Foray, a mass of crags embellished by some greenness, looked up to
heaven a hundred miles from shore. It was a fortified position, and a
place of banishment. In the course of a long war, waged on sea and land
between two great nations, this, "least of all," became a point of some
importance to the authority investing it; the fort was well supplied
with the machinery of death, and the prison filled with prisoners. But
peace had now been of long continuance; and though a nation's banner
floated from the tower of the fort, and was seen afar by
mariners,--though the cannon occupied their ancient places, ordered for
instant use,--though all within the fort was managed and conducted day
by day with careful regard to orders,--the operations indicated, in the
spirit of their conduct, no fear of warlike surprises. No man gave or
obeyed an order as if his life depended on his expedition. Neither was
the prison the very place it had been; for, once, every cell had its
occupant,--an exile, or a prisoner of war.
The officials of the island led an easy life, therefore. Active was the
brain that resisted the influences of so much leisure as most of these
people had. But, under provocation even, Nature must be true. So true
is she, indeed, that every violation of her dignities illustrates the
meaning of that sovereign utterance, VENGEANCE IS MINE. She will not
bring a thorn-tree from an acorn. Pray, day and night, and see if she
will let you gather figs of thistles. Prayer has its conditions, and
faith is not the sum of them.
But Nature's buoyant spirits must needs conquer the weight of
influences whose business is to depress. And they, seeking, find their
centre among things celestial, in spite of all opposing. Much leisure,
light labor, was not the worst thing that could befall some of the men
whose lot was cast on Foray.
Adolphus Montier was a member of the military band. He was drummer to
the regiment by the grace of his capacity. Besides, he played on the
French horn, to the admiration of his wife, and others; and he could
fill, at need, the place of any missing member of the company, leaving
nothing to be desired in the performance.
Adolphus came to Foray in the first vessel that brought soldiers
hither. He saw the first stone laid in the building of the fort. Here
he had lived since. He was growing gray in the years of peace. He had
some scars from the years of strife, he was a brave fellow, and
idleness, a devil's bland disguise, found no favor with him.
His daughter Elizabeth was the first child born on the island. Bronzed
warriors smiled on her fair infancy; sometimes they called her, with
affectionate intonation, "The Daughter of the Regiment." She deserved
the notice they bestowed,--as infancy in general deserves all it
receives,--but Elizabeth for other reasons than that she had come
whence none could tell, and was going whither no man could
predict,--for other reason than that she was the first discovered
native of the island. She was a beautiful child; and I state this fact
not specially in deference to the universal expectation that a
character brought forward for anybody's notice should be personally
capable of fascinating such. Indeed, it seems inevitable that we find
our heroines and heroes in life beautiful. Miss Nightingale must needs
remain our type of pure charity in person, as in character. Elisha Kent
Kane among his icebergs must stand manifestly efficient for his
"princely purpose," his eye and brow magnificent with beauty. Rachel,
to every woman's memory, must live the unparalleled Camille.
Little Elizabeth--I smile to write her name upon the page with
these--it were a shame to cheat of beauty by any bungle of description.
Is not a fair spirit predestined conqueror of flesh and blood? Have we
not read of the noble lady whose loveliness a painter's eye was the
very first to discover? Where the likeness? The soul saw it, not the
eye; and he understood, who, seeing it, exclaimed, "Our friend--in
heaven!" While Adolphus Montier cleaned and polished his French horn,
an occupation which was his unfailing resource, if he could find
nothing else to do, or when he practised his music, business in which
he especially delighted when off duty, it was his pleasure to have wife
and child with him.
Imagination was an active power in the Drummer's sphere. He, away off
in Foray, used to talk about the forms and colors of sounds, as if he
knew about them; and he had not learned the talk in any school. He
would have done no injury to transcendentalism. And he was a happy man,
in that the persons before whom he indulged in this manner of speech
rather encouraged it. Never had his Pauline's pride and fondness failed
Adolphus the Drummer. Life in Foray was little less than banishment,
though it had its wages and--renown; but Pauline made out of this
single man her country, friends, and home. Never woman endeavored with
truer single-heartedness to understand her spouse. In her life's aim
was no failure. Let him expatiate on sound to the bounds of fancy's
extravagance, she could confidently follow, and would have volunteered
her testimony to a doubter, as if all were a question of tangible fact,
to be definitely proved. So in every matter. For all the comfort she
was to the man she loved, for her confidence in him who deserved it,
for her patient endurance of whatsoever ill she met or bore, for
choosing to walk in so peaceful a manner, with a heart so light and a
face so fair, praise to the Drummer's wife!
Elizabeth, the companion of her parents in all their happy rambling and
unambitious home-life, was their joy and pride. If she frolicked in the
grass while her father played his airs, she lost not a strain of the
music. She hearkened also to his deep discourse, and gave good heed,
when he illustrated the meaning of the tunes he loved to play. And
these were rarely the stirring strains with which the Governor's policy
kept the band chiefly busy when the soldiers gathered on summer nights
in knots of listeners, and the ladies of the fort, the Governor's wife,
and the wives of the officers, came out to enjoy the evening, or when a
vessel touched the rocky shore.
Elizabeth's vision was clearer than even love could make her
mother's,--clearer than music made her father's; since a distinct
conception of images seems not to be inevitable among the image-makers.
The prophets are not always to be called upon for an interpretation. No
white angel ever floats more clearly before the eyes of those who look
on the sculptor's finished work than before the eyes of Elizabeth
appeared the shapes and hues of sounds which swept in gay or solemn
procession through the windings of her father's horn, floating over the
blue water, dissolving as the mist. No bright-winged bird, fair flower,
or gorgeous sunset or sea-wave, was more distinct to the child's eyes
than the hues of the same notes, stately as palm or pine,--red as
crimson, white as wool, rich and full as violet, softly compelling as
amethyst.
Pauline Montier was by nature as active and diligent as Adolphus. She
was a seamstress before the days of Foray and the Drummer, and still
continued to ply her needle, though no longer urged by necessity. She
sewed for the officers' wives, she knit stockings and mufflers for the
soldiers. The income thus derived independently of Montier's public
service was very considerable.
Born of such parents, Elizabeth would have had some difficulty in
persuading herself that her business was to idle through this life.
Her early experiences were not as peaceful as those which followed her
tenth year. The noise of battle, the cries of defeat, the shouts of
victory, the sight of agonized faces, the vision of death, the
struggles of pain and anguish, the sorrow of bereavement,--she had seen
all with those young eyes. She had heard the whispered command in
hushed moments of mortal danger, and the shout of triumph--in the
tumult of victory,--had watched blazing ships, seen prisoners carried
to their cells, attended the burial of brave men slain in battle, had
marched with soldiers keeping time to funeral strains. Her courage and
her pity had been stirred in years when she could do no more than see
and hear. Once standing, through the heat of a bloody engagement, by
the side of a lad, a corporal's son, who was stationed to receive and
communicate an order, a random shot struck the boy down at her side.
