Kitabı oku: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 12, October, 1858», sayfa 5
Adolphus, in spite of his discontent at hearing merely these deductions of experience, when his desire was to know something of Manuel, heard nothing of importance. The speech of the jailer on this subject was not to be had. His mind seemed to be wandering, except when his wife, or his native land, was referred to; then he brightened into speech, but never once into cheerfulness. As he sat there in the middle of his chamber, he seemed to represent the genius of the place,—and anything less enlivening or desirable in the way of human life could hardly be imagined. Pauline looked at him and sighed. She looked at Adolphus;—a pang shot through her heart; the shadow of the man seemed to overshadow him. Out of this place, where all appeared to be fast changing into "goblins damned"!
It was she who led the way; but, pausing in the court-yard, Elizabeth evinced still greater haste to be gone, for she ran on with fleet step, and a heart heavy with foreboding as to the result of this interview. She was also impatient to get into the open sunlight, and did not rest in this progress she was making outward till she had come to the sea-shore. Elizabeth Montier was in a state of dire perplexity just then, and if she had been asked whether she would really choose to effect the change proposed in their way of living, it would have been no easy matter for her to discover her mind.
By the sea-shore she sat down, and her father and mother followed slowly on. They were not talking as they came. But as they approached the beach, Adolphus could not resist the prospect before them. Loud was the blast he blew upon his horn, nor did he cease playing until his music had restored him to a more natural mood than that in which the interview with Laval left him. The prison was becoming a less startling image of desolate dreariness to him. And Adolphus was the master-spirit in his family. If he was gay, it was barely possible for his wife and child to be sad. Of the prison not one word was spoken by either. They had not revealed to each other their inmost mind when they went into Laval's quarters; they did not reveal it when they came thence. But as they strolled along the rocky shore, or returned homeward, they thought of little beside the prison and the prisoner. As to Elizabeth, nothing required of her that she should urge the matter further. She had neither heart nor courage for such urging.
It was Adolphus himself who spoke to Pauline the next day, after he had deliberately thrown himself in the way of the prisoner, that he might with his own eyes see what manner of man he was; for seeing was believing.
"Pauline," said he, almost persuaded of the truth of his own words, "you and Elizabeth would make a different place of that prison from what it is now. I should like to see it tried."
Pauline Montier made no haste to answer; she was afraid that she knew what he expected of her.
"Do you see," continued Adolphus, "Elizabeth won't speak of it again? But what must she think of us? He is a man. They say we are all brothers."
"I know it," said, almost sighed, his wife.
"Looking out for our own comfort!" exclaimed Adolphus. "So mighty afraid of doing what we'd have done for us! Besides, I believe we could make it pretty pleasant. Cool in summer, and warm in winter. I'd whitewash pretty thorough. And if the windows were rubbed up, your way, the light might get through."
"Poor Joan Laval!" said Pauline. "Body and mind gave out. She was different at first."
"Do you think it was the prison?" asked Adolphus, quickly, like a man halting between two opinions,—there was no knowing which way he would jump.
"Something broke her down," replied his wife. She was looking from one window,—he from another.
"Joan Laval was Joan Laval," said Adolphus, with an effort. "Always was. Frightened at her own shadow, I suppose. But—there! we won't think of it. I know how it looks to you, Pauline. Very well,—I don't see why we should make ourselves miserable for the sake of somebody who has got to be miserable anyhow,—and deserves it, I suppose, or he wouldn't be where he is."
"Poor fellow!" sighed Pauline,—as if it were now her turn on the rack.
Here Adolphus let the matter rest. He had overcome his own scruples so far as honestly to make this proposal to his wife. But he would do no more than propose,—not for an instant urge the point. Surely, that could not be required of him. Charity, he remembered, begins at home.
But Pauline could not let the matter rest here. Her struggle was yet to come. It was she, then, who alone was unwilling to sacrifice her present home for the sake of a stranger and prisoner!
Now Pauline Montier was a good Christian woman, and various words of holy utterance began herewith to trouble her. And from a by no means tranquil musing over them, she began to ask herself, What, after all, was home? Was happiness indeed dependent on locality when the heart of love was hers? Could she not give up so little as a house, in order to secure the comfort of a son of misfortune,—a solitary man,—a dying prisoner? What she would not give up freely might any day be taken from her. If fire did not destroy it, the government, which took delight in interference, might see fit to order that the house they occupied should be used again for the original purpose of storage.
