During my friend’s absence, my attention was claimed by a sad
incident--not unforeseen.
It is, I suppose, generally known that near relatives are admitted to
take their leave of criminals condemned to death. In the case of the
Prisoner now waiting for execution, no person applied to the authorities
for permission to see her. I myself inquired if she had any relations
living, and if she would like to see them. She answered: “None that
I care to see, or that care to see me--except the nearest relation of
all.”
In those last words the miserable creature alluded to her only child, a
little girl (an infant, I should say), who had passed her first year’s
birthday by a few months. The farewell interview was to take place on
the mother’s last evening on earth; and the child was now brought into
my rooms, in charge of her nurse.
I had seldom seen a brighter or prettier little girl. She was just able
to walk alone, and to enjoy the first delight of moving from one place
to another. Quite of her own accord she came to me, attracted I daresay
by the glitter of my watch-chain. Helping her to climb on my knee, I
showed the wonders of the watch, and held it to her ear. At that past
time, death had taken my good wife from me; my two boys were away at
Harrow School; my domestic life was the life of a lonely man. Whether
I was reminded of the bygone days when my sons were infants on my knee,
listening to the ticking of my watch--or whether the friendless position
of the poor little creature, who had lost one parent and was soon to
lose the other by a violent death, moved me in depths of pity not easily
reached in my later experience--I am not able to say. This only I know:
my heart ached for the child while she was laughing and listening; and
something fell from me on the watch which I don’t deny might have been
a tear. A few of the toys, mostly broken now, which my two children
used to play with are still in my possession; kept, like my poor wife’s
favorite jewels, for old remembrance’ sake. These I took from their
repository when the attraction of my watch showed signs of failing. The
child pounced on them with her chubby hands, and screamed with pleasure.
And the hangman was waiting for her mother--and, more horrid still, the
mother deserved it!
My duty required me to let the Prisoner know that her little daughter
had arrived. Did that heart of iron melt at last? It might have been so,
or it might not; the message sent back kept her secret. All that it said
to me was: “Let the child wait till I send for her.”
The Minister had consented to help us. On his arrival at the prison, I
received him privately in my study.
I had only to look at his face--pitiably pale and agitated--to see
that he was a sensitive man, not always able to control his nerves on
occasions which tried his moral courage. A kind, I might almost say a
noble face, and a voice unaffectedly persuasive, at once prepossessed
me in his favor. The few words of welcome that I spoke were intended
to compose him. They failed to produce the impression on which I had
counted.
“My experience,” he said, “has included many melancholy duties, and has
tried my composure in terrible scenes; but I have never yet found myself
in the presence of an unrepentant criminal, sentenced to death--and
that criminal a woman and a mother. I own, sir, that I am shaken by the
prospect before me.”
I suggested that he should wait a while, in the hope that time and quiet
might help him. He thanked me, and refused.
“If I have any knowledge of myself,” he said, “terrors of anticipation
lose their hold when I am face to face with a serious call on me. The
longer I remain here, the less worthy I shall appear of the trust that
has been placed in me--the trust which, please God, I mean to deserve.”
My own observation of human nature told me that this was wisely said. I
led the way at once to the cell.