She saw that he was dead,--waited for the order, transmitted it, and
then carried away the lifeless body of her fellow-sentinel, staggering
under the weighty burden, never resting till she had laid him in the
shelter of his father's quarters. After the engagement, this story was
told through the victorious ranks by the witnesses of her valor, and a
medal was awarded the child by acclamation. She always wore it, and was
as proud of it as a veteran of his ribbons and stars.
But now, in times of peace, the fair flower of her womanhood was
forming. Like a white hyacinth she grew,--a lady to look upon, with
whom, for loveliness, not a lady of the fort could be compared. Not one
of them in courage or unselfishness exceeded her.
The family lived in a little house adjoining the barracks. It was a
home that could boast of nothing beyond comfort and cleanliness;--the
word comfort I use as the poor man understands it. Neither Adolphus nor
Pauline had any worldly goods to bring with them when they came to
Foray. They lived at first, and for a long time, in the barracks; the
little house they now occupied had once been used for the storage of
provisions; but when the war ended, Adolphus succeeded in obtaining
permission to turn it into a dwelling-house. Here the child was
sheltered, and taught the use of a needle; and here she learned to read
and write.
In the great vegetable garden which covered the space between the
prison and the fort was a corner that reflected no great credit on the
authorities. The persons who might reasonably have been expected to
take that neglected bit of ground under their loving care did no such
thing. The beds were weeded by Sandy, the gardener, and now and then a
blossom rewarded that attention; but the flower-patch waited for
Elizabeth.
The gardener knew very well how she prized the pretty flowers;--they
appealed to his own rude nature in a very tender way. He loved to see
the young girl flying down the narrow paths as swiftly as a bird, if
she but spied a bloom from afar. There was a tree whose branches hung
over the wall, every one of them growing, with dreadful perversity,
away from the cold, hard prison-ground which held the roots so fast.
Time was never long enough when she sat in the shade of those branches,
watching Sandy at his work.
By-and-by it happened that the flower-garden was given over to the
charge of the girl. It was natural that she, who had never seen other
flower-beds than these, should, aided by the home-recollections of her
mother, imagine far prettier,--that she should dare suggest to Sandy,
until his patience and his skill were exhausted,--that the final good
result should have come about in a moment when no one looked for
it,--he giving up his task with vexation, she accepting it with
humility, and both working together thereafter, the most helpful of
friends.
It required not many seasons for Elizabeth to prove her skill and
diligence in the culture of this garden-ground,--not many for the
transformation of square, awkward beds into a mass of bloom. How did
those flowers delight the generous heart! With what particular splendor
shone the house of Montier through all the summer season! The ladies
now began to think about bouquets, and knew where they could find them.
From this same blessed nook the Governor's table was daily supplied
with its most beautiful ornament. Men tenderly disposed smiled on the
young face that from under the broad-brimmed garden-hat smiled back on
them. Some deemed her fairer than the flowers she cared for.
One day in the spring of the year that brought her thirteenth birthday,
Elizabeth ran down through the morning mist, and plucked the first
spring flower. She stayed but to gather the beauty whose budding she
had long watched; no one must rob her mother of this gift.
She carried off the prize before the gaze of one who had also hailed it
in the bleak, drear dawn. This was not the gardener;--and there was
neither man, woman, nor child in sight, during the swift run;--no
freeman; but a prisoner in an upper room of the prison. Through its
grated window, the only one on that side of the building, he had that
morning for the first time looked upon the island which had held him
long a prisoner.
Since daybreak he had stood before the window. The evening before, the
stone had been rolled away from the door of his sepulchre,--not by an
angel, neither by force of the resistless Life-spirit within, shall it
be said? Who knows that it was _not_ by an angel? who shall aver it was
_not_ by the resistless Life? At least, he was here,--brought from the
cell he had occupied these five years,--brought from the arms of Death.
His window below had looked on a dead stone-wall; this break in the
massive masonry gave heaven and earth to him.
The first ray of daylight saw him dragging his feeble body to the
window. He did not remove from that post till the rain was over,--nor
then, except for a moment. As the clouds rose from the sea, he watched
them. How strange was the aspect of all things! Thus, while he had
lived and not beheld, these trees had waved, these waters rolled, these
clouds gathered,--grass had grown, and flowers unfolded; for he saw the
scarlet bloom before Elizabeth plucked it. And all this while he had
lived like a dead man, unaware! Not so; but now he remembered not the
days, when, conscious of all this life, he had deathly despair in his
heart, and stones alone for friends.
Imprisonment and solitude had told upon the man. He was still young,
and one whom Nature and culture had fitted for no obscure station in
the world. He could, by every evidence he gave, perform no mere
commonplaces of virtue or of vice. The world's ways would not assign
his limitation. He was capable of devising and of executing great
things,--and had proved the power; and to this his presence testified,
even in dilapidation and listlessness.
His repose was the repose of helplessness,--not that of grace or
nature. The opening of this prospect with the daylight had not the
effect to increase his tranquillity. His dejection in the past months
had been that of a strong man who yields to necessity; his present mood
was not inspired with hope. The waves that leaped in the morning's
gloomy light were not so aimless as his life seemed to him. He had
heard a bird sing in the branches of a tree whose roots were in the
prison-yard,--now he could see her nest; he had heard the dismal
pattering of the rain,--and now beheld it, and the clouds from which it
fell; he saw the glimpses of the blue beyond, where the clouds were
breaking; he saw the fort, the cannon mounted on the walls, the flag
that fluttered from the tower, the barracks, the parade-ground, and the
surrounding sea, whose boundaries he knew not; he saw the trees, he saw
the garden-ground. Slowly his eyes scanned all,--and the soul that was
lodged in the emaciated figure grew faint and sick with seeing. But no
tears, no sighs, no indications of grief or despair or desperate
submission. He had little to learn of suffering;--that he knew. How
could he greet the day, hail the light, bless Nature for her beauty,
thank God for his life? Oh, the weariness with which he leaned his head
against those window-bars, faint and almost dying under the weight of
thoughts that rushed upon him, fierce enough to slay, if he showed any
resistance! But he manifested none. The day of struggle was over with
him. He believed that they had brought him to this room to die. If any
thought could give him joy, surely it was this. He was right. Yesterday
the Governor of the island, hearing the condition of the prisoner, this
one remaining man of all whose sentence had been endured within these
walls, had ordered a change of scene for him. His sentence was
imprisonment for life. Did they fear his release by the hands of one
who hears the sighing of the prisoner, and gives to every bondman the
Year of Jubilee? Were they jealous and suspicious of the approach of
Death?
Though he had been so long a prisoner, he showed in his person
self-respect and dignity of nature. His hair and beard were grown long;
many a gray thread shone in his chestnut locks; his mouth was a firm
feature; his eyes quiet, but not the mildest; his forehead very ample;
he was lofty in stature;--outside the prison, a freeman, his presence
would have been commanding. But he needed the free air for his lungs,
and the light to surround him,--the light to set him in relief, the
sense of life to compel him to stand out in his own powerful
individuality, distinct from every other living man.
