Justice in the By-Ways Part 30

CHAPTER XLV.

ANOTHER SHADE OF THE PICTURE.

WHILE the earth of Potter's Field is closing over all that remains of Anna Bonard, Maria McArthur may be seen, s.n.a.t.c.hing a moment of rest, as it were, seated under the shade of a tree on the Battery, musing, as is her wont. The ships sail by cheerily, there is a touching beauty about the landscape before her, all nature seems glad. Even the heavens smile serenely; and a genial warmth breathes through the soft air. "Truly the Allwise," she says within herself, "will be my protector, and is chastising me while consecrating something to my good. Mr. Keepum has made my father's release the condition of my ruin. But he is but flesh and blood, and I--no, I am not yet a slave! The virtue of the poor, truly, doth hang by tender threads; but I am resolved to die struggling to preserve it." And a light, as of some future joy, rises up in her fancy, and gives her new strength.

The German family have removed from the house in which she occupies a room, and in its place are come two women of doubtful character.

Still, necessity compels her to remain in it; for though it is a means resorted to by Keepum to effect his purpose, she cannot remove without being followed, and hara.s.sed by him. Strong in the consciousness of her own purity, and doubly incensed at the proof of what extremes the designer will condescend to, she nerves herself for the struggle she sees before her. True, she was under the same roof with them; she was subjected to many inconveniencies by their presence; but not all their flattering inducements could change her resolution. Nevertheless, the resolution of a helpless female does not protect her from the insults of heartless men. She returns home to find that Mother Rumor, with her thousand tongues, is circulating all kinds of evil reports about her. It is even a.s.serted that she has become an abandoned woman, and is the occupant of a house of doubtful repute. And this, instead of enlisting the sympathies of some kind heart, rather increases the prejudice and coldness of those upon whom she has depended for work. It is seldom the story of suffering innocence finds listeners. The sufferer is too frequently required to qualify in crime, before she becomes an object of sympathy.

She returns, one day, some work just finished for one of our high old families, the lady of which makes it a boast that she is always engaged in "laudable pursuits of a humane kind." The lady sends her servant to the door with the pittance due, and begs to say she is sorry to hear of the life Miss McArthur is leading, and requests she will not show herself at the house again. Mortified in her feelings, Maria begs an interview; but the servant soon returns an answer that her Missus cannot descend to anything of the kind. Our high old families despise working people, and wall themselves up against the poor, whose virtue they regard as an exceedingly cheap commodity.

Our high old families choose rather to charge guilt, and deny the right to prove innocence.

With the four shillings, Maria, weeping, turns from the door, procures some bread and coffee, and wends her way to the old prison.

But the chords of her resolution are shaken, the cold repulse has gone like poison to her heart. The ray of joy that was lighting up her future, seems pa.s.sing away; whilst fainter and fainter comes the hope of once more greeting her lover. She sees vice pampered by the rich, and poor virtue begging at their doors. She sees a price set upon her own ruin; she sees men in high places waiting with eager pa.s.sion the moment when the thread of her resolution will give out.

The cloud of her night does, indeed, seem darkening again.

But she gains the prison, and falters as she enters the cell where the old Antiquary, his brow furrowed deep of age, sleeps calmly upon his cot. Near his hand, which he has raised over his head, lays a letter, with the envelope broken. Maria's quick eye flashes over the superscription, and recognizes in it the hand of Tom Swiggs. A transport of joy fills her bosom with emotions she has no power to constrain. She trembles from head to foot; fancies mingled with joys and fears crowd rapidly upon her thoughts. She grasps it with feelings frantic of joy, and holds it in her shaking hand; the shock has nigh overcome her. The hope in which she has so long found comfort and strength-that has so long buoyed her up, and carried her safely through trials, has truly been her beacon light. "Truly," she says within herself, "the dawn of my morning is brightening now."

She opens the envelope, and finds a letter enclosed to her. "Oh!

yes, yes, yes! it is him-it is from him!" she stammers, in the exuberance of her wild joy. And now the words, "You are richer than me," flash through her thoughts with revealed significance.

