PLEADING FOR A PARDON.
The Governor of New York was alone in his private office one day, when
his Secretary came in, followed by a little creature that would have
appeared like a child but for a face, which possessed a wonderful power
of expression, such as only thought and experience could give.
This young creature went up to the Governor where he sat, and, leaning
on the table with one arm, looked earnestly into his face—so earnestly
that the color mounted faintly over it.
“I have a brother,” said Ellen Nolan, “my eldest brother; he has
committed a crime, and they have put him in State’s Prison. If he were
innocent, I would ask your pardon as a right; but knowing him guilty, I
have come up here to beg mercy for him. My father, sir, is dead; he was
lost in a steamer, burned on the ocean more than a year ago. With his
last words he bade me fill his place to this unhappy son, and I
promised. Sir, my brother is ill; I fear his mind is becoming disturbed.
He will die if you leave him there.”
That earnest face, those eyes so full of deep, deep feeling, had more
power upon the Governor than this broken speech which seemed to come in
gasps from her chest.
“Have you a memorial? Does the Judge or District Attorney sign your
petition?”
“I have no petition.”
“No petition—no letters?”
“I am a stranger, sir, and do not know how these things are done.
Yesterday I was in the prison for the first time; for I had been again
and again and they refused to let me in. I found him alone in his cell,
burning with fever, wild with distress. The very sight of me drove him
half crazy. He is an educated man, who has committed one grave fault,
but there is no wickedness in him. If ever a man was sorry for
wrong-doing he is. I know he has done a dishonest thing, but he says it
was under terrible temptation, and I believe him. You would believe him,
sir, if you had held his poor, shaking hands and looked into his eyes as
I did. Oh! sir, I wish you could see him. It would melt your heart. My
father loved him so dearly; knowing all his faults, he could understand
how a man might do wrong and yet not be so very bad. This is all the
plea I have to make. If you keep him there he will die, and my promise,
given to a father who was just entering the gates of Heaven, will go
unredeemed.”
The Governor, who was a kind and most just man, listened to the girl
with more than patience. Her energy, that broken language, which was
half explanation half petition, all unstudied and earnest as a child
pleads, took him by surprise. He asked her to sit down, but she would
not. Supporting herself with one arm, she still kept her eyes on his
face, looking as it were deep into his heart. The magnetism of a brain
and heart like hers, united on one purpose, is more powerful with
sympathetic men than argument or prayers; they troubled that man’s heart
till it stirred mercifully in his bosom. He took Ellen’s hand. She
seemed so small and helpless that it was like encouraging a child. He
asked questions, and listened to the whole story as she had told it to
Virginia months before. When she came to the robbery, her voice broke
and her eyes fell; that painful truth brought the crimson of deep shame
into her white cheeks. He was guilty, she owned, but not so guilty as
might be thought. He positively believed his friend to be dead, and in a
loose way that friend had almost promised the money, and more than that
to him. It was all wrong—terribly wrong—but would the Governor forgive
him for her sake? She was so helpless and an orphan. If he would, they
two, with a younger brother she had, would go out West, far beyond the
Rocky Mountains, and there work out a new life for him, such as her
father could look down from Heaven and ask the angels to witness.
All this was touching and pathetic; but the Governor of a State cannot
always listen to the pleadings of his own heart. He became restive under
those wistful eyes, that shed no tears, but was all the more powerful
for that, and at last broke off the conversation rather coldly. It was
imprudent, he said, to listen to a petition which had really nothing but
sisterly affection to recommend it. It grieved him to say this, but it
seemed to him impossible to act otherwise.
He shook hands with the poor girl kindly, but chilled to the heart by
his words, she went away feeling like death.
Virginia knew nothing of this. She thought Ellen busy negotiating for
her book, and asked her about it when she came home at night, looking so
tired and careworn. This reminded Ellen that the week was almost up. In
her anxiety she had forgotten the precious manuscript.
The next day she went down to the city and came home radiant. Her
manuscript was accepted with warm praise. In a few weeks it would be
published.
“Now,” she said, stealing an arm around Virginia’s neck as she told her
the news, “now we shall be independent.”
“Ah, how happy you look, Ellen! No wonder! You have done so much, while
I have accomplished nothing and have no hope. Oh! Ellen, I tried to sing
while you were away, and could not. My voice is gone.”
“That is because you have been so ill, dear lady. It will come back
sweeter than ever; if not, my book will sell. I can write more, and that
will be enough for us both. This is independence, lady!”
Virginia returned her kisses with warmth. She loved the generous girl
well enough to take even money from her without a sense of obligation
wounding her pride, and that is the greatest test of a magnanimous
nature that a human being is capable of in this degenerate age.
“What is the difference?” said Ellen, brimming over with gratitude that
she could do something for her lady. “Don’t I love to take everything
from you? Oh! I’m so thankful that it is my turn now!”