Chapter XXIV: The Hand of Providence

"What is your name?" demanded the judge of the young man thus brought before him.

The fellow hesitated an instant, and a lie trembled on his lips; but then looking around and seeing many who could identify him, he knew that falsehood would be useless, and sullenly replied:

"Silas Thatcher."

"Where do you live?"

"On Hester Street, near the Bowery, in New York."

"What is your business?"

"Haint got none."

"What have you to say in reply to the statement which you have just heard made by this gentleman, to the effect that you sold this seal to him?"

"Nothin'," answered Silas after a little hesitation.

"Nothing? But do you not understand, young man, that this may be a very serious matter? I do not ask you that you may criminate yourself in any way, but with the hope that if you have any reasonable explanation to offer you will not withhold it. How did this seal come into your possession?"

Silas paled, was visibly perturbed, and hesitated longer than before; then responded doggedly:

"I haint got nothin' to say. I want a lawyer, I do." The judge was silent for a moment, then replied drily.

"Of course you are entitled to counsel. You will stand committed for further examination. Mr. Sheriff, adjourn court until the usual hour to-morrow morning."

It was a loving and a hopeful interview that Dorn and Mary had at his cell door that evening, and Mr. Holden had the pleasure of being present during at least a part of it, when he received the heartfelt thanks of both for his opportune aid in their darkest hour. Peter Van Deust, whose wits were manifestly failing, had not seemed to comprehend what was done in the court-room after he had sustained the violent mental shock of recognizing his murdered brother's seal, and had clamored, at the adjournment of the court, for the arrest of the New York lawyer. But the judge smilingly replied, that he would himself be responsible for the attendance of Mr. Holden, whenever it might be required, and had gone away down the main street to the tavern, arm in arm with that gentleman; a sight that had fairly stunned poor old Peter. After dinner Mr. Holden paid his visit to Dorn's cell, and the judge said he, too, would like to go along "but for the looks of it," as he "considered Dorn now virtually a free man, and had all along suspected that he was an innocent one."

The prosecuting attorney was alone in his office that evening, looking over a _resumé_ of another case, that of a mere horse-thief, which would succeed Dorn Hackett's in order of trial--for he had already given up all hope of hanging Dorn--when the sheriff entered, with an air of mingled eagerness and caution, to inform him, in a sort of melodramatic whisper:

"Silas Thatcher's father has asked permission to see his son in his cell, and I have had him delayed until I could tell you. Do you wish to overhear their interview?"

"I--rather think--I'd like to," answered the prosecutor, meditatively. "I shall have him in hand before long, no doubt, and might as well know beforehand what he has to say for himself."

The men passed together through the sheriff's office, and by a private entrance therefrom into the rear part of the jail, first taking off their boots that their steps might not be heard on the stone floor.

When they entered the corridor, along one side of which the cells were located, they moved with caution, and noiselessly entered a dark and unoccupied cell adjoining that in which Silas was confined. After a little quiet fumbling along the wall, the sheriff found the end of a string, which he pulled, thus conveying to his assistant in the front office of the jail, where Uncle Thatcher was waiting, a private signal that all was ready. In a few minutes more the grim old man was shown in by the jailor, and permitted to enter his son's cell, the door of which was locked upon him. Every sound made there was clearly audible where the prosecutor and sheriff were.

Silas, to whom the interior of a prison was not altogether a novelty, had laid down with a sort of philosophical content upon his little cot bed, but sat up, somewhat surprised, when his father appeared. The jailor put upon the stone floor the tin candlestick holding a tallow candle which he had carried in, and went away.

For some moments neither father nor son spoke a word. The old man was the first to break the oppressive silence.

"So," said he, "this is where I find you at last."

"Yes, it is, and what of it?" retorted Silas sullenly.

"My God! How I have dreaded this shame!--this horror! How the fear of it has haunted me, day and night, for years!"

"If you've come here for to preach to me, why, you might as well drop it; that's all. I ain't no chicken. I'm a man, I am, and game for all there is in the pot. I ain't afraid. I don't want no snivellins around me!"

"Silas, I haven't come here either to preach or snivel. I have come to learn, if I can, whether the agony and blighting shame of seeing a son hanged is likely to be mine or not."

The young reprobate winced visibly at his father's plain speech, and it was with a violent effort, belied by his pallid lips and quavering voice, that he assumed sufficient bravado to reply:

"What's the use of making a fuss about a feller's getting into a little scrape? I'll get out of it all right. All I want is a good lawyer. It might happen to any feller to get into a hole. Fellers get into 'em all the time and get out of 'em again. This morning everybody thought Dorn Hackett was in the worst kind of a hole, but to-night the jailor tells me everybody says he's bound to get out of it."

