then, maybe, something
will happen to bring her doom afore her all on a suddint—and she’ll
scream, and clap her hands over her eyes, and fall to shaking as if she
wer’ tuk with an agur fit. And when that’s over, she’ll turn on her
face, and not move nor speak for hours and hours more.”
Malcolm groaned with anguish.
“And sometimes, sir—and that hurts my heart worse nor all the rest—when
she will be lying quite calm, she’ll put her finger and thumb around her
throat and press it, and then quickly drop her hand and scream with
terror, and fall into another shaking agur fit.”
Another involuntary groan burst from the overcharged breast of Malcolm,
while Mrs. Barton continued:
“But, lor, sir! what could you expect from such a mere child as she is,
with such a fate afore her? Why, sir, I’ve been in service here this
twenty year, and I’ve seen the most strongest and hardenest of men as
ever was, have their hair turn grey with the thoughts of what was afore
them, between the day of conviction and the day of execution. So what
could you expect of a poor, tender girl, with the scaffold staring her
in the face? I wonder she isn’t dead already, for my part; and I am sure
I think it would be a mercy and a blessing if she was.”
“It would, indeed,” muttered Malcolm.
“But there is one thing I dreads for her more nor all the rest—more even
nor the last thing of all.”
“And what is that?” inquired Malcolm, in a sinking voice.
“Why, sir, the reading o’ the death-warrant to her; and it’s my belief
as the sheriff don’t like the job himself, as he has put it off so
long—and I doubt it’ll be the death of her without any more trouble.
Why, lor’, sir, I’ve seen the dare-devilest ruffians, as you would think
they’d go through fire and brimstone, and face Satan himself, blanch as
white as a sheet at hearing of that read. Why, lor’! you see, sir, it do
go into all the particulars, so cruel plain, telling all about how they
are to be—”
“I know—I know!” hastily interrupted Malcolm, with sickening faintness
stealing over him. “But, tell me, is this formality never in any case
omitted?”
“I beg your pardon, sir—” said the perplexed wardress.
“Does not the sheriff sometimes fail to read the death-warrant to the
condemned prisoner?”
“Not as ever I hear on, sir; no, I believe not. But sure you ought to be
able to tell, sir.”
“I know very little of these formalities,” answered Malcolm.
They had by this time reached the lower hall, where their way divided.
Mrs. Barton courtesied, and turned off towards her own apartment; and
Mr. Montrose, with breathless lungs, bursting heart, and burning brain,
hurried out into the open air.
All that he had seen, heard and felt during this morning’s visit to the
prison, confirmed him in his resolution to keep faith with Annella, and
he immediately set about making all external arrangements for a possible
rescue.
Annella might be mad; her unknown scheme might be vain, useless,
dangerous, fatal. There might not be one chance in a million of its
success; yet it was the only hope of rescue for Eudora, and as the
despairing snatch at the very shadow of hope, he resolved to embrace it.
Good reason had the kind-hearted wardress to dread the ordeal to which
Eudora’s fortitude was soon to be subjected. Mrs. Barton had just gone
into the cell to take her afternoon’s turn at guarding the prisoner,
when several footsteps were heard approaching, the door was unlocked,
and the sheriff, attended by the gaoler, entered.
The manner of the sheriff was grave even to solemnity; that of the
gaoler was very sorrowful.
Eudora hastily arose from her recumbent posture, and sat up, glancing in
surprise and vague dread, but without the least suspicion of their
errand, upon the intruders.
Mrs. Barton, who knew what was coming, got up and passed towards the
door, crying:
“Let me go away, Mr. Anderson—please, sir, do! I can’t stand it—indeed,
sir, I can’t!”
“Stay where you are, woman,” answered the governor, in a low voice.
And Mrs. Barton, forced to obey, sank trembling into her seat.
“This is Mr. Rushton, the sheriff of the county, Miss Leaton, who has
some business with you this afternoon,” said the gaoler, in a faltering
voice, as he presented the visitor.