Maria grasps the old man's hand. He starts and wakes, as if unconscious of his situation, then fixes his eyes upon her with a steady, vacant gaze. Then, with childlike fervor, he presses her hand to his lips, and kisses it. "It was a pleasant dream--ah! yes, I was dreaming all things went so well!" Again a change comes over his countenance, and he glances round the room, with a wild and confused look. "Am I yet in prison?-well, it was only a dream. If death were like dreaming, I would crave it to take me to its peace, that my mind might no longer be hara.s.sed with the troubles of this life. Ah!

there, there!"--(the old man starts suddenly, as if a thought has flashed upon him)--" there is the letter, and from poor Tom, too! I only broke the envelope. I have not opened it."

"It is safe, father; I have it," resumes Maria, holding it before him, unopened, as the words tremble upon her lips. One moment she fears it may convey bad news, and in the next she is overjoyed with the hope that it brings tidings of the safety and return of him for whose welfare she breathed many a prayer. Pale and agitated, she hesitates a moment, then proceeds to open it.

"Father, father! heaven has shielded me-heaven has shielded me! Ha!

ha! ha! yes, yes, yes! He is safe! he is safe!" And she breaks out into one wild exclamation of joy, presses the letter to her lips, and kisses it, and moistens it with her tears. "It was all a plot-a dark plot set for my ruin!" she mutters, and sinks back, overcome with her emotions. The old man fondles her to his bosom, his white beard flowing over her suffused cheeks, and his tears mingling with hers. And here she remains, until the anguish of her joy runs out, and her mind resumes its wonted calm.

Having broken the spell, she reads the letter to the enraptured old man. Tom has arrived in New York; explains the cause of his long absence; speaks of several letters he has transmitted by post, (which she never received;) and his readiness to proceed to Charleston, by steamer, in a few days. His letter is warm with love and constancy; he recurs to old a.s.sociations; he recounts his remembrance of the many kindnesses he received at the hands of her father, when homeless; of the care, to which he owes his reform, bestowed upon him by herself, and his burning anxiety to clasp her to his bosom.

A second thought flashes upon her fevered brain. Am I not the subject of slander! Am I not contaminated by a.s.sociations? Has not society sought to clothe me with shame? Truth bends before falsehood, and virtue withers under the rust of slandering tongues.

Again a storm rises up before her, and she feels the poisoned arrow piercing deep into her heart. Am I not living under the very roof that will confirm the slanders of mine enemies? she asks herself.

And the answer rings back in confirmation upon her too sensitive ears, and fastens itself in her feelings like a reptile with deadly fangs. No; she is not yet free from her enemies. They have the power of falsifying her to her lover. The thought fills her bosom with sad emotions. Strong in the consciousness of her virtue, she feels how weak she is in the walks of the worldly. Her persecutors are guilty, but being all-powerful may seek in still further damaging her character, a means of shielding themselves from merited retribution.

It is the natural expedient of bad men in power to fasten crime upon the weak they have injured.

Only a few days have to elapse, then, and Maria will be face to face with him in whom her fondest hopes have found refuge; but even in those few days it will be our duty to show how much injury may be inflicted upon the weak by the powerful.

The old Antiquary observes the change that has come so suddenly over Maria's feelings, but his entreaties fail to elicit the cause. Shall she return to the house made doubtful by its frail occupants; or shall she crave the jailer's permission to let her remain and share her father's cell? Ah! solicitude for her father settles the question. The alternative may increase his apprehensions, and with them his sufferings. Night comes on; she kisses him, bids him a fond adieu, and with an aching heart returns to the house that has brought so much scandal upon her.

On reaching the door she finds the house turned into a bivouac of revelry; her own chamber is invaded, and young men and women are making night jubilant over Champagne and cigars. Mr. Keepum and the Hon. Mr. Snivel are prominent among the carousers; and both are hectic of dissipation. Shall she flee back to the prison? Shall she go cast herself at the mercy of the keeper? As she is about following the thought with the act, she is seized rudely by the arms, dragged into the scene of carousal, and made the object of coa.r.s.e jokes. One insists that she must come forward and drink; another holds an effervescing gla.s.s to her lips; a third says he regards her modesty out of place, and demands that she drown it with mellowing drinks. The almost helpless girl shrieks, and struggles to free herself from the grasp of her enemies. Mr. Snivel, thinking it highly improper that such cries go free, catches her in his arms, and places his hand over her mouth. "Caught among queer birds at last," he says, throwing an insidious wink at Keepum. "Will flock together, eh?"

