LITTLE GEORGIE.
As ivy clingeth round a ruin,
Still green within the darkest cleft,
The human soul in its undoing
Has still some lingering virtue left.
Julia slept little during the night. The state of nervous terror in
which she had been thrown, the shrinking dread which made her quail and
tremble at the approach of her fellow prisoners--even the rude kindness
of the strange being who took a sort of tiger-like interest in
her--frightened sleep from her eyes.
A cell had been arranged for her, and the woman, who still shielded her
from the other prisoners, much as a wild beast might protect her young,
consented that the infant boy should be her companion through the night.
This was a great comfort to the poor girl. To her belief there was
protection in the sleeping innocence of the child, who lay with his
delicately veined temples pressing that coarse prison pillow, softly as
if it had been fragrant with rose-leaves.
Julia could not sleep, but it was pleasant in her sad wakefulness to
feel the sweet breath of this child floating over her face, and his soft
arms clinging to her neck. To her poetic imagination it seemed as if a
cherub from heaven had been left to cheer her in the darkness. Sometimes
she would start and listen, or cringe breathlessly down to her pretty
companion, for strange, fierce voices occasionally broke from some of
the cells on either side--smothered sounds as of spirits chained in
torment--wailing and wild shouts of laughter; for with some of those
wretched inmates, memory grew sharp in the midnight of a prison, and
others dreamed as they had lived--shouting fiercely in the sleep which
was not rest, but the dregs of lingering inebriation.
Of the mind and heart of this young girl, we have said but little. The
few simple acts of her life have been allowed to speak for her extreme
youth; the utter isolation of her life, even more than her youth, would,
in ordinary characters, have kept her still ignorant and uninformed. But
Julia was not an ordinary character; there was depth, earnestness, and
that extreme simplicity in her nature which goes to make up the beauty
and strength of womanhood. Suffering had made her precocious, nothing
more--it sent thought hand in hand with feeling. It threw her forward in
life some three or four years. Gratitude, so early and so deeply
enkindled in her young heart, foreshadowed the intensity of affection,
nay, of passion, when it should once be aroused.
In this country, the most abject poverty need not preclude the craving
mind from its natural aliment, books. Julia had read more and thought
more than half the girls of her age in the very highest walks of life.
Her first love of poetry was drawn from the most beautiful of all
sources, the Bible. Her grandfather was a good reader, and possessed no
small degree of natural eloquence. Gushes of poetry, of solemn, sweet
feeling were constantly breaking through the prayers which she had
listened to every night and morning of her life; the very sublimity of
his faith, the simple trust which never forsook him in the goodness of
his Creator--the cheerful humility of his entire character, all this had
aroused sympathetic emotions in his grandchild's heart. It is the good
alone who thoroughly feel how keen and sweet intellectual joys may
become. When we water the blossoms of a strong mind with dew from the
fountains of a good heart, the whole being is harmonious, and the rarest
joys of existence are secured.
But though the Bible contains the safest and most beautiful groundwork
of all literature, history, biography, ethics, poetry, and even that
pure fiction, which shadows forth truth in the parables, the mind that
has first tasted thought there, will crave other sources of knowledge. A
few old volumes, so shabby that the pawnbrokers refused loans upon them,
and the second-hand book-stalls rejected them at any price, still
remained in her basement home. These she had read with the keen relish
of a mind hungry for knowledge. Then old Mrs. Gray had a few books at
her farm-house. She had never read them herself, good soul, and whenever
the beauties of "Paradise Lost," were mentioned, had only a vague
professional idea that our first parents had been driven forth from a
remarkably fine vegetable and fruit garden just before the harvest
season. Still she had great respect for the man who could mourn so great
a loss in verse, and delighted in lending the volumes to her young
friend whenever she had time to read.
From these resources and the patient teachings of her grandfather, Julia
had managed to obtain the most desirable of all educations. She had
learned to think clearly and to feel rightly; but she felt keenly also,
and a vivid imagination kindling up these acute feelings at midnight in
the depth of a prison, made every nerve quiver with dread that was more
than superstitious. One picture haunted her very sleep. It was her
grandfather's white and agonized face stooping over that dead man. Never
had the beautiful, stern face of the stranger beamed upon her so vividly
before. She saw every lineament enameled on the midnight blackness.
She longed to arouse the child and ask it if the face were really
visible, but was afraid to speak or move. The very sound of his soft
breath as the boy slept terrified her. But while this wild dread was
strongest upon her, the child awoke and began to feel over her face with
his little hands. Softly, and with the touch of falling rose-leaves, his
fingers wandered over her eyes, her forehead, and her mouth. They were
like sunbeams playing upon ice, those warm, rosy fingers. The young girl
ceased to feel frightened or alone. She began to weep. She pressed his
hands to her lips, and drew the child close to her bosom, whispering
softly to him, and pressing her lips to his eyes now and then, to be
sure they were open. But all her gentle wiles were insufficient to keep
the little fellow awake; he began to breathe more and more deeply, and,
overcome by the soft mesmerism of his breath, she fell asleep also.