Eudora arose, and slightly bowed in acknowledgment of the sheriff’s
presence, and then resumed her seat. But far from surmising the nature
of his business with her, she flushed with a transient hope that the
paper he carried in his hand might possibly be a commutation of her
sentence—a respite, or even a pardon! While her face flushed and paled,
her heart beat, and her pulses quickened with this hope, the sheriff
slowly unfolded the document, and said:
“I have a necessary duty to perform, Miss Leaton, and must request you
to give your attention to the reading of this paper.”
Something in his manner banished Eudora’s new hopes, and brought back
her vague fears, and while she gazed with eyes dilated by terror, the
sheriff commenced in a distinct voice, and read, with all its plain,
clear, cruel details, the warrant for her execution.
But before the reading of the warrant that consigned her to a speedy,
public, shameful, and violent death, was completed, Eudora’s fortitude
gave way, and with a piercing shriek she fell to the floor.
“There, I hope and trust, with all my heart and soul, as you’ve finished
her and put her out of her misery now!” sobbed Mrs. Barton, as she
hastened to raise Eudora.
The sheriff, having done his painful duty, retreated from the cell,
attended by the gaoler, and leaving Eudora to the care of the wardress.
Mrs. Barton lifted the swooning girl, and laid her upon the bed, and
applied such restoratives as she kept at hand for her recovery. It was a
long time before the deadly swoon could be broken by the pungent
stimulants that were used. But at length Eudora, with a shiver, opened
her eyes. Alas! return to consciousness was only return to thought, to
memory, and to agonizing terror. Sobs, shrieks, and spasms that could
not be controlled, expressed the anguish, despair, and wild affright
that shook her life and reason to their foundations.
Mrs. Barton did all that the most tender nurse or mother could have done
for her relief. She voluntarily remained with her through the whole of
the afternoon and the night; but her endeavors to ameliorate the
sufferings of her charge were all in vain. And in the morning, finding
Eudora still pallid, collapsed, and shuddering, upon the very verge of
dissolution, Mrs. Barton, when relieved from her long watch, hastened to
the office, and said to the gaoler:
“I doubt my prisoner is a-dying sir; and though it might be a mercy to
let her die and go out of her misery, yet mayhap it’s our duty to send
for the medical man.”
The gaoler immediately arose, and beckoning the wardress to follow him,
hastened to the condemned cell, and after gazing mournfully upon the
stricken girl for a few minutes, he said:
“I will send for the doctor; but no one else, not even Mr. Montrose,
must be permitted to see her while she is in this precarious state.”
And calling a turnkey who happened to be passing, he dispatched him for
the medical attendant of the prison. The messenger had scarcely departed
when Malcolm Montrose was heard approaching, attended by another
turnkey. The gaoler, who was on the watch, went out to turn him back.
Meeting him, he took his arm, and walked him off to a distant part of
the lobby, where he paused to say to the astonished and half-offended
young man:
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Montrose; I am very sorry to stop you, but the
truth is, that ever since the death-warrant was read to that poor young
creature yesterday afternoon, her courage has entirely given way, and
she has been in such a precarious state that I fear the least accession
of excitement might prove instantly fatal to her; and under these
circumstances I dare not admit anyone, even yourself, to her cell until
after our doctor has seen her.”
“But I have the sheriff’s order,” urged Malcolm.
“Still I beg that you will not press it, sir. It is for her sake only
that I entreat you to refrain until the doctor has made his visit.”
“I see the necessity of doing as you advise. But oh, Heaven! when, when
will her long-drawn sufferings cease! It is but a few weeks since her
arrest, yet since that day ages and ages of torture seem to have passed!
Would to Heaven it were over for her!” exclaimed Malcolm, wildly.
“Try to compose yourself, Mr. Montrose. Come down to my room, and take
something strong.”