As if suddenly invested with herculean strength, Maria hurls the ruffian from her, and lays him prostrate on the floor. In his fall the table is overset, and bottles, decanters and sundry cut gla.s.s accompaniments, are spread in a confused ma.s.s on the floor. Suddenly Mr. Keepum extinguishes the lights. This is the signal for a scene of uproar and confusion we leave the reader to picture in his imagination. The cry of "murder" is followed quickly by the cry of "watch, watch!" and when the guardmen appear, which they are not long in doing, it is seen that the very chivalric gentlemen have taken themselves off-left, as a prey for the guard, only Maria and three frail females.

Cries, entreaties, and explanations, are all useless with such men as our guard is composed of. Her clothes are torn, and she is found rioting in disreputable company. The sergeant of the guard says, "Being thus disagreeably caught, she must abide the penalty. It may teach you how to model your morals," he adds; and straightway, at midnight, she is dragged to the guard-house, and in spite of her entreaties, locked up in a cell with the outcast women. "Will you not hear me? will you not allow an innocent woman to speak in her own behalf? Do, I beg, I beseech, I implore you-listen but for a minute-render me justice, and save me from this last step of shame and disgrace," she appeals to the sergeant, as the cell door closes upon her.

Mr. Sergeant Stubble, for such is his name, shakes his head in doubt. "Always just so," he says, with a shrug of the shoulders: "every one's innocent what comes here 'specially women of your sort.

The worst rioters 'come the greatest sentimentalists, and repents most when they gets locked up-does! You'll find it a righteous place for reflection, in there." Mr. Sergeant Stubble shuts the door, and smothers her cries.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE SOUL MAY GAIN STRENGTH IN A DREARY CELL.

IT is Bulwer, the prince of modern novelists, who says: "There is in calumny a rank poison that, even when the character throws off the slander, the heart remains diseased beneath the effect." And this is the exact condition in which Maria finds herself. The knaves who have sought her ruin would seem to have triumphed; the ears of the charitable are closed to her; her judgment seems sealed. And yet when all is dark and still; when her companions sleep in undisturbed tranquillity; when her agitated feelings become calmed; when there seems speaking to her, through the hushed air of midnight, the voice of a merciful providence-her soul quickens, and she counsels her self-command, which has not yet deserted her. Woman's nature is indeed strung in delicate threads, but her power of endurance not unfrequently puts the sterner s.e.x to the blush. "Slander has truly left my heart diseased, but I am innocent, and to-morrow, perhaps, my star will brighten. These dark struggles cannot last forever!"

she muses, as her self-command strengthens, and gives her new hopes. Her betrothed may return to-morrow, and his generous nature will not refuse her an opportunity to a.s.sert her innocence.

And while she thus muses in the cell of the guard-house, the steamer in which Tom proceeds to Charleston is dashing through the waves, speeding on, like a thing of life, leaving a long train of phosphoric brine behind her. As might naturally have been expected, Tom learns from a fellow-pa.s.senger all that has befallen the old Antiquary. This filled his mind with gloomy forebodings concerning the fate of Maria. There was, too, something evasive in the manner of the man who conveyed to him this intelligence, and this excited his apprehensions, and prompted him to make further inquiries. His confidence in her faith animated and encouraged his heart. But when he remembered that the old man was, even when he left, in the clutches of Snivel and Keepum (men whose wealth and influence gave them power to crush the poor into the dust), an abyss, terrible and dark, opened to him, his whole nature seemed changed, and his emotions became turbulent. He again sought the pa.s.senger, and begging him to throw off all restraint, a.s.sured him that it would relieve his feelings to know what had become of Maria. The man hesitated for a few moments, then, with reluctant lips, disclosed to him that she had fallen a victim of necessity-more, that she was leading the life of an outcast. Tom listened attentively to the story, which lost nothing in the recital; then, with pa.s.sions excited to frenzy, sought his state-room. At first it seemed like a sentence of eternal separation ringing through his burning brain.

All the dark struggles of his life rose up before him, and seemed hastening him back into that stream of dissipation in which his mind had found relief when his mother forsook him. But no! something-he knew not what-whispered in his ear, "Do not reject her. Faith and hope remains to you; let truth be the judge." He stretched himself in his berth, but not to sleep.

