"THE SHADOW ON THE HEART"
Just off Main street, under the left wing of the court-house, lay the
little county jail. It frowned down from behind its fierce mask of
bars and spikes, and boldly tried to make the town forget the number
of prisoners that had escaped its walls.
In a small front cell, beside a narrow grated window, Ricks Wilson had
sat and successfully planned his way to freedom.
The prisoner who now occupied the cell spent no time on thoughts of
escape. He paced restlessly up and down the narrow chamber, or lay on
the cot, with his hands under his head, and stared at the grimy
ceiling. The one question which he continually put to the jailer was
concerning the latest news of Judge Hollis.
Sandy had been given an examining trial on the charge of resisting an
officer and assisting a prisoner to escape. Refusing to tell what he
knew, and no bail being offered, he was held to answer to the grand
jury. For two weeks he had seen the light of day only through the
deep, narrow opening of one small window.
At first he had had visitors--indignant, excited visitors who came in
hotly to remonstrate, to threaten, to abuse. Dr. Fenton had charged in
upon him with a whole battery of reproaches. In stentorian tones he
rehearsed the judge's kindness in befriending him, he pointed out his
generosity, and laid stress on Sandy's heinous ingratitude. Mr.
Moseley had arrived with arguments and reasons and platitudes, all
expressed in a polysyllabic monotone. Mr. Meech had come many times
with prayers and petitions and gentle rebuke.
To them all Sandy gave patient, silent audience, wincing under the
blame, but making no effort to defend himself. All he would say was
that Ricks Wilson had not done the shooting, and that he could say no
more.
A wave of indignation swept the town. Almost the only friend who was
not turned foe was Aunt Melvy. Her large philosophy of life held that
all human beings were "chillun," and "chillun was bound to act bad
sometimes." She left others to struggle with Sandy's moral welfare and
devoted herself to his physical comfort.
With a clear conscience she carried to her home flour, sugar, and lard
from the Hollises' store-room, and sat up nights in her little cabin
at "Who'd 'a' Thought It" to bake dumplings, rolls, and pies for her
"po' white chile."
Sandy felt some misgivings about the delicacies which she brought, and
one day asked her where she made them.
"I makes 'em out home," she declared stoutly. "I wouldn't cook nuffin'
fer you on Miss Sue's stove while she's talkin' 'bout you lak she is.
She 'lows she don't never want to set eyes on you ag'in as long as she
lives."
"Has the judge asked for me?" said Sandy.
"Yas, sir; but de doctor he up and lied. He tol' him you'd went back
to de umerversity. De doctor 'lowed ef he tole him de trufe it might
throw him into a political stroke."
Sandy leaned his head on his hand. "You're the only one that's stood
by me, Aunt Melvy; the rest of them think me a bad lot."
"Dat's right," assented Aunt Melvy, cheerfully. "You jes orter hear de
way dey slanders you! I don't 'spec' you got a friend in town 'ceptin'
me." Then, as if reminded of something, she produced a card covered
with black dots. "Honey, I's gittin' up a little collection fer de
church. You gib me a nickel and I punch a pin th'u' one ob dem dots to
sorter certify it."
"Have you got religion yet?" he asked as he handed her some small
change.
Her expression changed, and her eyes fell. "Not yit," she acknowledged
reluctantly; "but I's countin' on comin' th'u' before long. I's done
j'ined de Juba Choir and de White Doves."
"The White Doves?" repeated Sandy.
"Yas, sir; de White Doves ob Perfection. We wears purple calicoes and
sets up wid de sick."
"Have you seen Miss Annette?"
"Lor', honey! ain't I tol' you 'bout dat? De very night de jedge was
shot, dat chile wrote her paw de sassiest letter, sayin' she gwine run
off and git married wif dat sick boy, Carter Nelson. De doctor headed
'em off some ways, and de very nex' day what you think he done? He put
dat gal in a Cafolic nunnery convent! Dey say she cut up scan'lous at
fust, den she sorter quiet down, an' 'gin to count her necklace, an'
make signs on de waist ob her dress, an' say she lak it so much she
gwine be a Cafolic nunnery sister herself. Now de doctor's jes
tearin' his shirt to git her out, he's so skeered she'll do what she
says."
Sandy laughed in spite of himself, and Aunt Melvy wagged her head
knowingly.
"He needn't pester hisseif 'bout dat. Now Mr. Carter's 'bout to die,
an' you's shut up in jail, she's done turnin' her 'tention on Mr. Sid
Gray. Dey ain't no blinds in de world big enough to keep dat gal from
shinin' her eyes at de boys!"
"Is Carter about to die?" Sandy had become suddenly grave.
"Yas, sir; so dey say. He's got somepin' that sounds lak tuberoses.
Him and Mrs. Nelson and Miss Rufe never did git to Californy. Dey
stopped off in Mobile or Injiany, I can't ricollec' which. He took de
fever de day dey lef', an' he ain't knowed nothin' since."