“I thank you, I require nothing; but with your consent I will go and sit
in your office until I hear the doctor’s report,” answered Malcolm,
accompanying the governor to the ward-room below, but refusing the
refreshment that Mr. Anderson still pressed upon his acceptance.
Meanwhile Dr. Moss, the physician in ordinary to the prison, proceeded
to the condemned cell.
Dr. Moss was a tall, fair-skinned, gray-haired old man, whom forty
years’ connection with the prison, and constant ministration to the
worst forms of human suffering among the most desperate criminals of
both sexes had not hardened, but rather softened; had not rendered
harsh, obdurate and unfeeling, but rather tender, sympathetic, and
compassionate.
He now entered Eudora’s cell, and stood for a moment silently regarding
her as she lay with her face turned down and hidden in the pillow, cold,
pallid, collapsed, and shuddering.
Then beckoning Mrs. Barton to the door of the cell, he questioned her
minutely as to the state of mind and frame that had preceded this
asphyxia of the sufferer.
And the careful wardress described the girlish terrors of Eudora, and
ended by saying:
“You can’t expect a mere child like that to face quietly what makes the
hardest men quail. Besides, doctor, we women cre’turs are ten thousand
times worse afeard of being _hurt_ nor we are of being killed. I am
pretty nigh sure as it isn’t the fear of death as has brought her to
this state, but the horror of the violent death as is always afore her.”
The doctor having learned all that he wished to know for his own
guidance in this case, returned to the cell, seated himself beside the
sufferer, took her hand, and said, gently:
“Look up, poor child, and let me see your face. I can do you good,
though you may not yet believe it.”
The deep-toned, tender, sympathetic voice of the Christian physician
fell like balm upon the bruised heart of the victim, and caused her to
turn her wasted face and anguished eyes to meet the compassionate gaze
and benignant countenance that was bent upon her in such deep
commiseration.
“I can relieve your acute sufferings, Eudora. I can scatter all your
terrors and give you ease,” he repeated.
“Oh, can you change what is before me? Can you snatch me away from this
doom, as you would rouse one up from a horrid nightmare? If you cannot
do this you can do nothing for me!” she cried.
“I cannot change your fate, Eudora, but I can disarm it of its terrors,”
he answered, very gently.
She looked at him with a wild, incredulous gaze.
“The state of the mind depends so much upon the condition of the body,
that I must bring your excited nervous system into some quietude before
I can hope that you will listen to me with benefit,” said the doctor,
opening a small box and taking from it a minute lozenge, which he
directed her to swallow.
Eudora obeyed, and the doctor sat watching the effect of the drug.
In a few moments the morphia had done its benign work, and soothed the
agonized nervousness of the victim down to a state of serene repose, in
which she could calmly contemplate her coming doom.
“You feel better now, my child,” said Dr. Moss.
“Yes,” she replied.
“And you can bear to speak of your position?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then, Eudora, I wish you to open your heart to me as to an old and
experienced friend, who sympathizes with every phase of your sufferings,
and can ameliorate them all. Tell me, now, what it was that filled your
mind with such fear and horror as to overthrow your fortitude so
completely. It was not fear of death I know; for even children meet
death unblenchingly. What was it then? It will do you good to confess to
me.”
“You judge me rightly,” said Eudora, as, calmed by the morphia, she now
entered with perfect self-possession upon the dreaded subject. “It was
not fear of death, for I should be happy if I could die quietly here in
my bed. It was the manner of the death, the deep dishonor, and the
mysterious, unknown, awful agony of that blindfolded, suffocating,
helpless struggle with a violent death!”
“In a word, you dreaded excessive physical suffering.”
“Oh, yes.”
“My child, there will be no such suffering at all. The death you so much
dreaded will be the easiest of all deaths.”
She looked up at him with calm, incredulous wonder.
“Eudora, I speak the words of truth and soberness, as well as of science
and experience,” said the doctor, gravely.
