THE WORLD'S VERDICT--OUR KNIGHT A CRIMINAL
A few moments before his interview with the thrifty and respectable Mrs.
Gruppins, Haldane had supposed himself too weary to drag one foot after
the other in search of another resting-place; and therefore his eager
hope that that obdurate female might not be gifted with the same quality
of "in'ards" which Pat M'Cabe ascribed to Mr. Arnot. He had, indeed,
nearly reached the limit of endurance, for had he been in his best and
most vigorous condition, a day which taxed so terribly both body and
mind would have drained his vitality to the point of exhaustion. As it
was, the previous night's debauch told against him like a term of
illness. He had since taken food insufficiently and irregularly, and
was, therefore, in no condition to meet the extraordinary demands of the
ordeal through which he was passing. Mental distress, moreover, is far
more wearing than physical effort, and his anguish of mind had risen
several times during the day almost to frenzy.
In spite of all this, the sharp and pitiless tongue of Mrs. Gruppins
goaded him again to the verge of desperation, and he strode rapidly and
aimlessly away, through the night and storm, with a wilder tempest
raging in his breast. But the gust of feeling died away as suddenly as
it had arisen, and left him ill and faint. A telegraph pole was near,
and he leaned against it for support.
"Move on," growled a passing policeman.
"Will you do me a kindness?" asked Haldane; "I am poor and sick--a
stranger. Tell me where I can hire a bed for a small sum."
The policeman directed him down a side street, saying, "You can get a
bed at No. 13, and no questions asked."
There was unspeakable comfort in the last assurance, for it now seemed
that he could hope to find a refuge only in places where "no questions
were asked."
With difficulty the weary youth reached the house, and by paying a small
extra sum was able to obtain a wretched little room to himself; but
never did storm-tossed and endangered sailors enter a harbor's quiet
waters with a greater sense of relief than did Haldane as he crept up
into this squalid nook, which would at least give him a little respite
from the world's terrible scorn.
What a priceless gift for the unhappy, the unfortunate--yes, and for
the guilty--is sleep! Many seem to think of the body only as a clog,
impeding mental action--as a weight, chaining the spirit down. Were the
mind, in its activity, independent of the body--were the wounded spirit
unable to forget its pain--could the guilty conscience sting
incessantly--then the chief human industry would come to be the erection
of asylums for the insane. But by an unfathomable mystery the tireless
regal spirit has been blended with the flesh and blood of its servant,
the body. In heaven, where there is neither sin nor pain, even the body
becomes spiritual; but on earth, where it so often happens, as in the
case of poor Haldane, that to think and to remember is torture, it is a
blessed thing that the body, formed from the earth, often becomes heavy
as earth, and rests upon the spirit for a few hours at least, like the
clods with which we fill the grave.
The morning of the following day was quite well advanced when Haldane
awoke from his long oblivion, and, after regaining consciousness, he lay
a full hour longer trying to realize his situation, and to think of some
plan by which he might best recover his lost position. As he recalled
all that had occurred he began to understand the extreme difficulty of
his task, and he even queried whether it were possible for him to
succeed. If the respectable would not even give him shelter, how could
he hope that they would employ and trust him?
After he had partaken of quite a hearty breakfast, however, his fortunes
began to wear a less forbidding aspect. Endowed with youth, health, and,
as he believed, with more than usual ability, he felt that there was
scarcely occasion for despair. Some one would employ him--some one would
give him another chance. He would take any respectable work that would
give him a foothold, and by some vague, fortunate means, which the
imagination of the young always supplies, he would achieve success that
would obliterate the memory of the past. Therefore, with flashes of hope
in his heart, he started out to seek his fortune, and commenced applying
at the various stores and offices of the city.