After Aunt Melvy left, Sandy went to the window and leaned against the
bars. Below him flowed the life of the little town, the men going home
from work, the girls chattering and laughing through the dusk on
their way from the post-office. Every figure that passed, black or
white, was familiar to him. Jimmy Reed's little Skye terrier dashed
down the street, and a whistle sprang to his lips.
How he loved every living creature in the place! For five years he had
been one of them, sharing their interests, part and parcel of the life
of the community. Now he was an outcast, an alien, as much a stranger
to friendly faces as the lad who had knelt long ago at the window of a
great tenement and had been afraid to be alone.
"I'll have to go away," he thought wistfully. "They'll not be wanting
me here after this."
It grew darker and darker in the gloomy room. The mournful voice of a
negro singing in the next cell came to him faintly:
"We'll hunt no moah fo' de possum and de coon,
On de medder, de hill, an' de shoah.
We'll sing no moah by de glimmer ob de moon,
On de bench by de old cabin doah.
"De days go by like de shadow on do heart,
Wid sorrer, wha' all wuz so bright;
De time am come when do darkies hab to part--
Den, my ole Kaintucky home, good night."
Sandy's arm was against the grating and his head was bowed upon it.
Through all the hours of trial one image had sustained him. It was of
Ruth, as he had seen her last, leaning toward him out of the
half-light, her brown hair blowing from under her white cap and her
great eyes full of wondering compassion.
But to-night the darkness obscured even that image. The judge's life
still hung in the balance, and the man who had shot him lay in a
distant city, unconscious, waiting for death. Sandy felt that by his
sacrifice he had put the final barrier between himself and Ruth.
With a childish gesture of despair, he flung out his arms and burst
into a passion of tears. The intense emotional impulse of his race
swept him along like a feather in a gale. His grief, like his joy,
was elemental.
When the lull came at last, he pressed his hot head against the cold
iron grating, and his thoughts returned again and again to Ruth. He
thought of her tender ministries in the sick room, of her intense love
and loyalty for her brother. His whole soul rose up to bless her, and
the thought of what she had been spared brought him peace.
Through days of struggle and nights of pain he fought back all
thoughts of the future and of self.
These times were ever afterward a twilight-place in his soul, hallowed
and sanctified by the great revelation they brought him, blending the
blackness of despair with the white light of perfect love. Here his
thoughts would often turn even in the stress and strain of the daily
life, as a devotee stops on his busy round and steps within the dim
cathedral to gain strength and inspiration on his way.
The next time Aunt Melvy came he asked for some of his law-books, and
from that on there was no more idling or dreaming.
Among the volumes she brought was the old note-book in which the judge
had made him jot down suggestions during those long evening readings
in the past. It was full of homely advice, the result of forty years'
experience, and Sandy found comfort in following it to the letter.
For the first time in his life he learned the power of concentration.
Seven hours' study a day, without diversion or interruption, brought
splendid results. He knew the outline of the course at the university,
and he forged ahead with feverish energy.
Meanwhile the judge's condition was slowly improving.
One afternoon Sandy sat at his table, deep in his work. He heard the
key turn in its lock and the door open, but he did not look up.
Suddenly he was aware of the soft rustle of skirts, and, lifting his
eyes, he saw Ruth. For a moment he did not move, thinking she must be
but the substance of his dream. Then her black dress caught his
attention, and he started to his feet.
"Carter?" he cried--"is he--"
Ruth nodded; her face was white and drawn, and purple shadows lay
about her eyes.
"He's dead," she whispered, with a catch in her voice; then she went
on in breathless explanation: "but he told me first. He said, 'Hurry
back, Ruth, and make it right. They can come for me as soon as I can
travel. Tell Kilday I wasn't worth it.' Oh, Sandy! I don't know
whether it was right or wrong,--what you did,--but it was merciful: if
you could have seen him that last week, crying all the time like a
little child, afraid of the shadows on the wall, afraid to be alone,
afraid to live, afraid to die--"
Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.
Sandy started forward, then he paused and gripped the chair-back
until his fingers were white.
"Ruth," he said impatiently, "you'd best be going quick. It'll break
the heart of me to see you standing there suffering, unless I can take
you in me arms and comfort you. I've sworn never to speak the word;
but, by the saints--"
"You may!" sobbed Ruth, and with a quick, timid little gesture she
laid her hands in his.
For a moment he held her away from him. "It's not pity," he cried,
searching her face, "nor gratitude!"
She lifted her eyes, as honest and clear as her soul.
"It's been love, Sandy," she whispered, "ever since the first."
[Illustration: "'It's been love, Sandy, ... ever since the first'"]
Two hours later, when the permit came, Sandy walked out of the jail
into the court-house square. A crowd had collected, for Ruth had told
her story and the news had spread; public favor was rapidly turning in
his direction.
He looked about vaguely, as a man who has gazed too long at the sun
and is blinded to everything else.
"I've got my buggy," cried Jimmy Reed, touching him on the arm. "Where
do you want to go?"
Sandy hesitated, and a dozen invitations were shouted in one breath.
He stood irresolute, with his foot on the step of the buggy; then he
pulled himself up.
"To Judge Hollis," he said.