And then the discomforts of the prison began to appear very questionable. She remembered that Joan Laval was, as Adolphus hinted, weakly, nervous, 'frightened at her own shadow,'—a woman who had never, for any single day of her life, lived with a lofty purpose,—a cumberer of the ground, who could only cast a shadow.
She perceived that they would be close to the flower-garden; a minute's walk would lead them to the pleasant woods,—and Pauline Montier always loved the woods.
Indeed, when she began to take this ground, the first steps of occupation alone could be timid or doubtful. After that, her humanity, her sympathy, her confidence in her husband and daughter, drew the woman on, till she forgot how difficult the first steps had been.
She surprised both husband and daughter by saying to Adolphus, the moment she came to her conclusion, that he had better make inquiry of Laval whether he had signified his intention to resign, and forthwith seek the appointment from the Governor of the island.
When Pauline said this, she attested her sincerity by making ready to accompany Adolphus at once to the prison, that they might run no risk of losing the situation by delay. Seeing that they were of one mind, and entirely confiding in each other, they all went together to the prison to consult with Laval. Thus it came to pass, that, before the week ended, the charge of the prison had been transferred to Adolphus Montier.
The family made great efforts in order to impart an air of cheerfulness and home-comfort to their new dwelling-place. Adolphus whitewashed, according to promise; Pauline scrubbed, according to nature; they arranged and rearranged their little stock of furniture,—set the loud-ticking day-clock on the mantel-shelf, and displayed around it the china cups, the flower-vase, and the little picture of their native town which Adolphus cut from a sheet of letter-paper some old friend had sent him, and framed with more tender feeling than skill. They did their best, each one, and said to one another, that, when they got used to the place, to the large rooms and high ceilings and narrow windows, it would of course seem like home, to them, because—it was their HOME. Were they not all together? were not these their own household goods, around them? Still, they needed all this mutual encouragement and heartiness of coöperation which was so nobly, so generously manifested; and it was sincere enough to insure the very result of contentment and satisfaction which they were so wise as to anticipate. But the Governor thought,—The Drummer is getting ambitious; he wants a big house, and authority!
Ex-jailer Laval was exceedingly active in assisting his own outgoing and the incoming of Montier. He helped Adolphus in the heavy labors of removal, and laughed more during the conduct of these operations than he had been known to do in years. He said nothing to Prisoner Manuel of the intended change in jail-administration until the afternoon when for the last time he walked out with him.
The information was received with apparent indifference, without question or comment, until Laval, half vexed, and wholly sorrowful for the sad state of the prisoner, said,—
"I am sorry for you, Sir. I can say that, now I'm going off. I've been as much a prisoner as you have, I believe. And I wish you were going to be set free to-night, as I am. I am going home! But I leave you in good care,—better than mine. I never have gone ahead of my instructions in taking care of you. I never took advantage of your case, to be cruel or neglectful. If anything has ever passed that made you think hard of me, I hope you will forgive it, for I can say I have done the best I could or dared."
Thus called upon to speak, the prisoner said merely, "I believe you."
Whereat the jailer spoke again, and with a lighter heart.
"I am glad you're in luck this time,—for you are. You don't know who is coming to take the charge,—come, I mean, for they are all in, and settled. That's Montier, the little girl's father. He is a drummer, and a little of everything else. It's his horn that you hear sometimes. And you know Elizabeth, who was always so kind about the flowers. His wife, too, she's a pretty woman, and kind as kind can be."
"What have they come here for?" asked the prisoner, amazed.
"I'll tell you," said Laval, more generous than he had designed to be; but he knew how he should wish, when the sea rolled between him and Foray, that he had spoken every comfortable word in his knowledge to this man; he knew it by his recent experiences of remorse in reference to his buried wife, and was wise enough to profit by the knowledge;—"I'll tell you. It's on your account. They were afraid somebody that didn't know how long you have been here, and how much you have suffered, would get the place; so they all came together and asked for it. They had a pretty little house up nigh the barracks, but they gave it up to come here. You'll see Montier to-night. For when I go back to your room with you, then I'm going off to—to"–he hesitated, for foremost among his instructions was this, that he should remain silent about his purpose of returning home; he was not to go as a messenger for the prisoner across the ocean to their native land–"to my business," he said. "If you'll be kind to him, you will make something by it. I thought I would tell you,—so, when you saw a strange face in your room, you would know what it meant without asking."
