"Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd should fly from thee, thy home is still here.
* * *
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in thy heart;
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"
A graceful form bent over a printed page, and by the light of a waxen
taper, devoured its startling contents. Ah, how awfully startling to the
reader! for it was Louise Edson poreing over the disclosures of Col.
Malcome's wickedness and crime. But, as she drew toward the close, a
sudden ray of light struggled through the anguish and misery which had
cast her features into utter darkness, when her eye first lighted on the
glaring capitals of the criminal's name. Concealing the paper which
contained the fearful tale of his guilt, she hastened to her own
apartment.
As the shades of the following evening drew on, a female figure, wrapped
in a large shawl, with her features closely veiled, stood at the iron
door of the huge, black jail, and besought an entrance.
"Who do you wish to see?" demanded the jailer, in a coarse, rough tone,
seeking to penetrate the veil with his impertinent eyes.
She breathed a low word in his ear. The man started.
"Is it possible you wish to behold a wretch like him?" exclaimed he.
The lady drew up her slight form with an air of dignity, and said,
"Deliver my message, and bring me his answer!"
Awed by her manner, the jailer hastened his steps to obey her command.
The door of a gloomy cell on the second floor of the huge building
opened with a harsh, grating sound, and the man stepped in and secured
the door behind him. The prisoner, who was sitting beside a table, with
pen and paper before him, turned round and fixed his eyes upon the
intruder. "What do you want?" asked he. "When you use double bolts and
bars to secure me, is it necessary to come every hour to see if I have
not escaped?"
"I have not come to satisfy myself of your safety," returned the jailer,
scowling on the speaker. "There's a woman at the outer door who wants to
know if you will grant her a brief interview."
The prisoner started abruptly at these words. "What is her name?"
demanded he, quickly.
"I do not know," answered the man. "She did not tell me; but she seemed
mighty impatient for an answer to her request."
The prisoner bowed his head and sat in silence several moments. At
length he said, "Bring her in! I have a curiosity to know what woman
would penetrate these walls to seek an interview with me."
The jailer disappeared. In a few moments footsteps were heard along the
dark passage, a female form was ushered into the cheerless apartment,
and the lock turned harshly upon her. Then a white hand was laid lightly
on the bright curling locks of the bowed head, and a low voice whispered
in the ear of the incarcerated man, "It is a pitiful heart that forgets
a friend in adversity."
"Louise!" said the prisoner, shrinking away with evident pain from her
touch. "Why are you here?"
"To cheer you,--to comfort you," said she, earnestly regarding his pale,
handsome features.
But he turned away from her gaze, shaking his head mournfully. "This is
the deepest humiliation I have yet endured," he said, while a creeping
shudder convulsed his frame. "To feel those clear eyes fastened upon me,
piercing through and through my soul, and reading all the guilt and
crime that's written there. O, Louise! was it not enough to drive me, by
your unrelenting scorn and bitterness, to commit the act which has
brought me here, without seeking to torment your victim by penetrating
his dungeon to mock at the misfortune your own cruelty occasioned?"
He raised his pale, distressed face imploringly to hers as he ceased to
speak; but she started back from her position at his side, and with an
angry accent said, "I do not understand how any fell influence of mine
should cause you to break the heart of an innocent woman by your guilty
conduct with another."
"I did not seek to refer the blame of those early sins to any influence
of yours," he answered. "How could I, when they were committed before
your birth? In the very dust I acknowledge those deeds of villany and
vileness. But too late is my grief and repentance. The blow has fallen,
and my doom is fixed."
He leaned his arms forward upon the table, and, sinking his head upon
them, uttered a low groan of hopeless, despairing misery.
Tears sprang to Louise's eyes, and, approaching, she dropped on her
knees at his side, and laid her hand on his arm, "Do you remember a
promise I gave you long ago?" she asked softly. "If I have seemed
forgetful, let me renew it now."
He still retained his attitude of dejection, and seemed regardless of
her pleading tones.
"You will not hear me," she said at length, in a voice broken with
grief, "when I kneel at your feet and ask your pardon."
"_You_ kneel to _me_!" said he, suddenly grasping her arm and striving
to raise her from the humble position. "Rise, I entreat, if you would
not drive me mad!"
She stood before him, with tears falling fast from her beautiful eyes.
"Who is the cruel one now?" she asked. "Who throws me aside and refuses
forgiveness when it is repentantly implored?"
"What signifies the pardon of a wretch like me?" said he, in a tone of
agony. "What is he? what can he be to you?"
Turning her head aside, she said in a soft, trembling voice, "He is what
he has ever been, and still may be,--my world of love and happiness!"
Her cheeks flushed, as, lifting her eyes, she encountered his earnest
gaze. She sought to move away, but he was by her side. "Louise! Louise!"
said he, in a tone of thrilling emotion, "Dare I hope that you love me
still?"
There was no word; but she put her arm round his neck and sank weeping
on his bosom. He pressed her again and again to his heart. "Ah, indeed!"
said he, at length, "this is the luxury of woe. To know at last this
love is mine, and be separated forever from its dear embraces by the
cold walls of a prison. Stern justice can inflict no pang like this."
"Talk not of separation," said she, lifting her head, and revealing a
face redolent with happiness. "No hand shall take me from you save the
hand of death!"
He gazed with unspeakable tenderness on her glowing features, and said
sorrowfully, "My wickedness does not deserve this angel-comforter. Why
did you withhold this blessed consolation when the world smiled brightly
on me?"
"To bestow it when the world had cast you off," said she; "to think of
you at your best, when it had made your name a by-word and reproach."
He pressed his lips tenderly to the white, upturned brow, and drew her
to a seat. A half-hour passed in low, earnest conversation, when the
grating of the iron key aroused them, and Louise had only time to draw
her veil over her features when the jailer entered. "I am ready to
follow you," she said, advancing toward him.
He held the heavy door asunder, and, with one lingering glance on the
form of the prisoner, she went forth and followed her guide through the
dark passages, and down the steep flights of stairs. He unlocked the
street-door, and she stepped lightly forth beneath the light of the
stars.