Newspaper Page Text
1852.]
prison, how he had been so humble and
penitent from the first; and he had writ
ten me a beautiful letter to beg my for
giveness for bringing me to poverty,
though he does not know how poor we
really are now. Oh ! it has been a wea
ry, weary time these two long years, but
if he is free to-morrow morning, he can
begin life anew man.”
“ And why to-morrow V ’ asked the
Jud ge kindly, smoothing back Ada’s hair,
as she looked up into the speaker’s face.
“It is the New Year, sir, you know,
and his birth-day, when he will be of
age. That is what I kept in mind. And
the governor told me, oh, so kind as he
was to me! that he could be a citizen
yet, if he was free before he was of age,
and stand up among other men. My
poor boy ! Oh, sir, it was so hard to
get so near to night, and be told I was
too late, and then —1 suppose I must
have grieved bitterly—for some gentle
men told me to come to you, for you
could help me, if any one could.”
The Judge was silent for a little time;
he did not remember the young man dis
tinctly, for he had come from the interior
of the State, and had never been directly
under his notice. He feared, lest the
poor woman had built too much on her
hopes—that though her son had not been
guilty of the forgery, his downward ca
reer had been only stayed by the inter
position of the law. He had seen much
of forced and feigned repentance, —per-
haps he had become too distrustful.
James Murray, that was his name, and
his mother spoke it hesitatingly, as if she
felt how much it had been disgraced.
She did not speak alter she had finished
her simple recital, but leaned anxiously
towards the window, watching through
the darkness for the first glimpse of the
grey towers of the prison, which seemed
very far off.
Little Ada almost began to repent of
her choice, when they came at last to the
heavy portal, and she heard the crash of
the key, and the jar of the opening gates.
It was so dark, too; no light save that
which the porter carried; but her papa was
with her, and in the faith of childhood, she
was certain he would let no harm come
to her, while she clung very tightly to
his Hand, as they all entered the enclo
sure. They were not in the prison itself,
only in the tower in which the public rooms
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
were, but they waited there while the
porter went for the superintendent, and
Ada watched the tall shadows stealing
over the high wall, with a half formed,
nameless terror.
Poor Mrs. Murray !—she was so near
her son, and had brought him such hope
ful news, how could they delay her from
him so long ! It seemed as if hours passed
while she walked up and down the hall,
with a quick, unsteady step. But the
officer came at length, a benevolent, gray
haired Quaker, fit guardian for such
troubled spirits, and Ada was lifted in
her father’s arms, and carried across the
broad court to the long corridors of cells
that stretched away on every side. The
snow', driving so coldly, made her shut
her eyes, and bend her head down to her
father’s shoulder, and when she unclosed
*
them again, she was alone with her fa
ther, in the low white corridor, and near
them a cell door stood ajar. She heard
a wild cry, as if someone was in pain,
and then sobs, of “ mother —mother—
mother!” half stifled, but so full of mean
ing, The child could not understand it
o
all, but she, too, began to sob bitterly,
and there were tears in her father’s eyes,
as after a little time the kind old gentle
o
man came out,and motioned to her tocome
near the door. She did not like at first
to go through that thick wall. She could
see the narrow grating in the door, just
as she had read in stories of prisons; but
the room beyond looked very nice, and
so she went on, holding still by her fa
ther’s hand.
There were two rooms, and from the
inner one came the light and the voices.
She could see, standing in the shade with
her father and the superintendant, a low
bed, and Mrs. Murray kneeling beside it,
with her arms thrown around her son,
and his head on her breast. She was 1
smoothing back his hair—cut, alas, so ;
closely to the high forehead —that mark
of his punishment! and looking into his
eyes with a wild, longing, passionate
gaze, as the widow of Nain might have
studied the face of her son given back
from the dead. He tried to cover his j
face with his hands, as if in shame, but j
she drew them away, and held them the ‘
more closely to her breast, while she 1
raised up his head again.
It was then Ada looked up to her fa
ther, and saw tears standing in his eyes,
and so he motioned her away, as if the
scene was too sacred even for her to wit
ness ; but she never forgot that strange
New Year’s Eve.
James Murray did not go forth from
the prison walls until the morning—his
good old friend and guardian prevented
that. “It was too bleak a world to enter
into,” he said, “wait for the sunshine.” So
he carried them to his own cheerful apart
ments, cheering the mother’s heart with
the confirmation of all she had heard of
James, and then he left them together,
for thanks, and tears, and prayer.
It was a strange sight—the two enter
ing the world on that dark New Year’s
morning. There was no festival bright
ness in the sunsine, only the wind was not
so chill, and the broken clouds drifted
heavily across the sky. Yet it was the
first breath of freedom to James Murray,
and his mother forgot his shame in the
joy of that thought. Thre was no home
open for them in all that great city, where
a thousand household gatherings were
celebrating the coming of the glad New
Year ; but they were going home, and
the mission of weary months w r as ended.
Mrs. Murray had provided a shelter
though, and thev came to it at last; a
lodging house in the old part of the town,
where the houses were low and crowded
together, but it was neat and clean, and
all her slender purse could afford. There
they passed the day, so bright to all the
world, save those who “lack and suffer
hunger” —be it of mind or body—and to
them mingled wdth the sadness of recol
lection.
Mrs. Murray sat very near her son,
for hour after hour, holding his hand and
looking up into his face which even the
dull prison life had not altered. Ilis
frame had developed since they had part
ed ; the boy was not a strong powerful
man, but his face was the same ; features
too noble to suggest a thought of evil,
and eyes so like his mothers! They had
lost the quick merry glances she so well
remembered, and had won instead her
ow n humble, wistful look. Tie said very
little after that first torrent of speech, in
which he had told her all his penitence
and his shame. The contact with others
than himself during the morning, seemed
to bring a hard moodiness, or, perhaps, it
was that the daylight had revealed to
him, how much she must have suffered
3