"I thank you," said the prisoner; and to the jailer it now seemed as if the figure of the man beside him grew in height and strength,—as if he trod the ground less feebly and listlessly while he spoke these words. A divine consolation must have strengthened him even then, or he could never have added with such emphasis, "Wherever you go, take this my assurance with you,—you have not been cruel or careless. You have done as well as you could. I thank you for it."
"You don't ask me where I'm going," said the jailer, after a silence that seemed but brief to him,—such a deal of argument he had dispatched, so many difficulties he had overcome in those few moments, whose like, for mental activity and conclusiveness, he had never seen before, and never would see again. "I shall be asked if I have told you. But—where did you come from? Do not tell me your name. But whom did you leave behind you that you would care most should know you are alive and in good hands?"
These questions, asked in good faith, would have had their answer; but while the prisoner was preparing such reply as would have proceeded, brief and wholly to the point, from the confusion of hope and surprise, the Governor of Foray came in sight, drew near, and, suspicious, as became him, walked in silence by the prisoner's side, while Laval obeyed his mute instructions, leading Manuel back to his cell. A vessel was approaching the shore of Foray.
Having disposed of his prisoner, the jailer in turn was marched, like one under arrest, up to the fort, where he remained, an object of suspicion, until his time came for sailing, and, without knowing it, he went home under guard.
When Adolphus Montier ascended to the prisoner's room that night, he found him standing by the window. After Laval left him, he had looked from out that window, and seen the white sail of a vessel; he could not see it now, but there he stood, watching, as though he knew not that his chance of hope was over.
As Adolphus entered the room, the prisoner turned immediately to him,—asking quietly, as if he had not been suddenly tossed into a gulf of despair by the breeze that brought him hope,—
"Has Laval sailed?"
"When the cannon fired," was the answer.
Then Adolphus placed the dish containing the prisoner's supper on the table; he had already lighted the lamp in the hall. And now he wanted to say something, on this his first appearance in the capacity of keeper, and he knew what to say,—he had prepared himself abundantly, he thought. But both the heart and the imagination of Adolphus Montier stood in the way of such utterance as he had prepared. The instant his eyes fell on that figure, lonely and forlorn, the instant he heard that question, his kind heart became weakness, he stood in the prisoner's place,—he saw the vessel sailing on its homeward voyage,—he beheld men stepping from sea to shore, walking in happy freedom through the streets of home;—a vision that filled his eyes with tears was before him, and he was long in controlling his emotion sufficiently to say,—
"We are in Laval's place, Sir, and we hope you will have no cause to regret the change. I don't know how to be cruel and severe,—but I must do my duty. But I wasn't put here for a tyrant."
"I know why you are here; Laval told me," said the prisoner.
"Then we're friends, a'n't we?" asked Adolphus; "though I must do my duty by them that employ me. You understand. I'd set every door and window of this building wide open for you, if I had my way; though I don't know what you're here for. But I swear before heaven and earth, nothing will tempt me to forget my duty to the government;—if you should escape, it would be over my dead body. So you see my position."
"Yes," said the prisoner; and if anything could have tempted a smile from him, this manner of speech would have done it. But Adolphus was far enough from smiling.
"Come, eat something," said he, with tremulous persuasion. "My wife knows how to get up such things. She will do the best for you she can."
"Thank you."
The prisoner again looked out of the window. It was growing dark; the outline of sea and land was fading out of sight; dreary looked the world without,—but within the lamp seemed shining with a brighter light than usual. And here was a person and a speech, a human sympathy, that almost warmed and soothed him.
He approached the table where Adolphus had spread his supper. He sat in the chair that was placed for him, and the Drummer waited on him, recommending Pauline's skill again, much as he might have presented a petition. The prisoner ate little, but he praised Pauline, and said outright that he had tasted nothing so palatable as her supper these five years. This cheered Montier a little, but still his spirits were almost at the lowest point of depression.
"You seem to pity me," remarked the prisoner, when Adolphus was gathering up the remains of the frugal supper.
"My God!—yes!" exclaimed Adolphus, stopping short, and looking at the man.