By-and-by, while he stood at the window, looking forth upon the strange
scenes before him, this new heaven and new earth, the landscape became
alive. The first human creature he had seen outside his cell since he
became an inmate of this prison appeared before his eyes,--the young
girl skipping through the garden till she came to the flower-bed and
plucked the scarlet blossom. If she had been a spirit or an angel, he
could hardly have beheld her with greater surprise.
She was singing when she came. He thought he recognized that
voice,--that it was the same he had often heard from the cell below.
Many a time the horrible stillness of that cell had been broken by the
sound of a child's voice, which, like a spirit, swept unhindered
through the walls,--an essence of life, and a power.
It was but a moment that she paused before the flower; she plucked it,
and was gone. But his eyes could follow her. She did not really, with
her disappearing, vanish. And yet this vision had not to him the
significance of the bow seen in the cloud, whose interpreter, and whose
interpretation, was the Almighty Love.
All day he stood before that window. The keeper hailed the symptom. The
Governor was satisfied with the report. Towards sunset the rain was
over, and with the sun came forth abundant indications of the island
life. The gardener walked among the garden-beds and measured his
morrow's work, calculating time and means within his reach,--and
vouchsafing some attention to the flower-garden, as was evident when he
paused before it and made his thoughtful survey. The prisoner saw him
smile when he took hold of the broken stalk which had been
flower-crowned. And Sandy saw the prisoner.
The next day Elizabeth came out with the gardener, and they began their
day's work together. They seemed to be in the best spirits. The smell
of the fresh-turned earth, the sight of the fresh shoots of tender
green springing from bulb and root and branch, acted upon them like an
inspiration. The warm sun also held them to their task. Sandy was
generous in bestowing aid and counsel,--and also in the matter of his
land,--trenching farther on the ground allotted to the vegetables than
he had ever done before.
"The land must pay for it," said he. "We'll make a foot give us a
yard's worth. Cram a bushel into a peck, though 'The Doctor' said you
never could do that! I know how to coax."
"Yes, and you know how to order, if you have not forgotten, Sandy. You
frightened me once for taking an inch over my share."
"That was a long while back," answered honest Sandy,--"before I knew
what the little girl could do. I've seen young folk work at gardening
afore, but you do beat 'em all. How could I tell you would, though? You
don't look it. Yes,--may-be you do, though. But you've changed since
_I_ first knew you."
"Why, I was nothing but a baby then, Sandy."
"Yes, yes,--I know; but you're changed since then!"
So they all spoke to Elizabeth, praising her, confiding in her with
loving willingness,--the Daughter of the Regiment.
The gardener was proud of his assistant, and seemed to enjoy the part
she took in his labor. They worked till noon, Elizabeth stopping hardly
a moment to rest. All this while the prisoner stood watching by his
window, and the gardener saw him. The sight occasioned him a new
perplexity, and he gravely considered the subject. It was a good while
before he said to Elizabeth, speaking on conviction, in his usual low
and rather mysterious tone,--
"There's some one will enjoy it when all's done."
"Who is that?" asked she, thinking he meant herself, perhaps.
"One up above," was the answer.
But though Sandy spoke thus plainly, he did not look toward the
prison,--and the prison was the last place of which Elizabeth was
thinking. It was so long a time since the cell with the window had an
occupant, that she was almost unconscious of that gloomy neighborhood.
So, when the gardener explained that it was one up above who would
enjoy her work, her eyes instantly sought the celestial heights. She
was thinking of sun, or star, or angel, may-be, and smiling at Sandy's
speech, for sympathy.
He saw her new mistake, and made haste to correct this also.
"Not so high," said he, cautiously.
Then, but as it seemed of chance, and not of purpose, the eyes of
Elizabeth Montier turned toward the prison-wall, and fixed upon that
window, the solitary one visible from the garden, and her face flushed
in a manner that told her surprise--when she saw a man behind the iron
bars.
"Oh," said she, looking away quickly, as if conscious of a wrong done,
"what made you tell me?"
"I guess you will like to think one shut up like him will take a little
pleasure looking at what he can't get at," said Sandy, almost
sharply,--replying to something he did not quite understand, the pain
and the reproof of Elizabeth's speech.
"Oh, yes!" she answered, and went on with her work.
But though she might be pleased to think that her labor would answer
another and more serious purpose than her own gratification, or that of
the pretty flowers, it was something new and strange for the girl to
work under this mysterious sense of oversight.
"You have only got to speak the word," said the gardener, who had
perceived her perplexity, and was desirous of bringing her speedily to
his view of the case, "just speak, and he will be carried back to his
old cell below, t'other side."
"Will he?"
"Yes,--sure's you live, if he troubles you, Miss Elizabeth. Nobody will
think of letting him trouble you."
"Oh, me!" she exclaimed, quickly, "I should die quicker than have him
moved where he couldn't see the garden."
"I thought so," said Sandy, satisfied.
"Did you think I would complain of his standing by his window, Sandy?"
"How did I know you would like to be stared at?" asked he, with a
laugh.
Elizabeth blushed and looked grave; to her the matter seemed too
terrible.
"I might have said something," she mused, sadly.
"And if it had been to the wrong person," suggested Sandy;--"for they
a'n't very fond of him, I guess."
"Who is he, then? I never heard."
"He has been shut up in that building now a'most five year, Elizabeth,"
said Sandy, leaning on the handle of the spade he had struck into the
ground with emphasis.
"Five years!"
"Summer heat, and winter cold. All the same to him. No wonder he
sticks, as if he was glued, to the window, now he's got one worth the
glass."
"Oh, let him!"
"If he could walk about the garden, it would be better yet."
"Won't he, Sandy?"
"I can't say. He's here for some terrible piece of work, they say. And
nobody knows what his name is, I guess,--hereabouts, I mean. I never
heard it. He won't be out very quick. But let him _look_ out, any way."
"Oh, Sandy! I might have said something that would have hindered!"
"Didn't I know you wouldn't for the world? That's why I told you."
The gardener now went on with his spading. But Elizabeth's work seemed
finished for this day. Above them stood the prisoner. He guessed not
what gentle hearts were pitiful with thinking of his sorrow.
The next day the prisoner was not at the window, nor the next day, nor
the next. Sandy was bold enough to ask the keeper, Mr. Laval, what was
the meaning of it, and learned that the man was ill, and not likely to
recover. Sandy told Elizabeth, and they agreed in thinking that for the
poor creature death was probably the least of evils.
But the day following that on which they came to this conclusion, the
sick man appeared before Sandy's astonished eyes. He was under the
keeper's care. The physician had ordered this change of air, and they
came to the garden at an hour when there was least danger of meeting
other persons in the walks.
Sandy had much to tell Elizabeth when he saw her next. She trembled
while he told her how he thought that he had seen a ghost when the
keeper came leading the prisoner, whose pale face, tall figure, feeble
step, appeared to have so little to do with human nature and affairs.
"Did he seem to care for the flowers? did he take any?" she asked.