It would have been a lovely sight had any one looked upon those two
calm, beautiful faces pillowed together upon that prison bed. Smiles
dimpled round the rosy lips, upon which the breath floated like mist
over a cluster of ripe cherries. The bright ringlets of the child fell
over the tresses that shadowed the fair temple close to his, lighting
them up as with threads, and gleams of gold. It was a picture of
innocent sleep those green walls had perhaps never sheltered before
since their foundation. It was natural that Julia should smile in her
sleep, and that a glow like the first beams of morning when they
penetrate a rose, should light up her face. She was dreaming, and
slumber cast a fairy brightness over thoughts that had perhaps vaguely
haunted her before that night. Memories mingled with the vision and the
scenes which wove themselves in her slumbering thought had been
realities--the first joyous realities of her young life. She was at an
old farm-house, half hid in the foliage of two noble maples, all golden
and crimson with a touch of frost. Her grandparents stood upon the
door-stone with old Mrs. Gray, talking together, and smiling upon her as
she sat down beneath the maples, and began to arrange a lapful of
flowers that somehow had filled her apron, as bright things will fall
upon us in our sleep. These blossoms breathed a perfume more delicate
than anything she had ever seen or imagined, and, though coarse garden
flowers, their breath was intoxicating.
Dreams are independent of detail, and the sleeper only knew that a young
man whose face was familiar, and yet strange, stood by her side, and
smiled gently upon her as she bent over her treasure. Was her slumbering
imagination more vivid than the reality had been, or had her nerves ever
answered human look with the delicious thrill that pervaded them in this
dream? Was it the shadow of a memory haunting her sleep? Oh, yes, she
had dreamed before--dreamed when those soft eyes had nothing but their
curling lashes to veil them, and when the thoughts that were now
floating through her vision left a glow upon that young cheek. It was
true the angel of love haunted Julia in her prison.
The real and the imaginary still blended itself in her vision but
indistinctly, and with that vague cloudiness that makes one sigh when
the dream becomes a memory. An harassing sense that her grandfather was
in trouble seemed to blend with the misty breath of the flowers. She
still sat beneath the tree, and saw an old man in the distance,
struggling with a throng of people, half engulphed in a storm-cloud that
rolled up from the horizon. She could not move, for the blossoms in her
lap seemed turning to lead, which she had no power to fling off. She
struggled, and cried out wildly, "Robert--Robert Otis!"
The blossoms breathed in her lap again; flashes of silver broke up the
distant cloud, and stars seemed dropping, one by one, from its writhing
folds. Robert Otis was now in the distance, now at her side; she could
not turn her eyes without encountering the deep smiling fervor of his
glance. His name trembled and died on her lips in broken whispers, then
all faded away. Balmy quiet settled on the spirit of the young girl, and
she slept softly as the flowers slumber when their cups are overflowing
with dew.
From this sweet rest she was aroused by a sharp clang of iron, and the
tread of feet in the passage. The door of her own cell was flung open,
and a tin cup full of coffee, with coarse, wholesome bread, was set
inside for her breakfast. The dream still left its balm upon her heart,
which all that prison noise had not power to frighten away. She smoothed
her own hair, arranged her dress, and then arousing the child from its
sleep with kisses, bathed and dressed him also. He was sitting upon her
lap, his fresh rosy face lifted to hers, while she smoothed his tresses,
and twisted them in ringlets around her fingers, when his mother entered
the cell. She scarcely glanced at the child; but sat down, and
supporting her forehead with one hand, remained in sombre stillness
gazing on the floor. There was nothing reckless or coarse in her manner.
Her heavy forehead was clouded, but with gloom that partook more of
melancholy than of anger.
She spoke at length, but without changing her position or lifting her
eyes from the floor.
"Will you tell me the name?--will you tell me who the man was they
charge your grandfather with murdering? Was it--was it----" The low
husky tones died in her throat; she made another effort, and added,
almost in a whisper, "was it William Leicester?"
The question arrested Julia in her graceful task; her hands dropped as
if smitten down from those golden tresses, and she answered in a faint
voice, "that it was the name."
"Then he is dead; are you sure--quite sure?"
"They all said so; the doctor, all that saw him!"
"You did not see him then?"
"Yes--yes!" answered the young girl, closing her eyes with a pang. "I
saw him--I saw him!"
