On those poor frail sisters who've fallen low,
And who suffer and die through the sins of men--
More sinned against, than sinning, I trow--
Shew Thy Mercy--Thy Pity--Lord Christ, Amen.
--_Court of Common Pleas_
Wearily, and with a throbbing pain in his torn ear, Ellis resumed his
vigil. An hour slowly passed. Two hours. Suddenly a restless movement
from the bed aroused him from the dreamy lethargy into which he had
sunk, and he gazed into the wide-open, bewildered eyes of the awakened
girl that were regarding him wonderingly through their long lashes.
"How did I come here?" she articulated painfully.
"I carried you in," he said. "You've been in here for nearly three hours
now."
Her lips moved soundlessly, and she remained with puckered forehead, as
if striving to collect her thoughts.
"Then who were those other men?" she said in a hoarse whisper.
"Well, one was the postmaster, and there was the man that owns the
hotel. The other man was the doctor. It was he who fixed you up."
Then, for the first time, she seemed to notice his bandaged head. With a
little cry, she struggled feebly to raise herself, eyeing him fearfully
the while.
"Where's Harry?" she gasped tensely. "You've been hurt, like me. Did you
an' him get shootin' at each other again? Oh, tell me. Where is he?"
He strove to soothe her and allay her agitation, but without avail.
"Please! oh, please, Policeman!" she sobbed. "Don't arrest him. Let him
go! He didn't _mean_ to hurt me."
Her continued piteous pleading moved him greatly. Puzzled at this
attitude towards the man who had ruined and maltreated her, Ellis
inquired gently:
"Why?"
The great imploring dark eyes became like two twin stars, seeming to
search his very soul, as a wave of ineffable forgiving pity and devotion
glorified the face of the dying girl.
"Because--I--I--" she faltered.
The simplicity of her implied admission struck him dumb with surprise
for a moment, and he stared at her in stupefied amazement.
"What?" he almost shouted. "You still love that chap after--after--"
Speech failed him and he could only continue to look at her in awed
wonder.
Hard as they may find it to observe other precepts of the Great Master,
this one, at least, most women have practised easily and naturally for
over nineteen hundred years--"Forgive, until seventy times seven."
The acts of some of these--how they warred with their husbands and
paramours and were worsted; how they provoked the presiding magistrate
and stultified the attesting policeman by obstinately ignoring their
injuries written legibly in red, and black, and blue; how they
interceded with many sobs for the aggressor--are they not written in the
book of the chronicles of every police court in the world?
This propensity leads them into scrapes, it is true, for our world in
its wisdom will always take advantage of such weaknesses. Perhaps the
next will make them some amends.
The bright, fever-lit eyes never left Benton's face, and two tears
rolled down her sunken cheeks as she nodded silently in answer to his
incredulous query. Such an expression, indeed, might the Covenanter's
widow have worn, as she looked into the ruthless countenance of Graham
of Claverhouse and begged for the life of her only son. And such it is,
also, that makes Guido's famous picture of Beatrice Cenci one of the
saddest paintings on earth.
_That_ look was almost more than the Sergeant could endure, and he
hastily turned his head away to hide the hot, blinding tears that sprang
to his eyes. There seemed something very terrible, just then, in the
pathetic working of his stern face, as the strong man strove to hide his
emotion.
"Diamonds and pearls," he whispered brokenly to himself; "diamonds and
pearls."
And _this_--love such as _this_, had the dead man gained, then spurned
brutally from him, and cast away.
The Soul--to the last, could still triumph over the poor broken Body,
and _Love_--glorious, all-forgiving Love--arise, victorious and
conquering; through life--through death--aye--beyond the grave
itself--to the very Resurrection Morn.
The sands of the poor sufferer's existence were running out fast now.
Benton shuddered when he thought of the horror that would surely come
into those shining, steadfast eyes if she were told whose blood was upon
his hands. Why disturb the brief space that was allotted to her by
revealing the awful truth? It would be a crime, he reflected. He lied,
bravely and whole-heartedly.
"No," he said. "I haven't arrested him, my girl. I was chasin' after
him, an' scratched one of my ears pretty bad climbin' through that
barbed-wire fence alongside the track. A way-freight goin' East pulled
through just about five minutes after, an' I guess he must have made his
get-away on that."
She drank in his words with an eagerness that tortured his conscience
sorely, but a quick, joyful light dawned on her face as his reward, and
she sank back on the pillows again with a little weary, gratified sigh
of relief. The strain had been too much for her, however, and she began
to choke pitifully, as a fresh gush of blood bubbled up from her lips
and stained her white breast. He slipped an arm under her head and,
tenderly as a woman might have done, he soothed and ministered to her
paroxysm.
For some few minutes she lay in a sort of stupor, and he watched her
anxiously, undecided whether or not to awaken Musgrave; but presently
she revived a little and her breathing became easier. The flow of blood
from her mouth had abated and, as she looked up and saw him supporting
her, the pale lips relaxed into a faint semblance of their old roguish
smile; when her face and bosom had been gently sponged, and she had
drunk a glass of water, she spoke--almost in a whisper, but quite calmly
and clearly:
"You ca-can't--arrest me--now!"
The unutterable pathos of her pitiful little jest nearly broke him down
then but, with a struggle, he raised his eyes and, with a twisted mouth,
smiled valiantly back at her.