"No,--he would not touch them. The keeper offered him whatever he would
choose. He desired nothing. But he looked at all, he saw
everything,--even the beds of vegetables," Sandy said.
"Did he seem pleased?" Elizabeth again asked.
"Pleased!" exclaimed Sandy. "That's for you and me,--not a man that's
been shut up these five years. No,--he didn't look pleased. I don't
know how he looked; don't ask me; 'tisn't pleasant to think of."
"I would have made him take the flowers, if I had been here," said
Elizabeth, in a manner that seemed very positive, in comparison with
Sandy's uncertain speech.
"May-be,--I dare say," Sandy acquiesced; but he evidently had his
doubts even of her power in this business.
She must take no notice of the prisoner, she was given to understand
one day, if she was to remain in the garden while he walked there. So
she took no notice.
He came and went. Manuel, the keeper called him; and she was busy with
her weeding, and neither saw nor heard. Ah, she did not!--did _not_ see
the figure that came moving like a spectre through the gates!--did not
hear the slow dragging step of one who is weary almost to
helplessness,--the listless step that has lost the spring of hope, the
exultation of life, the expectation of spirit, the strength of
manhood!--She did hear, did see the man. We feel the nearness of our
friend who is a thousand miles away. Something beside the sunshine is
upon us, and receives our answering smile. That sudden shadow is not of
the passing cloud. That voice at midnight is not the disturbance of a
dream.--He walked about the garden; he retired to his cell. It might
have been an hour, or a minute, or a day. It does not take time to
dream a life's events. How is the drowning man whirled round the circle
of experiences which were so slow in their development!
Compassion without limit, courageous purpose impatient of inaction,
troubled this young girl.
"You behaved like a lady," said Sandy,--"you never looked up. You
needn't run now, I'm sure, when he thinks of taking a turn. All we've
got to do is to mind our own business, Mr. Laval says. I guess we can.
But I did want to let off those chains."
"What chains?" asked Elizabeth, as with a shudder she looked up at
Sandy.
"His wrists, you know,--locked," he explained.
"Oh!" groaned the gentle soul, and she walked off, forgetful of the
flowers, tools, Sandy, everything. But Sandy followed her; she heard
him calling to her, and before the garden-gate she waited for him; he
was following on a run.
"I can tell you what it's for," said he, for he had no idea of keeping
the secret to himself, and he dared not trust it to any other friend.
"What is it?" she asked,--and she trembled when she asked, and while
she waited for his answer.
"For lighting the Church. Would you think that? He did such damage, it
wasn't safe for him to be at liberty. That's how it was. I think he
must be a Lutheran;--you know they don't believe in the Holy Ghost! Of
course,--poor fellow!--it's right he should be shut up for warring with
the Church that came down through the holy Apostles, when you know all
the rest only started up with Luther and Calvin. He ought to have
knowed better."
"Who told you, Sandy?" asked Elizabeth, as if her next words might
undertake to extenuate and justify.
"It came straight enough, I understand. But--remember--you don't know
anything about it. His name is Manuel, though;--don't dare to mention
it;--that's what Mr. Laval calls him. Are you going? I wouldn't have
told you a word, but you took his trouble so to heart. You see, now,
it's right he should be shut up. But let on that you know anything, all
the worse for me,--I mean, him!"
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "you're safe, Sandy. Thank you for telling me."
Sandy walked off with a mind relieved, for he believed in Elizabeth,
and had found the facts communicated too great a burden to bear alone.
She passed through the garden-gate most remote from the fort; it opened
into a lonely road which ran inland from the coast, between the woods
and the prison, and to the woods she went. The shadows were gloomy
to-day, for she went among them lamenting the fate of the
stranger;--the mystery surrounding him had increased, not lessened,
with Sandy's explanation.
Fighting against _the Church_ was an unimagined crime. Of the great
conflict in which he had taken part, to the ruin of his fortunes, she
knew nothing. The disputes of Christendom, had they been explained,
would have seemed almost incredible to her. For, whatever was known and
discussed in the circle of the Governor of the island, Drummer Montier,
and such as he, kept the peace with all mankind. The Church took care
of itself, and appeared neither the oppressor nor the Saviour of the
world. What they had fought about in the first years of the possession
of Foray, Montier could hardly have told,--and yet he was no fool. He
could have given, of course, a partisan version of the struggle; but as
to its real cause, or true result, he knew as little as the other five
hundred men belonging to the regiment.
While Elizabeth wandered through those gloomy woods, she saw no
flowers, gathered no wild fruits,--though flowers and berries were
perfect and abundant. Now and then she paused in her walk to look
towards the prison, glimpses of whose strong walls were to be had
through the trees. At length the sound of her father's horn came loud
and clear from the cliffs beyond the wood. It fell upon her sombre
meditation and slightly changed the current. She hurried forward to
join him, and, as she went, a gracious purpose was shining in her face.
When she returned home, it was by the unfrequented prison-way, her
father playing the liveliest tunes he knew. For the first time in their
lives they sat down by the side of the lonely road where they had
emerged from the wood; Elizabeth's memory served her to recall every
air that was sweet to her, and she listened while her father played,
endeavoring to understand the sound those notes would have to "Manuel."
Montier could think of no worthier employment than the practice of his
music. Especially it pleased him that his daughter should ask so much
as she was now asking: he could not discern all that was passing in her
heart, nor see how many shadows moved before those sweet, serious eyes.
They went home at night-fall together; and the young girl's step was
not more light, now that her heart was troubled by what she must not
reveal, even to him.
The next morning Sandy was very busy with Elizabeth, tying up some
flowers which had been tossed about, and broken, many of them, in the
night gale, when the keeper came through the gate, leading this Manuel,
who, grim as a spectral shadow, that had been fearful but for its
exceeding pitifulness, stood now between her and all that she rejoiced
in. "There!" exclaimed Sandy. Looking up, she saw them approaching
straight along the path that led past the flowerbeds.
"Your flowers had a pretty rough time of it in the storm," said Jailer
Laval, as he drew near. He addressed the drummer's daughter,--but his
eyes were on Sandy, with the suspicious and stern inquiry common to men
who have betrayed a secret. But Sandy was busy with his delving.
"Yes," answered Elizabeth, and she looked from the ground up to the
faces of these men.
"Is that a rose-bush? That was roughly handled," said Laval, pointing
with his stick to the twisted rose-stalk covered with buds, over whose
blighted promise she had been lamenting.
"Yes," said Elizabeth again; but she hardly knew what she said, still
less was she aware of the expression her face wore when she looked at
the prisoner. Yes,--even as Sandy said, big wrists were chained
together; he was more like a ghost than a man; his face was pale and
hopeless, and woful beyond her understanding was the majesty of his
mien.
At such a price he paid for fights against _the Church!_ But in truth
he had not the look of an evil, warring man. His gravity, indeed, was
such as it seemed impossible to dispel. But only pity stirred the heart
of Elizabeth Montier as she looked on him. Surely it was a face that
never, in any excess of passion, could have looked malignance. Ah! and
at such a price he purchased his sunshine, the fresh air, and a near
vision of this flower-garden!--in chains!