So far from giving any encouragement, people were much surprised that he
had the assurance to ask to be employed and trusted again. The majority
dismissed him coldly and curtly. A few mongrel natures, true to
themselves, gave a snarling refusal. Then there were jovial spirits who
must have their jest, even though the sensitive subject of it was
tortured thereby--men who enjoyed quizzing Haldane before sending him
on, as much as the old inquisitors relished a little recreation with hot
pincers and thumb-screws. There were also conscientious people, whose
worldly prudence prevented them from giving employment to one so damaged
in character, and yet who felt constrained to give some good advice. To
this, it must be confessed, Haldane listened with very poor grace, thus
extending the impression that he was a rather hopeless subject.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, interrupting an old gentleman who was
indulging in some platitudes to the effect that the "way of the
transgressor is hard"--"I would rather black your boots than listen to
such talk. What I want is work--a chance to live honestly. What's the
use of telling a fellow not to go to the devil, and then practically
send him to the devil?"
The old gentleman was somewhat shocked and offended, and coldly
intimated that he had no need of the young man's services.
A few spoke kindly and seemed truly sorry for him, but they either had
no employment to give, or, on business principles, felt that they could
not introduce among their other assistants one under bonds to appear and
be tried for a State-prison offence that was already the same as proved.
After receiving rebuffs, and often what he regarded as insults, for
hours, the young man's hope began to fail him utterly. His face grew
pale and haggard, not only from fatigue, but from that which tells
disastrously almost as soon upon the body as upon the mind--discouragement.
He saw that he had not yet fully realized the consequences of his folly.
The deep and seemingly implacable resentment of society was a continued
surprise. He was not conscious of being a monster of wickedness, and it
seemed to him that after his bitter experience he would rather starve
than again touch what was not his own.
But the trouble is, the world does not give us much credit for what we
think, feel, and imagine, even if aware of our thoughts. It is what we
_do_ that forms public opinion; and it was both natural and just that
the public should have a very decided opinion of one who had recently
shown himself capable of gambling, drunkenness, and practical theft.
And yet the probabilities were that if some kind, just man had bestowed
upon Haldane both employment and trust, with a chance to rise, his
bitter lesson would have made him scrupulously careful to shun his
peculiar temptations from that time forward. But the world usually
regards one who has committed a crime as a criminal, and treats him as
such. It cannot, if it would, nicely calculate the hidden moral state
and future chances. It acts on sound generalities, regardless of the
exceptions; and thus it often happens that men and women who at first
can scarcely understand the world's adverse opinion, are disheartened by
it, and at last come to merit the worst that can be said or thought.
As, at the time of his first arrest, Haldane had found his eyes drawn by
a strange, cruel fascination to every scornful or curious face upon the
street, so now he began to feel a morbid desire to know just what people
were saying and thinking of him. He purchased both that day's papers and
those of the previous day, and, finding a little out-of-the-way
restaurant kept by a foreigner, he "supped full with"--what were to him
emphatically--"horrors"; the dinner and supper combined, which he had
ordered, growing cold, in the meantime, and as uninviting as the place
in which it was served.
His eyes dwelt longest upon those sentences which were the most
unmercifully severe, and they seemed to burn their way into his very
soul. Was he in truth such a miscreant as the "Courier" described? Mrs.
Arnot had not shrunk from him as from contamination; but she was
different from all other people that he had known; and he now
remembered, also, that even she always referred to his act in a grave,
troubled way, as if both its character and consequences were serious
indeed.
There was such a cold, leaden despondency burdening his heart that he
felt that he must have relief of some kind. Although remembering his
rash invocation of fatal consequences to himself should he touch again
that which had brought him so much evil, he now, with a reckless oath,
muttered that he "needed some liquor, and would have it."
Having finished a repast from which he would have turned in disgust
before his fortunes had so greatly altered, and having gained a little
temporary courage from the more than doubtful brandy served in such a
place, he obtained permission to sit by the fire and smoke away the
blustering evening, for he felt no disposition to face the world again
that day. The German proprietor and his beer-drinking patrons paid no
attention to the stranger, and as he sat off on one side by himself at a
table, with a mug of lager before him, he was practically as much alone,
and as lonely, as if in a desert.
In a dull, vague way it occurred to him that it was very fitting that
those present should speak in a foreign and unknown tongue, and act and
look differently from all classes of people formerly known to him. He
was in a different world, and it was appropriate that everything should
appear strange and unfamiliar.
Finding that he could have a room in this same little, dingy
restaurant-hotel, where he had obtained his supper, he resolved that he
would torture himself no more that night with thoughts of the past or
future, but slowly stupefy himself into sleep.