"Why did your grandfather kill him? Had Leicester done him any wrong?"
"I do not know what wrong he had ever done," answered Julia; "but I am
certain if he had injured him ever so much, grandpa would not have
harmed a hair of his head."
"Who did kill him then?" said the woman sharply.
"I think," said Julia, in a low, firm voice--"I think that he killed
himself!"
"No. It could not be that!" muttered the woman, gloomily. "No doubt the
old man did what others had better cause for doing; tell me how it
happened!"
Julia saw that the woman was growing pale around the lips as she spoke;
her hand also looked blue and cold as it shaded her face.
"Don't be afraid of me. Go on, I could not harm a mouse this morning,"
she said, observing that Julia hesitated, and sat gazing earnestly upon
her. "I have been in prison here two weeks, and never heard of his death
till now!"
"Did you know Mr. Leicester?" questioned Julia.
"Yes, I knew him!"
There was something in the tone of her voice that surprised Julia; more
of bitterness than grief, and yet something of both.
"Will you tell me what I asked you?" said the woman, with a touch of her
usual impetuosity.
"Yes," answered Julia. "It distresses me to talk of it; but if you are
really anxious to hear, I will!"
She went on with painful hesitation, and told the woman all those
details that are so well known to the reader. The woman listened
attentively, sometimes holding her breath with intense interest; again
breathing quick and sharp, as if some strong feeling were curbed into
silence with difficulty. When Julia ceased speaking, she folded both
hands over her face, and lowering it down to her knees, rocked to and
fro without sob or tear; but the very stillness was eloquent.
She got up after a little and went out. Half an hour after, Julia took
the child to his mother's cell. The strange woman was lying with her
face to the wall, motionless as the granite upon which her large eyes
were fixed. She did not turn as they approached, but waved her hand
impatiently that they should leave the cell.
Holding the child by his hand, Julia lingered in the passage. After a
few careless, and in some cases, rude manifestations of interest, the
prisoners left her unmolested, to seek what consolation might be found
in observation and exercise.
Thus the day crept on. The confusion which her youth and terror created
the day before, had settled down in that sullen apathy which is the most
depressing feature of prison life. The women moved about with a dull,
heavy tread; some sat motionless against the wall, gazing into the air,
to all appearance void of sensation, almost of life; some slept away the
weary time but depression lay heavily upon them all.
Julia lingered near the grating, for the gleams of sunshine that shot
into the broad hall beyond, whenever the outer door was opened to allow
access and egress to the officers, had something cheerful in it that
filled her with hope. The child, too, felt this pleasant influence, and
his prattle, now and then broken with a soft laugh, was music to the
poor girl.
"Come, love--come, let us go away. People are at the door!" she cried
all at once, striving to lead the child away.
"No--no. It is brighter here, I will stay," answered the little fellow,
leaping roguishly on one side. "It's only the matron; don't you hear her
keys jingle? She will take me up into her pretty room, and you as well.
Just wait till I ask her."
The door opened and a black-eyed little woman, full of animation and
cheerful energy, stepped into the passage. She paused, for Julia stood
in her way, making gentle efforts to free her dress from the grasp which
the little boy had fixed upon it. The beauty of the young girl, her
shrinking manner, and the crimson that came and went on her sweet face,
all interested the matron at once. She smiled a motherly, cheering
smile, and said at once--
"Ah, you have found one another out. George is a safe little
playmate--ain't you, darling? Come, now, tell me what her name is,
that's a man."
"She hasn't told me yet," lisped the child, freeing Julia from his
grasp, and nestling himself against the matron.
"My name is Julia--Julia Warren, ma'am," said the young prisoner,
blushing to hear the sound of her name in that place.
"I thought so; I was sure of it from the first; there, there, don't be
frightened, and don't cry. Come up to my room--come, George! Tell your
young friend that somebody is waiting for her up there--some one that
she will be very glad to meet."
"Tell me--oh! tell me who!" cried the poor girl, breathlessly.
"Your grandmother, so she calls herself--and----"
Julia waited for no more, but darted forward.
"There--there. You will never get on alone!" cried the matron,
laughing, while she turned a heavy key bright with constant use in its
lock, and opened the grated door. "Come, now, I and Georgie will lead
the way."
Julia stood in the outer passage while the heavy door was secured again,
her cheeks all in a glow of joy, her limbs trembling with impatience.
Little George, too, seemed to partake of her eagerness; he ran up and
down in the bright atmosphere like a bird revelling in the first gleams
of morning. He seized the matron by her dress as she locked the door,
and shaking his soft curls gleefully, attempted to draw her away. His
sympathy was so graceful and cheering that it made both Julia and the
matron smile, and though they mounted the stairs rapidly, he ran up and
down a dozen steps while they ascended half the number.