When she looked at him, his gaze was on her,--not upon the roses. She
smiled, for pity's sake; but the smile met no return. His countenance
had not the habit of responding to such glances. Sombre as death was
that face. Then Elizabeth turned hastily away; but as the keeper also
moved on a step, she detained him with a hurried "Wait a minute," and
went on plucking the finest flowers in bloom. Like an iron statue stood
the prisoner while she plucked the roses,--it was but a minute's
work,--then she tied the flowers together and laid them on his fettered
hands; whether he would refuse them, whether the gift pained or pleased
him, whether the keeper approved, she seemed afraid to know,--for,
having given the flowers, she went away in haste.
It was not long after this first act of friendly courtesy, which had
many a repetition,--for the keeper was at bottom a humane man, and not
disposed to persecute his charge, while he was equally far from any
carelessness in guarding or leniency of treatment that would have
excited suspicion as to his purpose, in the minds of the authorities of
the island,--not long after this day, when the fine sympathy betrayed
for him by Elizabeth fell on Manuel's heart like dew, that the wife of
the jailer died.
Her death was sudden and unlooked-for, though neither Nature nor the
woman could have been blamed for the shock poor Laval experienced.
Death had fairly surrounded her, disarming her at every point, so that
when he called her there was no resistance.
Jailer Laval took the bereavement in a remorseful mood. The first thing
to be done now was the very last he would have owned to purposing
during her life-time. Release from that prison had been the woman's
prayer, year in and year out, these ten years, and Death was the bearer
of the answer to that prayer,--not her husband.
But now, from the day of her sudden decease, the prison had become to
him dreary beyond endurance. The mantle of her discontent fell on him,
and, having no other confidant beside honest, stupid Sandy, he talked
to him like a man who seriously thought of abandoning his labor, and
retiring to that land across the sea for which his wife had pined
during ten homesick years.
Sandy, who might have regarded himself in the light of an "humble
instrument," had he been capable of a particle of vanity or
presumption, told Elizabeth Montier, with whom he had held many a
conference concerning prison matters, since Manuel first began to walk
along the southern garden-walk, where the flower-beds lay against the
prison-wall. What was her answer? It came instantly, without
premeditation or precaution,--
"Then we must take his place, Sandy."
"We, Miss?" said Sandy, with even greater consternation than surprise.
"Yes," she replied, too much absorbed by what she was thinking, to mind
him and his blunders,--"papa must take the prison."
"Oh!"--and Sandy blushed through his tan at his absurd mistake. Then he
laughed, for he saw that she had not noticed it. Then he looked grave,
and wondering, and doubtful. The idea of Adolphus Montier's pretty wife
and pretty daughter changing their pretty home for life in the dark
prison startled him. He seemed to think it no less wrong than strange.
But he did not express that feeling out and out; he was hindered, as he
glanced sideways at the young girl who gazed so solemnly, so loftily,
before her. At what she was looking he could not divine. He saw
nothing.
"I wouldn't be overly quick about that," said he, cautiously.
"No danger!" was the prompt reply.
"For I tell _you_, of all the places I ever see, that prison makes me
feel the queerest. I believe it's one reason I let the flower-garden go
so long," owned Sandy. He did not speak these words without an effort;
and never had Elizabeth seen him so solemn. She also was grave,--but
not after his manner of gravity.
"You see what I did with the poor flower-beds, Sandy," said she. "Wait
now till you see what happens to the prison."
But it is one thing to purpose, and another to execute. Far easier for
Elizabeth to declare than to conduct an heroic design. One thing
prevented rest day and night,--the knowledge that Laval's intended
resignation must be followed by a new application and appointment. With
such a degree of sympathy had the condition of the captive inspired
her, that the idea of the bare possibility of cruelty or neglect or
brutality assuming the jailer's authority seemed to lay upon her all
the responsibility of his future. She must act, for she dared not
hesitate.
One evening Adolphus took his horn, and, attended by wife and child,
went out to walk. He meant to send a strain from the highest of the
accessible coast-rocks. But Elizabeth changed his plan. The time was
good for what she had to say. Instead of expending his enthusiasm on a
flourish of notes, he was called upon to manifest it in a noble
resolution.
When Elizabeth invited her father to a prospect sylvan rather than
marine, to the shady path on the border of the wood between it and the
prison, Montier, easily drawn from any plan that concerned his own
inclination merely, let his daughter lead, and she was responsible for
all that followed in the history of that little family. So love defers
to love, with divine courtesy, through all celestial movements.
After playing a few airs, Montier's anticipated evening ended, and
another set in. The sympathies of a condition, the opposite to that of
which he had been so happily conscious, pressed too closely against
him. The musician could not, for the life of him, have played with
becoming spirit through any one of all the strains of victory he knew.
Near him, under a tulip-tree, sat Pauline, with her knitting in her
hand, the image of peace. Not so Elizabeth. She was doubting, troubled.
But when the bird her father's music moved to sing was still, she
spoke, as she had promised herself she would, asking a question, of
whose answer she had not the slightest doubt.
"Papa, do you know that Mr. Laval is going away?"
"Why, yes, that's the talk, I believe."
"Will they get somebody to take his place?"
"Of course. There's a prisoner on hand yet, you know,--and the house to
look after."
"A big house, too, and dreadful dreary," remarked the mother of
Elizabeth. "Laval's wife used to say, when she came up to see me
sometimes, it was like being a prisoner to live in that building. And
now she's dead and gone, he begins to think the same."
"Suppose we take Laval's place," suggested Montier, looking very
seriously at his wife; but the suggestion did not alarm her. Adolphus
often expressed his satisfaction with existing arrangements by making
propositions of exchange for other states of life, propositions which
never disturbed his wife or daughter. They understood these
demonstrations of his deep content. Therefore, at these words of his,
Pauline smiled, and for the reason that the words could draw forth such
a smile Elizabeth looked grave.
"I wish we could, papa," said she.
"You wish we could, you child?" exclaimed her mother, wondering. "It
looks so pleasant, eh?" and the fair face of Pauline turned to the
prison, and surveyed it, shuddering.
"For the prisoner's sake," said Elizabeth. "Who knows but a cruel
keeper may be put in Laval's place? He is almost dead with grief, that
prisoner is,--I know by his face. After he is gone, there won't be any
prisoner there,--and we could make it very pleasant."
"Pleasant! What do you mean by pleasant?" asked Pauline, inwardly vexed
that her child had suggested the question,--and yet too just, too
kindly disposed, to put the subject away with imperative refusal to
consider it. "I never was in a place so horrid."
"But if it was our home, and all our things were there," urged
Elizabeth, "it would be different. It depends on who lives in a house,
you know."
"Yes, that is so; it depends a little, but not entirely. It would be
more than your mother could do to make a pleasant-looking place out of
that prison. You see it is different in the situation, to begin with.