“Ah, how do you know? How can any one know. I myself can only judge by
this.” Here she put her thumb and fingers towards her throat, but the
doctor arrested her moving hand, and held it while he said:
“You must not do that—you will only frighten yourself with false
terrors. An incomplete pressure like that is very distressing, a
complete one is quite the reverse.”
“Ah, how can we be sure of that?”
“By the light of science, which shows us that the instantaneous
congestion of the brain consequent upon such a pressure prevents all
suffering. So, my child, dismiss all dread of pain, you will not have to
bear it.”
“I do not know. No one has ever come back from that dread mystery to
tell us what it was.”
“Yes, but there has. There are several authentic instances on record of
individuals who have been resuscitated after execution, and who have all
agreed in testifying that the manner of death was easy, thus
demonstrating the theory of science in that respect. But if you want
farther confirmation, Eudora, you can have it in my own professional
experience.”
“Yours!” exclaimed Eudora, in quiet incredulity.
“Yes; I resuscitated a man who had, in a fit of despair, attempted to
destroy himself in that very manner. He was found by his friends
suspended from a tree in a grove, and when taken down was quite
insensible, and apparently quite dead. But the vital spark had not fled,
for when I was called to him, and took proper means to restore him to
consciousness, I succeeded. He was very penitent for having, in a fit of
despondency, tried to rush unbidden into the presence of his God. But
what made his case most interesting to me, as a medical man, was his
description of his sensations while undergoing that process. He
described them as being without the least degree of suffering, and as
resembling the effects produced by the first inhalations of chloroform,
until, like one under the full influence of that drug, he lapsed into
insensibility, and knew no more until his resuscitation; and now I hope
you will believe me, and dismiss your fears of suffering.”
“Oh, yes; I suppose I was a sad coward to dread torture so much.”
“All women do, Eudora. It is their nature; their tender, delicate
sensitive organizations shrink from torture. But now, what other feature
is there in this fate that so distressed you, for the dread of physical
agony was not all?”
“Oh, no, for there was the sense of deep dishonor.”
“Yet you say that you are innocent?”
“I am weary of repeating that to incredulous ears, and yet God knows
that I am innocent.”
“Then trust in God to redeem your name from all lasting reproach, as
your Christian faith teaches you to believe that He will; and consider
also, dear child, that when, in a few more hours, you shall stand in the
presence of that Divine Judge who knows your innocence, the opinion of
the world you have left behind will be as nothing to your released and
happy spirit. Should not such thoughts console you?”
“Oh, yes, they should, indeed. Oh! sir, you have given me comfort—such
comfort as I could not have believed in before you came to me. I could
not have imagined that any earthly power could have lifted me from the
pit of black despair in which I seemed to have fallen. Heaven bless you,
Doctor, for the help you have given me,” said Eudora, holding out her
hand to the kind physician, who pressed and released it, as he said:
“Now you must have another lozenge to put you to sleep. Take this little
one, and compose yourself to rest, and when you awake I will see you
again.”
And thus having ministered to the mental and physical necessities of the
sufferer, this good physician of the soul and body took his leave of the
patient.
Beckoning Mrs. Barton outside the door, he enjoined her to keep
everything quiet in and about the cell, as the reason, and even life of
the prisoner depended upon her getting an undisturbed rest.
Then he went down to the lower hall, where his approach was anxiously
watched for by Malcolm Montrose, who hastened out of the ward-room,
eagerly inquiring:
“How is your patient, Doctor? Can I be permitted to see her?”
“She is better, and is composing herself to sleep, but you cannot see
her, as she must not be disturbed to-day,” answered the physician,
kindly.
“And there will be but one more meeting between us—the parting interview
of to-morrow,” exclaimed Malcolm, in the extremity of mental anguish, as
he left the prison.
He was seized with a burning anxiety to see Annella Wilder, but did not
know where to find, or how to communicate with that eccentric girl. He
therefore passed the remainder of the day in making the promised
arrangements for the almost inconceivable possibility of Eudora’s
escape.