Neither Julia nor her grandmother spoke when they met, but there was joy
upon their faces, and the most touching affection in the eyes that
constantly turned upon each other.
"And now," said old Mrs. Gray, coming forward with her usual bland
kindness, "as neither of you seem to have much to say just now, what if
Robert and I come in for a little notice?"
Julia looked up as the kind voice reached her, and there, half hidden by
the portly figure of his aunt, she saw Robert Otis looking upon her with
the very expression that had haunted her dream that night, in the
prison. Their eyes met, the white lids fell over hers as if weighed down
by the lashes, through which the lustrous eyes, kindling beneath,
gleamed like diamond flashes. She forgot Mrs. Gray, everything but the
glory of her dream, the power of those eloquent eyes.
"And so you will not speak to me--you will not look at me!" said the
huckster woman, a little surprised by this reception, but speaking with
great cordiality, for she was not one of those very troublesome persons
who fancy affronts in everything.
"Not speak to you!" cried the young girl, starting from her pleasant
reverie to the scarcely less pleasant reality. "Oh! Mrs. Gray, you knew
better!"
"Of course I did," cried the good woman, with a laugh that made her
neckerchief tremble, and she shook the little hand that Julia gave with
grateful warmth, over and over again. "Come, now, get your bonnet and
things."
Julia looked at the matron.
"But I am a prisoner!"
"Nothing of the sort. I've bought you out; given bonds, or something.
Robert can tell you all about it; but the long and short is, you're free
as a blackbird. Can go home with me--grandma too, I'm old--I'm getting
lonesome--want her to keep house when I'm in market, and you to take
care of her."
"But grandfather--where is he? Oh! where is he?"
Mrs. Gray's countenance fell, and she seemed ready to burst into tears.
"Don't ask me; Robert must tell you about that. I did my best; offered
to mortgage the whole farm to those crusty old judges, but it was of no
use."
"We couldn't leave him here alone!" said Julia, with one of her faint,
beautiful smiles.
Robert Otis came forward now.
"It would be useless for either of you to remain here on his account,
even if the laws would permit it. You will be allowed to see him quite
as frequently if you live with my aunt, and with freedom you may find
means of aiding him."
Julia raised her eyes to his face; her glance, instead of embarrassing,
seemed to animate the young man.
"It admits of no choice," he added, with a smile. "Your grandfather
himself desires that you should accept my aunt's offer, and she--bless
her--it would break her heart to be refused."
"Grandfather desires it--Mr. Otis desires it. Shall we not go, grandma?"
"Certainly, child; he wishes it, that is enough; but I shall see him
every day, you remember, ma'am. Every day when you come over, I come
also. It was a promise!"
"Do exactly as you please--that's my idea of helping folks," answered
Mrs. Gray, to whom the latter part of this address had been made. "The
kindness that forces people to be happy, according to a rule laid down
by the self-conceit of a person who happens to have the means you want,
is the worst kind of slavery, because it is a slavery for which you are
expected to be very grateful. I have heard brother Jacob say this a
hundred times, and so have you, Robert."
"Uncle Jacob never said anything that was not wise and generous in his
life!" answered the young man, with kindling eyes.
"If ever an angel lived on earth, he is one!" rejoined Mrs. Gray,
looking around upon her audience, as if to impress them fully with this
estimate of her brother's character.
A sparkling smile broke over Robert's face.
"Well, aunt, I hope you never fancied the angels dressing exactly after
Uncle Jacob's fashion!" he said, casting a look full of comic meaning on
the old lady.
"Oh, Robert, you are always laughing at me!" replied the good-humored
lady, turning from the young man to her other auditors. "It was always
so; the most mischievous little rogue you ever saw. I thought he had
grown out of it for a while, but nature is nature the world through."
Robert blushed. His aunt's encomiums did not quite please him, for the
character of a mischievous boy was not that which he was desirous of
maintaining just then. In the dark eyes turned so earnestly upon his
face, he read a depth and earnestness of feeling that made his attempt
at cheerfulness seem almost sacrilegious. Julia saw this, and smiled
softly. She had not intended to rebuke him by the seriousness of her
face, and her look expressed this more eloquently than words could have
done.
When the heart is sorrowful, there are times when cheerfulness in those
around us has a healthful influence. The joyous laugh, the pleasant word
may fall harshly upon a riven heart at first, but imperceptibly they
become familiar again, and at length sweep aside the gloom with which
the mourner loves to envelope himself. Give the soul plenty of
sunshine, and it grows vigorous to withstand the storm. When grief is
pampered and cultivated as a duty, it often degenerates into intense
selfishness. Sorrow has its vanity as well as joy.