FREE.
After Miss Hansford and Elithe left the court room that afternoon there
was but little to do. One or two unimportant witnesses were sworn and
one or two recalled, when the prosecution was closed and many of the
strangers hurried to the boats and cars which were to take them home.
They had heard and seen what they came to see and hear,—Miss Hansford
and Elithe. They had laughed at Miss Hansford, and said it was as good
as a play and they had pitied Elithe, compelled to say what she did not
want to say, and which proved so much against Paul that there seemed no
hope for him. The trial would end on the morrow without doubt, and many
were the conjectures as to what the verdict would be. Paul felt all this
as he was driven back to jail after Tom had taken Miss Hansford and
Elithe home. He had asked for them and smiled when he spoke of Miss
Hansford’s manner in court. Of Elithe’s testimony he said nothing, but
she was constantly in his mind as she looked at first when telling what
she saw and heard, and as she looked at the last under the
cross-examination, denying with energy the story of her engagement to
Jack. That gave him some comfort, or would have done so if there had
been comfort to be gained from any source.
He knew the trial would end the following day, and he would know the
worst there was to know. Those twelve men, who had looked kindly but
pityingly at him as they listened to Elithe, would do their duty as he
should do it in their place, and must find him guilty. If they did not
he was disgraced for life, and could never hold up his head again as he
once had held it. There was no light in the future, and his appearance
was that of an old man when he reëntered the jail. The officer who
conducted him there was very kind and the jailer’s wife brought him many
delicacies for his supper. But he could not eat. The last two days had
been terrible to him, more terrible than any day could ever be again, he
thought, unless——. He could not finish the sentence and contemplate a
possible time when he would say good-bye forever to a world in which he
had been so happy until within a few weeks. These weeks had seemed a
horrible nightmare from which he must awaken either for better or worse.
The awakening had come, and it was for the worse, and never had he felt
so entirely hopeless and miserable as when he sat alone in his room
reviewing the events of the day and dreading those of the morrow.
If I could only sleep and forget it, he thought, and after a while he
fell asleep, so worn and exhausted that he could keep awake no longer.
He had no means of knowing the hour when he awoke. It must be late, he
knew, and it was very dark outside. In the distance he heard the
rumbling of thunder and nearer the sound of the waves beating on the
shore. He knew just how it looked down there by the sea. He had seen it
many times when a storm was gathering, and, with shoes and stockings
off, had waded out as far as he dared and then ran for the shore with
the green waves in hot pursuit. He had thought it fun, but liked better
the long, sunny beach by the tower, with the music and bathers, Clarice
and himself, and Elithe and Sherry, his first dog, dead so long ago,
“just as I may be when the season comes again,” he said, wondering if
they would miss him and sometimes speak of him to each other.
Yes, he knew they would; his friends, who liked him, would speak of him
pityingly, in low tones, as a good fellow who went astray. Others would
repeat his story to those who did not know it, and point out the spot
where Jack was killed, and the jail where the man who killed him was
confined and from which he was taken to expiate his crime. It was
horrible to think of it, and he so young, and so much to live for that
he could not die, and in that way. Die and never see again the places he
loved so well,—the green woods and hills of the country, the city haunts
so dear to him, his home, and more than all, his friends, his father and
mother and Clarice. He spoke her name aloud, “Clarice, Clarice, I loved
you so much and you think I killed him,” he cried, stretching out his
arms in the darkness and then letting them fall at his side in an
abandonment of grief.
The thunder was louder and nearer now. The wind was rising and shook the
bars of his window as they had never been shaken before; then died away
towards the sea, but the shaking of the bars continued and a gleam like
a lighted match flashed through them and disappeared, followed by
another and another, and he could see the outline of four hands, two
large and two small, tugging at the iron rods. Some one was there trying
to get in and Paul felt a momentary fear as he listened to the grating
sound and heard the lime and mortar give way. Again there was a flash of
light. One bar was gone, and the big hands were wrenching another from
its place.
“Who is there?” Paul asked.
The answer was in a whisper. “Tom,—come to set you free.”
The shock was so sudden, the joy so great, that without a thought of
anything but the word _free_. Paul’s head fell forward upon his chest,
and he knew no more until the cool night air and drops of rain were
falling upon his face. Some one was holding his head, and a hand, which
could not be Tom’s, was brushing back his hair, and it seemed to him,
wiping away a drop of blood trickling from a place which smarted on his
forehead. He knew he must he out of his cell, and had an indistinct
remembrance of having been lifted and pushed and pulled in a most
extraordinary way until his arms felt as if they were dislocated.
“Where am I?” he asked, rising to a sitting posture and trying to pierce
the thick darkness and see who were with him.
“Whisper, or you’ll have Stevens here. I shouldn’t wonder if he was
putting on his trousers now,—the racket we’ve made. You are out of
prison. Free!”