It was a sort of sympathy that could not harm the person on whom it was bestowed.
"I consider myself well off to-night," said he, quietly. "It is your little daughter that works in the garden so much? I have often watched her."
"Yes," said Adolphus, almost with a sob.
"And you are the man whose music has been so cheering many a time?"
"I want to know what airs you like best," said the poor Drummer, hurriedly.
"I never heard you play one that I did not like."—Precious praise!
"Then you like music? I can be pretty tolerably severe, Sir, if I make up my mind!" said Adolphus, as if addressing his own conscience, to set that at rest by this open avowal. "There's no danger of my doing wrong by the government. I'd have to pay for you with my life. Yes,—for it would be with my liberty. And there's my wife and child. So you understand where I am, as I told you before; but, by thunder! you shall have all the music you want, and all the flowers; and my little girl can sing pretty well,—her mother taught her. And if you're sick, there a'n't a better nurse in the hospital than Pauline Montier. There! good night!"
Adolphus took up the tray and hurried out of the room,—and forgot to fasten the door behind him until he had gone half way down the stairs. He came back in haste, and turned the great key with half the blood in his body burning in his face,—not merely an evidence of the exertion made in that operation, which he endeavored to perform noiselessly. He was ashamed of this caging business; but he would have argued you out of countenance then and there, had you ventured a word against the government,—though, as he said, he was in the dark concerning the prisoner's crime.
When he went down stairs he found supper prepared, and Pauline and their daughter waiting for him. He sat down in silence, seeking to avoid the questioning eyes which turned toward him so expectant and so hopeful. Discerning his mood, neither wife nor daughter troubled him with questions; at last, of himself, he broke out vehemently,—
"I wouldn't for the world have lost the chance! Laval wasn't the man to take care of that gentleman. But he don't say a word against Laval, mind you. He spoke about the flowers and the music. Oh, hang it!"
Here, in spite of himself, the Drummer was wholly overcome. He bowed his head to the table and broke into violent weeping. Another barrier gave way beside. Elizabeth flew to him. He seemed not to heed her, nor the sudden cry, "Oh, father!" that escaped her. She sat down by his side,—she wept as he was weeping. It was a stormy emotion that raged through her heart, when her tears burst forth. She was not weeping for pity merely, nor because her father wept. Long before he lifted his head, she was erect, and quiet, and hopeful,—but a child no more. She was a woman to love, a woman to dare,—fit and ready for the guiding of an angel. By-and-by Adolphus said to Pauline,—"If any one else had undertaken this job in our place, we should have deserved to be shut out of heaven for it. Thinking twice about it! I'm ashamed of myself. Why,—why,—he looks like a ghost. But he won't look that way long! We aren't here to browbeat a man, and kill him by inches, I take it."
"No, indeed!" said Pauline, as if the bare idea filled her with indignation. The three were surely one now.
[To be continued.]
* * * * *
WALDEINSAMKEIT
I do not count the hours I spend
In wandering by the sea;
The forest is my loyal friend,
Like God it useth me.
In plains that room for shadows make
Of skirting hills to lie,
Bound in by streams which give and take
Their colors from the sky,
Or on the mountain-crest sublime,
Or down the oaken glade,
Oh, what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made.
Cities of mortals woebegone
Fantastic care derides,
But in the serious landscape lone
Stern benefit abides.
Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask of sad;
But sober on a fund of joy
The woods at heart are glad.
There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,
And with a million spells enchants
The souls that walk in pain.
Still on the seeds of all he made
The rose of beauty burns;
Through times that wear, and forms that fade,
Immortal youth returns.
The black ducks mounting from the lake,
The pigeon in the pines,
The bittern's boom, a desert make
Which no false art refines.
Down in yon watery nook,
Where bearded mists divide,
The gray old gods that Chaos knew,
The sires of Nature, hide.
Aloft, in secret veins of air,
Blows the sweet breath of song;
Ah! few to scale those uplands dare,
Though they to all belong.
See thou bring not to field or stone
The fancies found in books;
Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own,
To brave the landscape's looks.
And if, amid this dear delight,
My thoughts did home rebound,
I should reckon it a slight
To the high cheer I found.
Oblivion here thy wisdom is,
Thy thrift the sleep of cares;
For a proud idleness like this
Crowns all life's mean affairs.