"What did--that--doctor--say?" she asked slowly. "Does
he--think--I'll--die? I feel so--very--weak--and--tired ... and
my--chest--hurts me--terrible.... I think I--must be--dying.... Am I?...
Look--at me--Policeman!... tell me.... Did he--say--I'm not--afraid...."
"Elsie, girl," he said unsteadily. "Elsie, you're--" He stopped and,
choking a little, reached out a slightly shaking hand to smooth back the
dark curly hair from her white forehead. "You're going home,
girl--you're going home!"
She gazed at him searchingly for a few seconds, then turned her head
away listlessly, with a sharp intake of her breath. There was a long
silence which was broken by Ellis.
"Elsie Baxter _is_ your name, all right, isn't it?" he asked gently.
She nodded, watching his face closely meanwhile.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two," she whispered.
"What nationality?"
"American."
"What part of the States do you come from, my girl?" he continued.
"Where are your parents--if you have any--or your friends?"
But his inquiries failed to elicit any response, and all he got was the
same passive look of mute entreaty which she had exhibited to all his
queries on the occasion of their first meeting.
"Come," he whispered coaxingly. "Why won't you tell me? You ought to."
She sighed as if she were exhausted. "What's the--use?" she murmured.
"My real mother--is--dead--an'--an'--my father--an' my step-mother--were
unkind--to me--so I ran--away...."
She met his perplexed look with a faint, weary smile, and cuddled his
hand beseechingly. "That's all," she said. "There.... I can't--tell you
any--more--now.... Best--thing--if they never--hear.... I'm--going
soon--where--I don't--know." She ceased, panting for breath.
He desisted then, for the doctor's final injunctions came to his
remembrance with a pang of regret. He had encouraged her to talk too
much already.
Aye--what _was_ the use, he reflected. There was a world of meaning in
her answer--too great to be misunderstood. Time, it is true, had wrought
curious changes in his wandering life and ways, and both memory and
conscience had, to a certain extent, become oblivious to many things;
but, in the former faculty, assuredly one period in his history was not
included. With a bitter hatred which not even the lapse of over twenty
years could quench, he recalled only too well, the pale, sneering face
of the virago who had usurped the place of his own gentle mother, and
whose animosity had eventually been the means of driving _him_ from
home, also.
"Yes," he mused. This poor dying waif and he probably had much in
common.
The girl lay quiet for a long while, and a cheap American alarm clock
ticked sharply in the stillness. Presently she turned her face to him
again and regarded him earnestly.
"Will--you please--say a--prayer?" she articulated painfully. And, as he
hesitated and looked at her in dumb misery: "Won't you?...
even--even--for--such as me?"
A terrible revulsion of feeling shook his strong frame. Who was he, that
he should dare to presume to pray for the dying? Fallen sinner though
she might be--what was _he_?... And a vision of his own reckless and
irresponsible past seemed to rise up before him accusingly.
"Please," the weak voice pleaded.
With bowed head and bursting heart he falteringly repeated the only
prayer that he remembered--"The Lord's"--and, with its "Amen," a solemn,
awesome quiet descended upon the little room.
And then--the end came very quickly. She turned her head and looked at
him kindly. Her eyes were alight with a great, dreamy happiness, and in
their depths he beheld the radiant glory that, passing all human
understanding, heralds the near approach of death.
"Kiss me," she whispered faintly.
All his manhood sorely shaken, he stooped to bestow the caress. Only
once in that last quiet minute of life--for death-struggle there was
none--the white lips moved; and the Sergeant, bending down his ear,
caught what may have been an appeal to the Father's mercy, but Ellis
always believed it was a man's name.
She sighed once or twice wearily, gasped a little and, leaning her head
back with a slight shiver, the poor girl's spirit went forth into the
Night.
For a long time Benton never stirred. A sense of utter desolation, he
knew not why, seemed to gather all around him. Inheriting from his
mother a strongly impressionable nature, he was always chivalrously
predisposed towards women and, somehow, complete stranger to him though
the unfortunate waif was, the inexpressible pathos of her lonely, tragic
death stirred all his being with a great, compassionate pity.
Suddenly he broke down and burst out sobbing, with the deep, convulsive
emotion terrible to witness in a strong man; then, throwing his arms
about the dead girl, he fell to his knees and, gazing imploringly into
her quiet face, held her tightly, as if that firm clasp would hold her
back one step on the road along which the messengers of God had beckoned
her.
Would those with whom he was a byword for hard sternness of character
have known him _then_?
The light of the lamp sank lower, flickered a little, and was gone. Worn
out, mentally and bodily, the bowed head of the tired, kneeling watcher
gradually drooped forward until it rested upon the bosom of the
motionless form. The still face had settled into the serene, peaceful
grandeur of the death-calm. Beautiful she had been in life, aye, but
never so beautiful as now.
Then, to the exhausted, sleeping man, there came a wondrous dream, and
in it, behold! she appeared unto him again in all the glory of her
youth, innocence, and beauty, clad in white and glistening raiment, with
her arms outstretched to him from afar on High.
And, in her great, dark eyes, he seemed to see shining the love and pity
of Mary Magdalene--she whom He denied not, but said: "_Her sins which
are many are forgiven, for she loved much; but to whom little is
forgiven, the same loveth little._"