Up where we live the sun is around us all day, if it is anywhere; and
then the little rooms are so light! If you put a flower into them, you
think you have a whole garden. Besides, it's Home up there, and down
here it isn't."--Saying this, Adolphus rose up quickly, as though he
had a mind to quit the spot.
"When they select a man to fill Laval's place, of course they will be
careful to choose one as good and kind," said Pauline, with mild
confidence.
"The jailer before him was not good and kind," remarked her daughter.
"They dismissed him for it," said Adolphus, quickly.
"But they said the prisoners were half-starved, and abused every way.
It was a good while before it was found out. That might happen again,
and less chance of any one knowing it. He is so near dead now, it
wouldn't take much to kill him."
No one replied to this argument. Pauline and Adolphus talked of other
things, and the musician returned to his music. But all in good time.
Elizabeth was capable of patience, and at last her father said, looking
around him to make sure that his remark would have only two
listeners,--
"That prisoner isn't a man to be talked of about here. You never heard
_me_ mention him. Laval used to give a--a--bad account of him. He had
to be kept alive."
"Till he heard your music, papa, and was moved up to the room with a
window. Did he tell you that?" asked Elizabeth.
"He said he thought the music did him good," acknowledged Adolphus.
"May-be it was the same as with Saul when David played for him. But he
does not look like a bad man, papa. He looks grander than any of our
officers. And he has fought battles, they say. He is very brave."
Both Adolphus and Pauline Montier looked at their daughter with the
most profound surprise when she spoke thus. Not merely her words, but
her manner of speaking, caused this not agreeable perplexity. Her
emotion was not only too obvious, it was too deep for their
understanding. The mother was the first to speak.
"How did you hear all this, child? _I_ never heard him talked of in
this way. They don't talk about him at all,--do they, Adolphus?"
"No," he answered; but he spoke the word very mildly. The tone did not
indicate a want of sympathy in the compassion of his daughter.
Elizabeth looked from her mother to her father. What friends had she,
if these were not her friends?
"The jailer told Sandy, and Sandy told me," she said. "But they never
talk to any other person. Oh! I was afraid to hear about it; but now I
have heard, I was afraid not to speak. Would it be so dreadful for you
to live here, when we could always have music and the garden? And these
woods seem pleasant, when you get acquainted. Day or night I can't get
him out of my mind. It is just as if you were shut up that way, papa. I
am afraid to be happy when any one is so wretched."
The result was, that Elizabeth's words, and not so much her words as
the state of things she contrived to make apparent by them, brought
Adolphus Montier to a clear, resistless sense of the prisoner's fate.
Over the features of that fate he was for days brooding. Now and then a
word that indicated the direction of his thinking would escape him in
his wife's hearing. Silently Pauline followed Adolphus to the end of
all this thinking. Once she walked alone along the unfrequented road
that ran between the prison and the wood, down to the sea; and she
looked at the gloomy fortress, and tried to think about it as she
should, if certain that within its walls her lot would soon be cast.
And more than once Montier walked home that way; and if it chanced that
he had his horn or his drum with him, he marched at quickstep, and
played the liveliest tunes, and emerged from the shadows of the wood
with a spirit undaunted. He had played for the prisoner, whom he had
never yet seen,--but not more for him than for himself.
One Sunday, when the little family walked out together, Adolphus and
his wife fell into a pleasant train of thought,--and when they were
together, thought and speech were generally simultaneous. As they
passed the prison,--for Adolphus had led the way to this path,--Laval
was standing in the door. They stopped to speak with him; whereat he
invited them into his quarters.
In this walk, Elizabeth had fallen behind her parents. When she saw
them going into the prison, she quickened her pace, for her father
beckoned to her. But she was in no earnest haste to follow, as became
sufficiently manifest when she was left alone.
They had not gone far in their talk, however, when she came to the
doorway. Laval, in all his speech, was a deliberate man, and neither
Adolphus nor his wife showed any eagerness in the conduct of the
conversation now begun. The contrast between the gloom of the apartment
and the light and cheerfulness of their own home was apparent to all of
them. Elizabeth felt the oppression under which each of the little
party seemed to labor, the instant she joined her parents. Susceptible
as they all were to the influences of Nature, her sunshine and her
shadow, this gloom which fell upon them was nothing more than might
have been anticipated.
Jailer Laval was homesick, and innocent of a suspicion of what was
passing in the minds of his guests; he was therefore free in making his
complaints, and acknowledged that he was not fit to keep the
prison,--it required a man of more nerve than he had. The dread of the
place which his poor wife had entertained seemed to have taken
possession of him since her death. All the arguments which he once
used, in the endeavor to bolster her courage, he had now forgotten. He
was very cautious when he began to speak of the prisoner, and tried to
divert Adolphus from the point by saying that he would much prefer a
house full of convicts to one so empty as this. There was at least
something like society in that, and something to do.
Adolphus, in spite of his discontent at hearing merely these deductions
of experience, when his desire was to know something of Manuel, heard
nothing of importance. The speech of the jailer on this subject was not
to be had. His mind seemed to be wandering, except when his wife, or
his native land, was referred to; then he brightened into speech, but
never once into cheerfulness. As he sat there in the middle of his
chamber, he seemed to represent the genius of the place,--and anything
less enlivening or desirable in the way of human life could hardly be
imagined. Pauline looked at him and sighed. She looked at Adolphus;--a
pang shot through her heart; the shadow of the man seemed to overshadow
him. Out of this place, where all appeared to be fast changing into
"goblins damned"!
It was she who led the way; but, pausing in the court-yard, Elizabeth
evinced still greater haste to be gone, for she ran on with fleet step,
and a heart heavy with foreboding as to the result of this interview.
She was also impatient to get into the open sunlight, and did not rest
in this progress she was making outward till she had come to the
sea-shore. Elizabeth Montier was in a state of dire perplexity just
then, and if she had been asked whether she would really choose to
effect the change proposed in their way of living, it would have been
no easy matter for her to discover her mind.
By the sea-shore she sat down, and her father and mother followed
slowly on. They were not talking as they came. But as they approached
the beach, Adolphus could not resist the prospect before them. Loud was
the blast he blew upon his horn, nor did he cease playing until his
music had restored him to a more natural mood than that in which the
interview with Laval left him. The prison was becoming a less startling
image of desolate dreariness to him. And Adolphus was the master-spirit
in his family. If he was gay, it was barely possible for his wife and
child to be sad. Of the prison not one word was spoken by either. They
had not revealed to each other their inmost mind when they went into
Laval's quarters; they did not reveal it when they came thence. But as
they strolled along the rocky shore, or returned homeward, they thought
of little beside the prison and the prisoner. As to Elizabeth, nothing
required of her that she should urge the matter further. She had
neither heart nor courage for such urging.
It was Adolphus himself who spoke to Pauline the next day, after he had
deliberately thrown himself in the way of the prisoner, that he might
with his own eyes see what manner of man he was; for seeing was
believing.