"Dorn Hackett was innocent. Are you?"

Silas hesitated a moment before he replied:

"Course I am! Every fellow's innocent until he's proved guilty."

"Where did you get that seal?"

"A--a--feller gave it to me."

"Who was he?"

"I dunno--never saw him before."

"Silas, you are lying to me."

"Well, what business have you got to come here pestering me with questions, as if you was trying to catch me?"

It was hard work for the old man, who was naturally of rather a violent temper, to keep his hands off his rebellious son; nevertheless, he restrained himself.

"Silas," he exclaimed after a brief pause, "there is blood upon your hands."

"Where? No, there isn't! They're clean!" ejaculated the young man in a tone of fright, starting to his feet and nervously examining his hands.

"Fool!" said the old man, with contempt, "did you think I meant red drops that human eyes could see? No. But in the sight of God they are dripping with the stains of a foul murder. I read your guilt in your skulking eyes, your impudent assumption of brazen effrontery, your falsehoods. Ah, you will not get out of this hole as easily as you pretend to think. There is but one road open from here before you."

"What is that, father?" asked Silas, tremblingly, for he had already begun to lose the fictitious nerve that had hitherto sustained him.

"The gallows!" responded the grim old man, sternly.

"Oh, for the Lord's sake, don't talk like that!" pleaded the young wretch, with a piteous howl. "It's all your fault, anyway. You wouldn't let me have any more money, and I was hard up. You told me the Van Deusts had a mint of money. I didn't mean to harm anybody, but he jumped out of bed and clinched me; the jimmy was in my hand, and I was afraid of being caught, and I--Oh! my God! what have I said? You've got me all unnerved, with your cursed croaking. I didn't know what I was saying. It wasn't true. I haven't been in a mile of Van Deusts' for more'n three years. I don't know who killed Jake Van Deust any more'n you do. Dorn Hackett did it. Why don't they hang him, curse him! and be done with it!"

He was crying, trembling. The unhappy father bowed his face in his hands and was silent a long time, while Silas went rambling on:

"I can prove I was in New York that night. There's lots of the fellers will swear me out of it. What if I did have the seal? Didn't Dorn have the handkerchief? I know where I got it. I buy'ed it one night from a stranger that got broke in a faro bank. I can get fellers to swear they see me buy it. All I want is a lawyer. You've got to get me one--a good one. You will, won't you? I'm broke or I wouldn't ask you. I've had awful bad luck lately. But I'll pay you back when I get out. And you wouldn't see your son h--h--hanged, would you?"

Uncle Thatcher raised his head and, looking fixedly at his son, asked slowly:

"Why did you come here to-day?"

"I don't know," answered Silas, almost with desperation. "Because I am a damned fool, I suppose. I met Lem Pawlett in the city, and he told me about the trial, and--somehow--I had to come. I couldn't keep away."

"And you still think that a lawyer could get you out?"

"Oh, yes. A good, sharp lawyer, from New York. I know of one that's up to all the dodges. He gets lots of the fellers off. He'd clear me, I'm sure of it."

"And you do not see God's hand driving you here and giving you up to man's justice? You think to contend against His will? To employ a lawyer who shall shield you from the fate He has decreed? Foolish and unhappy boy! you have sown and the day of harvest is nigh; the harvest for both of us: for you the full sheaf of ripe dishonor and death; for me the gleaning of bitter shame and grief. And to the Lord of this harvest we may neither of us say 'nay.'"

As he spoke he arose from the cot, where he had taken a seat early in the interview, stood before his son, and continued:

"It is not probable that I shall ever see you again. In due course of time you will be tried, convicted, and hanged, and I shall hear of it all: that will be enough for me. As far as other people will allow me to, I shall endeavor to forget that I ever had a son. You have simply to continue, as for years past, so far as affection or respect for his counsels were concerned, in forgetting that you have a father. Send me no gallows-tree messages of penitence and love. Carry your penitence, if you have any, to your God; and may He, in his infinite knowledge and justice, grant you such mercy and pardon as you deserve."

With this farewell, the wretched father took his departure, preserving his sternness of demeanor as long as he was in his son's sight; but in the jail office without, he gave way to his natural grief, which he could repress no longer, and much time elapsed ere he recovered himself sufficiently to go home. Silas, left alone in his cell, threw himself upon his bed, on his face, alternately weeping, cursing, and praying, in a delirium of remorse and fear, and no sound of stealthy footsteps leaving the adjoining dungeon reached his ears.