“But,” Paul said, beginning to understand, “isn’t it better to stay and
face it? People will certainly think me guilty if I run away. You meant
it right, Tom, and I thank you, but I must go back.”
“No, you don’t,” Tom replied. “I nearly broke my neck getting you out,
and I am going to keep you. Then, you see, you didn’t run away. You were
_abducted_, against your will, and if they find you, I’ll say so. I’ll
take the brunt. I’ve sworn it.
“I’m glad you fainted,” Tom continued, “or you might have resisted. I
found you all huddled down in your chair, just ready to tumble on the
floor. A streak of lightning showed me where you were, and I tell you I
had a tussle to get you up to the window and then to get you through,
your legs were so almighty long. You did scrape your forehead some on a
sharp point of iron. I could never have managed you without help.”
“Help!” Paul repeated. “I remember now. Some one was holding my head
when I came to my senses. Who was it?”
Reaching out his arm, he felt Elithe’s dress and drew her towards him.
“Who is it?” he asked, in an eager voice. “Is it,—is it,—_Clarice_?
“Clarice be ——,” Tom began; then checked himself and said: “It’s Miss
Elithe, and she worked like a nailer, too, and scratched her hand on
that same jagged iron which rubbed your head. She’s a brick!”
“Elithe here in the darkness and rain,—to save me!” Paul exclaimed,
getting Elithe’s hand in his.
“Yes, I am here,” Elithe replied, with a drawing in of breath, Paul held
her wounded hand so tight.
All his thoughts of returning to his cell had vanished with its touch.
“It’s raining. You’ll be wet through. Let me take off my coat and cover
you,” he said.
Elithe declined the coat, but let him keep her hand as they went
cautiously down to the landing where the boat was dancing like a cork
upon the waves. It was not an easy task to enter it, and Elithe’s dress
was wet to her knees when she at last took her seat and made room for
Paul beside her. Tom sprang in last, and they pushed off into the
seething waters. The storm had burst upon them with flashes of lightning
and sheets of rain which made Elithe’s face wet with spray and white as
it had been when she took the witness stand in the court room.
“Are you afraid?” Paul asked.
It was impossible that she should not be afraid in an open boat in a
raging storm. And yet she was glad Paul was free, if she went to the
bottom. As she did not answer him, he continued: “If I am to be hung I
shall not be drowned. So you are safe.”
Just then a wave heavier than any which had preceded it struck the boat,
nearly upsetting it, and with a cry of alarm Elithe clung to Paul, who
put his arm around her and drew her down until her face rested in his
lap.
“Courage,” he whispered. “We are more than half way there. Tom and I
both can swim, and between us we will save you. For me it does not
matter.”
The storm was terrible now, one moment sending the boat far out to sea,
and the next taking it towards the shore. Crash after crash of thunder
rolled over their heads, while forked lightning darted from the black
sky and swooped down into the water so near them that Paul could see Tom
as with all his strength he plied the oars and tried to keep the boat
well balanced. Paul was bare-headed, for there had been no time to
secure his hat when he left the jail and Tom had made him take his,
saying: “A little wetting will do me no harm and may injure you in your
run-down state.”
As the waves dashed over the boat more and more until it was a third
full of water, Tom said: “Go to bailing with my hat, if you can. It will
help some.”
Paul obeyed, bailing rapidly with one hand, while the other held fast to
Elithe, who lay helpless across his lap trembling so that he could feel
the beating of her heart and thought of a little frightened bird he had
once caught and held a moment in his hand. She was thinking of
Samona,—of her father and mother and brothers, and their grief when they
heard she was drowned, as she was sure she would be. Then she wondered
how any one would know what had become of them, and if their bodies
would be washed ashore and found upon the beach. Paul, who was bending
over her as he bailed, knew she was praying, and the arm which encircled
her pressed her more closely. For himself he did not particularly care
whether the sea engulfed him or not, but the girl who had risked her
life for him must not die, and he prayed with her for safety from their
peril.
How long they buffeted with the storm he did not know, but it seemed an
eternity. They were driven beyond the boat house, then back again and
out to sea, until the rain fell less heavily; the thunder muttered in
the distance; the boat moved more steadily and finally shot into safety
in the shelter of the boat house. Paul lifted Elithe out, and, sitting
down beside her upon the bench in the little room, with his arm still
supporting her, said to Tom: “Well, what next?”
“Stay here till I take Miss Hansford home and I’ll tell you,” was Tom’s
answer.
He was wet to his skin; so was Paul, and so was Elithe. But neither of
the three cared. They were safe, and Elithe wrung the water from her
skirts and shook it from her hat, which was crushed beyond all shape or
comeliness. Then she gave her hand to Paul, but neither spoke a word of
parting. They had been in a great peril together; he was in peril yet,
and the horror of it was over them still. There was a warm hand clasp,
and then Tom and Elithe went out again into the darkness and made their
way towards Miss Hansford’s cottage.