On the following morning Maria, with the frail companions of her cell, is brought into court, and arraigned before His Honor, Judge Sleepyhorn, who, be it said to his credit, though terrible in his dealings with the harder s.e.x, and whose love of hanging negroes is not to be outdone, is exceedingly lenient with female cases, as he is pleased to style them. Though her virtue is as chaste as the falling snow, Maria is compelled to suffer, for nearly an hour, the jeers and ribald insinuations of a coa.r.s.e crowd, while the fact of her being in the guard-house is winged over the city by exultant scandal-mongers. Nevertheless, she remains calm and resolute. She sees the last struggle of an eventful life before her, and is resolved to meet it with womanly fort.i.tude.

The Judge smiles, casts a glance over his a.s.sembly, and takes his seat, as Mr. Sergeant Stubble commences to read over the charges against the accused. "Business," says the Judge, "will proceed."

"Now, Judge!" speaks up one of the frail women, coming forward in a bold, off-hand manner to speak for her companions, "I don't exactly see what we have done so much out of the way. No ladies of our standing have been up here before. The law's comin' very nice all at once. There's a heap, as you know, Judge--"

"No, no, no! I know nothing about such places!" quickly interrupts the Judge, his face full of virtuous indignation, and his hands raised in horror.

"Then I may be pardoned for not wearing spectacles," resumes the woman, with a curtsy. Finding the judgment-seat becoming a little too warm for his nerves, the Judge very prudently dismisses the damsels, with an admonition to go and do better-in fine, to tighten their tongues as well as their morality.

With the aid of Mr. Sergeant Stubble, Maria is brought forward, pale and trembling, and struggling with the war of grief waging in her heart. Calmly she looks up at the Judge for a moment, then hangs down her head in silence. "There is a Judge above who knows the circ.u.mstances, gives me now His hand, and will judge me in the balance of truth and mercy, when my enemies are at my feet," flashes through her thoughts, and strengthens the inner nature. But her tongue has lost its power; her feelings unbend to the thought that she is in a criminal court, arraigned before a Judge. She has no answer to make to the Judge's questions, but gives way to her emotions, and breaks out into loud sobs. Several minutes, during which a sympathizing silence is manifest, pa.s.s, when she raises slowly her head, and makes an attempt to mutter a few words in her defence. But her voice chokes, and the words hang, inarticulate, upon her lips. She buries her face in her hands, and shakes her head, as if saying, "I have said all."

His Honor seems moved to mercy by the touching spectacle before him.

He whispers in the ear of Mr. Sergeant Stubble, and that functionary brightens up, and with an attempt to be kind, says: "Pray, Miss McArthur--it's a duty we have to perform, you see--where is your father? the Judge says."

Ah! That question has touched the fountain-spring of all her troubles, and the waters come gushing forth, as if to engulph the last faint shadow of hope in darkness. Almost simultaneously she falls to the floor in a fit of violent hysterics. The Judge orders the court-room cleared of its spectators, and if the reader has ever witnessed the painful sight of a female suffering such paroxysms, he may picture more forcibly in his imagination than we can describe, the scene that follows. For some fifteen minutes the sufferer struggles, and when her mind resumes its calm, she casts a wild, despairing look round the room, then fixes her eyes upon those who are gathered about her.

There was a kind impulse yet left in the Judge. He discovers a sympathy for her condition, holds her weak, trembling hand in his own, and bathes her temples with cologne. "You are free to go home-there is no charge against you," he whispers in her ear. "I have ordered a carriage, and will send you to your home-where is it?" This is, indeed, cruel kindness.

"If I had a home," responds Maria, in a low voice, as she rises, and rests herself on her elbow, "it would shelter me from this distress.

Yes, I would then be happy once more."

A carriage soon arrives, she is put into it, and with a few consoling words from the Judge, is driven back, as hastily as possible, to the house from which she was dragged only last night.

She has nowhere else to go to-day, but resolves to-morrow to seek a shelter elsewhere. Through the whisperings of that unaccountable human telegraph, the news of her shame, made great and terrible with a thousand additions, is flown into the family secrets of the city.