"Pauline," said he, almost persuaded of the truth of his own words,
"you and Elizabeth would make a different place of that prison from
what it is now. I should like to see it tried."
Pauline Montier made no haste to answer; she was afraid that she knew
what he expected of her.
"Do you see," continued Adolphus, "Elizabeth won't speak of it again?
But what must she think of us? He is a man. They say we are all
brothers."
"I know it," said, almost sighed, his wife.
"Looking out for our own comfort!" exclaimed Adolphus. "So mighty
afraid of doing what we'd have done for us! Besides, I believe we could
make it pretty pleasant. Cool in summer, and warm in winter. I'd
whitewash pretty thorough. And if the windows were rubbed up, your way,
the light might get through."
"Poor Joan Laval!" said Pauline. "Body and mind gave out. She was
different at first."
"Do you think it was the prison?" asked Adolphus, quickly, like a man
halting between two opinions,--there was no knowing which way he would
jump.
"Something broke her down," replied his wife. She was looking from one
window,--he from another.
"Joan Laval was Joan Laval," said Adolphus, with an effort. "Always
was. Frightened at her own shadow, I suppose. But--there! we won't
think of it. I know how it looks to you, Pauline. Very well,--I don't
see why we should make ourselves miserable for the sake of somebody who
has got to be miserable anyhow,--and deserves it, I suppose, or he
wouldn't be where he is."
"Poor fellow!" sighed Pauline,--as if it were now her turn on the rack.
Here Adolphus let the matter rest. He had overcome his own scruples so
far as honestly to make this proposal to his wife. But he would do no
more than propose,--not for an instant urge the point. Surely, that
could not be required of him. Charity, he remembered, begins at home.
But Pauline could not let the matter rest here. Her struggle was yet to
come. It was she, then, who alone was unwilling to sacrifice her
present home for the sake of a stranger and prisoner!
Now Pauline Montier was a good Christian woman, and various words of
holy utterance began herewith to trouble her. And from a by no means
tranquil musing over them, she began to ask herself, What, after all,
was home? Was happiness indeed dependent on locality when the heart of
love was hers? Could she not give up so little as a house, in order to
secure the comfort of a son of misfortune,--a solitary man,--a dying
prisoner? What she would not give up freely might any day be taken from
her. If fire did not destroy it, the government, which took delight in
interference, might see fit to order that the house they occupied
should be used again for the original purpose of storage.
And then the discomforts of the prison began to appear very
questionable. She remembered that Joan Laval was, as Adolphus hinted,
weakly, nervous, 'frightened at her own shadow,'--a woman who had
never, for any single day of her life, lived with a lofty purpose,--a
cumberer of the ground, who could only cast a shadow.
She perceived that they would be close to the flower-garden; a minute's
walk would lead them to the pleasant woods,--and Pauline Montier always
loved the woods.
Indeed, when she began to take this ground, the first steps of
occupation alone could be timid or doubtful. After that, her humanity,
her sympathy, her confidence in her husband and daughter, drew the
woman on, till she forgot how difficult the first steps had been.
She surprised both husband and daughter by saying to Adolphus, the
moment she came to her conclusion, that he had better make inquiry of
Laval whether he had signified his intention to resign, and forthwith
seek the appointment from the Governor of the island.
When Pauline said this, she attested her sincerity by making ready to
accompany Adolphus at once to the prison, that they might run no risk
of losing the situation by delay. Seeing that they were of one mind,
and entirely confiding in each other, they all went together to the
prison to consult with Laval. Thus it came to pass, that, before the
week ended, the charge of the prison had been transferred to Adolphus
Montier.
The family made great efforts in order to impart an air of cheerfulness
and home-comfort to their new dwelling-place. Adolphus whitewashed,
according to promise; Pauline scrubbed, according to nature; they
arranged and rearranged their little stock of furniture,--set the
loud-ticking day-clock on the mantel-shelf, and displayed around it the
china cups, the flower-vase, and the little picture of their native
town which Adolphus cut from a sheet of letter-paper some old friend
had sent him, and framed with more tender feeling than skill. They did
their best, each one, and said to one another, that, when they got used
to the place, to the large rooms and high ceilings and narrow windows,
it would of course seem like home, to them, because--it _was_ their
HOME. Were they not all together? were not these their own household
goods, around them? Still, they needed all this mutual encouragement
and heartiness of coöperation which was so nobly, so generously
manifested; and it was sincere enough to insure the very result of
contentment and satisfaction which they were so wise as to anticipate.
But the Governor thought,--_The Drummer is getting ambitious; he wants
a big house, and authority!_
Ex-jailer Laval was exceedingly active in assisting his own outgoing
and the incoming of Montier. He helped Adolphus in the heavy labors of
removal, and laughed more during the conduct of these operations than
he had been known to do in years. He said nothing to Prisoner Manuel of
the intended change in jail-administration until the afternoon when for
the last time he walked out with him.
The information was received with apparent indifference, without
question or comment, until Laval, half vexed, and wholly sorrowful for
the sad state of the prisoner, said,--
"I am sorry for you, Sir. I can say that, now I'm going off. I've been
as much a prisoner as you have, I believe. And I wish you were going to
be set free to-night, as I am. I am going home! But I leave you in good
care,--better than mine. I never have gone ahead of my instructions in
taking care of you. I never took advantage of your case, to be cruel or
neglectful. If anything has ever passed that made you think hard of me,
I hope you will forgive it, for I can say I have done the best I could
or dared."
Thus called upon to speak, the prisoner said merely, "I believe
you."
Whereat the jailer spoke again, and with a lighter heart.
"I am glad you're in luck this time,--for you are. You don't know who
is coming to take the charge,--come, I mean, for they are all in, and
settled. That's Montier, the little girl's father. He is a drummer, and
a little of everything else. It's his horn that you hear sometimes. And
you know Elizabeth, who was always so kind about the flowers. His wife,
too, she's a pretty woman, and kind as kind can be."
"What have they come here for?" asked the prisoner, amazed.
"I'll tell you," said Laval, more generous than he had designed to be;
but he knew how he should wish, when the sea rolled between him and
Foray, that he had spoken every comfortable word in his knowledge to
this man; he knew it by his recent experiences of remorse in reference
to his buried wife, and was wise enough to profit by the
knowledge;--"I'll tell you. It's on your account. They were afraid
somebody that didn't know how long you have been here, and how much you
have suffered, would get the place; so they all came together and asked
for it. They had a pretty little house up nigh the barracks, but they
gave it up to come here. You'll see Montier to-night. For when I go
back to your room with you, then I'm going off to--to"----he hesitated,
for foremost among his instructions was this, that he should remain
silent about his purpose of returning home; he was not to go as a
messenger for the prisoner across the ocean to their native land----"to
my business," he said. "If you'll be kind to him, you will make
something by it. I thought I would tell you,--so, when you saw a
strange face in your room, you would know what it meant without
asking."
"I thank you," said the prisoner; and to the jailer it now seemed as if
the figure of the man beside him grew in height and strength,--as if he
trod the ground less feebly and listlessly while he spoke these words.
A divine consolation must have strengthened him even then, or he could
never have added with such emphasis, "Wherever you go, take this my
assurance with you,--you have not been cruel or careless. You have done
as well as you could. I thank you for it."
"You don't ask me where I'm going," said the jailer, after a silence
that seemed but brief to him,--such a deal of argument he had
dispatched, so many difficulties he had overcome in those few moments,
whose like, for mental activity and conclusiveness, he had never seen
before, and never would see again. "I shall be asked if I have told
you. But--where did you come from? Do not tell me your name. But whom
did you leave behind you that you would care most should know you are
alive and in good hands?"
These questions, asked in good faith, would have had their answer; but
while the prisoner was preparing such reply as would have proceeded,
brief and wholly to the point, from the confusion of hope and surprise,
the Governor of Foray came in sight, drew near, and, suspicious, as
became him, walked in silence by the prisoner's side, while Laval
obeyed his mute instructions, leading Manuel back to his cell. A vessel
was approaching the shore of Foray.
Having disposed of his prisoner, the jailer in turn was marched, like
one under arrest, up to the fort, where he remained, an object of
suspicion, until his time came for sailing, and, without knowing it, he
went home under guard.
When Adolphus Montier ascended to the prisoner's room that night, he
found him standing by the window. After Laval left him, he had looked
from out that window, and seen the white sail of a vessel; he could not
see it now, but there he stood, watching, as though he knew not that
his chance of hope was over.
As Adolphus entered the room, the prisoner turned immediately to
him,--asking quietly, as if he had not been suddenly tossed into a gulf
of despair by the breeze that brought him hope,--
"Has Laval sailed?"
"When the cannon fired," was the answer.
Then Adolphus placed the dish containing the prisoner's supper on the
table; he had already lighted the lamp in the hall. And now he wanted
to say something, on this his first appearance in the capacity of
keeper, and he knew what to say,--he had prepared himself abundantly,
he thought. But both the heart and the imagination of Adolphus Montier
stood in the way of such utterance as he had prepared. The instant his
eyes fell on that figure, lonely and forlorn, the instant he heard that
question, his kind heart became weakness, he stood in the prisoner's
place,--he saw the vessel sailing on its homeward voyage,--he beheld
men stepping from sea to shore, walking in happy freedom through the
streets of home;--a vision that filled his eyes with tears was before
him, and he was long in controlling his emotion sufficiently to say,--
"We are in Laval's place, Sir, and we hope you will have no cause to
regret the change. I don't know how to be cruel and severe,--but I must
do my duty. But I wasn't put here for a tyrant."
"I know why you are here; Laval told me," said the prisoner.
"Then we're friends, a'n't we?" asked Adolphus; "though I must do my
duty by them that employ me. You understand. I'd set every door and
window of this building wide open for you, if I had my way; though I
don't know what you're here for. But I swear before heaven and earth,
nothing will tempt me to forget my duty to the government;--if you
should escape, it would be over my dead body. So you see my position."
"Yes," said the prisoner; and if anything could have tempted a smile
from him, this manner of speech would have done it. But Adolphus was
far enough from smiling.
"Come, eat something," said he, with tremulous persuasion. "My wife
knows how to get up such things. She will do the best for you she can."
"Thank you."
The prisoner again looked out of the window. It was growing dark; the
outline of sea and land was fading out of sight; dreary looked the
world without,--but within the lamp seemed shining with a brighter
light than usual. And here was a person and a speech, a human sympathy,
that almost warmed and soothed him.
He approached the table where Adolphus had spread his supper. He sat in
the chair that was placed for him, and the Drummer waited on him,
recommending Pauline's skill again, much as he might have presented a
petition. The prisoner ate little, but he praised Pauline, and said
outright that he had tasted nothing so palatable as her supper these
five years. This cheered Montier a little, but still his spirits were
almost at the lowest point of depression.
"You seem to pity me," remarked the prisoner, when Adolphus was
gathering up the remains of the frugal supper.
"My God!--yes!" exclaimed Adolphus, stopping short, and looking at the
man.
It was a sort of sympathy that could not harm the person on whom it was
bestowed.
"I consider myself well off to-night," said he, quietly. "It is your
little daughter that works in the garden so much? I have often watched
her."
"Yes," said Adolphus, almost with a sob.
"And you are the man whose music has been so cheering many a time?"
"I want to know what airs you like best," said the poor Drummer,
hurriedly.
"I never heard you play one that I did not like."--Precious praise!
"Then you like music? I can be pretty tolerably severe, Sir, if I make
up my mind!" said Adolphus, as if addressing his own conscience, to set
that at rest by this open avowal. "There's no danger of my doing wrong
by the government. I'd have to pay for you with my life. Yes,--for it
would be with my liberty. And there's my wife and child. So you
understand where I am, as I told you before; but, by thunder! you shall
have all the music you want, and all the flowers; and my little girl
can sing pretty well,--her mother taught her. And if you're sick, there
a'n't a better nurse in the hospital than Pauline Montier. There! good
night!"
Adolphus took up the tray and hurried out of the room,--and forgot to
fasten the door behind him until he had gone half way down the stairs.
He came back in haste, and turned the great key with half the blood in
his body burning in his face,--not merely an evidence of the exertion
made in that operation, which he endeavored to perform noiselessly. He
was ashamed of this caging business; but he would have argued you out
of countenance then and there, had you ventured a word against the
government,--though, as he said, he was in the dark concerning the
prisoner's crime.
When he went down stairs he found supper prepared, and Pauline and
their daughter waiting for him. He sat down in silence, seeking to
avoid the questioning eyes which turned toward him so expectant and so
hopeful. Discerning his mood, neither wife nor daughter troubled him
with questions; at last, of himself, he broke out vehemently,--
"I wouldn't for the world have lost the chance! Laval wasn't the man to
take care of that gentleman. But he don't say a word against Laval,
mind you. He spoke about the flowers and the music. Oh, hang it!"
Here, in spite of himself, the Drummer was wholly overcome. He bowed
his head to the table and broke into violent weeping. Another barrier
gave way beside. Elizabeth flew to him. He seemed not to heed her, nor
the sudden cry, "Oh, father!" that escaped her. She sat down by his
side,--she wept as he was weeping. It was a stormy emotion that raged
through her heart, when her tears burst forth. She was not weeping for
pity merely, nor because her father wept. Long before he lifted his
head, she was erect, and quiet, and hopeful,--but a child no more. She
was a woman to love, a woman to dare,--fit and ready for the guiding of
an angel. By-and-by Adolphus said to Pauline,--"If any one else had
undertaken this job in our place, we should have deserved to be shut
out of heaven for it. Thinking twice about it! I'm ashamed of myself.
Why,--why,--he looks like a ghost. But he won't look that way long! We
aren't here to browbeat a man, and kill him by inches, I take it."
"No, indeed!" said Pauline, as if the bare idea filled her with
indignation. The three were surely one now.
[To be continued.]
* * * * *