Chapter III: Part 3

Soon after daylight the commissioner announced that the testimony had all been taken and he found himself too much fatigued to continue the sitting, therefore the court was adjourned until 2 P. M. of that day. I had grown very restless, as thee may imagine, and turning to aunt I said, “I scarcely dare breathe for fear the poor man must go back to his chains.” A. L., who sat near, touched me lightly on the shoulder, and replied: “Prepare thyself calmly for the worst in life, and thus thee will not be overwhelmed when disaster comes, and should the best be realized thy joy will be proportionate.”

I think I shall never forget his remark. The whole scene is so vivid before me. I cannot close my eyes without seeing every detail of the crowded room, dimly lighted, and the shadowy figures in the shady corners leaning anxiously forward to catch the expression as well as the words of an earnest old black man, who was questioned and cross-questioned for hours on the witness stand. I know, mother, that had it been I, I should certainly have made some mistake, but he did not get greatly confused, only wandered slowly over and over again in his statements and settled down upon what proved to be the absolute truth.

It seems he was a small gardener in the neighborhood where the prisoner worked, and had written down in his rough notebook the date of the stranger’s arrival. This book was the only direct testimony in favor of freedom, for all the other witnesses became confused, or else exhibited clearly the falsity of their statements. As it turned out, the good, conscientious gardener had made a mistake in his date, and the commissioner suspected it, but as A. L. told us they could not go behind the written facts and we all thought he was, indeed, greatly harassed by the situation and was glad enough to be able “to give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt,” which I suppose is a formal phrase that applies to causes decided upon suspicious evidence, and thee knows, it is often said that English law leans toward mercy.

Alas! that it should not always be based upon justice! And, mother dear, thee will recall here a great deal that I have written thee about the young men of New England with whom I have been thrown during the year. I cannot bring myself back to the old thought that I bore concerning them. I expected the H. and A. families were as eager for the abolition of slavery as their forefathers were to found a “free and independent nation,” and behold! they jeer at Garrison and Phillips and hesitate to do any thing that will hurt Southern pride.

Thee has ever taught me to “judge not,” yet I would that the youth of distinguished patriot families now enjoying every educational advantage at the great seat of learning--Harvard College--might also feel the throb of sympathy for the oppressed. But we must turn back to the terrible slave trial.

At times, toward dawn especially, when the men grew weary, I suppose, the pistols were flourished as if they were harmless things. I drew very near to dear aunt once, but she quietly pointed to Lucretia Mott, whose age required rest, but whose motion betrayed neither her weariness nor deep concern. It was a relief when a little before nine o’clock the court was adjourned. It seems there was some thought of attempting a forcible capture of the man on trial, but his anti-slavery friends gathered close about him and thus remained until he was in the hands of the officers of the law.

Of course we were very tired, but nothing of small importance could have kept us from rejoining the throng, for such it had now become, when court opened again that afternoon.

What is called the “argument” began as soon as order was established. First the lawyer on one side, a much disfigured man named B. B., tried to show that all the evidence was in favor of the slaveholder. That is, that the man claimed was really the escaped slave, and this being so, the commissioner ought to give him up. Then the other, G. E., made a most satisfactory response, stating that the only evidence to be relied upon was the gardener’s account book, and that distinctly showed the man to have been free at the time he was said to have run away. Oh, mother! I wish thee could have heard him. I know it is dangerous to allow one’s enthusiasm too great liberty, but I never felt so well satisfied with any speaker before.

At last it was over and a long reading from the commissioner closed the matter. Even aunt, I think, was in doubt how it might end, until the very last sentence, and then--although I did not approve of the sentiment--I could not help a touch of sympathy with a man near me who shouted excitedly, “You have saved your soul, commissioner!”

_Such_ excitement! People shook hands and cried and--the slave had disappeared! No one saw him go, no one seemed to know where he went, but aunt whispered to me that it was all right, he was taken in charge by a friend and would be immediately out of harm’s way. I think it was an hour before we could get down to the street, so thronged was the staircase, and everyone seemed happy over the result.

I am inclined to think my mind dwelt as much on the awful responsibility of the commissioner as upon the released man. How _can_ one bind himself by an oath to serve a government that has made this iniquitous bond with the slaveholders? I _almost_ hope to learn later that this dreadful experience has led to the resignation of Commissioner L.

There was one other thing, mother dear, that gave me great joy. In the midst of the enthusiasm, someone seized my hand. I was not astonished at the movement for every heart seemed to be throbbing with sympathy and brother love, but I assure thee I was very happy when I lifted my eyes and saw bending over me the familiar face of Edward H.! What a fine face it is! And on this occasion burning with newborn devotion to principle! It is needless to say that he has since been to visit us, and that he is going to return to Pennsylvania during the summer and has kindly responded to my invitation to come to our home.

Thee cannot help loving him, I know, nor can dear father either, and you will both rejoice that--for Edward has so expressed it--through your simple Sallie’s teaching a strong man has been led to see the enormity of our national sin, and pledged himself to leave no stone unturned toward its abolishment.

In firm affection, I remain

THY DAUGHTER.

N. B.--I think perhaps I ought to tell thee about a letter I have recently had from F. A. A kind letter, but with a tone of flattery that I do not quite like, nor, indeed, understand. He speaks as if I was much in his thought and--can it be, dear mother, that I gave him a wrong impression of my friendship? My cheeks burn as I write this, but it is delightful to know good Edward H. was thoroughly inspired--through my mere suggestion that these are serious times--to do a great deal of honest thinking. I shall be right glad to welcome him within our home!

UNCLE JOSEPH.

One of the prominent figures in our meeting house for many years was that of Uncle Joseph--for thus was he known by the young and old who frequented our religious gatherings.

He occupied the second seat in the men’s gallery--and it was with him that the Elder shook hands in sign that Friends should separate, when it seemed likely that the spirit would move no others to utter gentle words of blessing or stern warning against the wiles of the tempter.

As children we regarded Uncle Joseph in the light of a patriarch, although I now know that his years, at the time of which I write, had scarce reached the limit of a half century.

He was a comely man, straight and tall, his smooth-shaven face beaming with good nature, and his soft blue eye lighted with sympathy, but he was not intellectual. Slow of movement and uncertain in expression, his hearers were often troubled to follow his excellent thought, and it was no uncommon thing for my parents to refer to his ministrations as being “labored.” We had a consciousness, based perhaps upon accidental knowledge, that he was uncommonly well to do, and also that there was considerable feeling in the society that Sarah Sidney, with her clear insight and facile speech, would be a fit life companion for the good man. But time wore on and there seemed no likelihood of a realization of this desire.

I can remember one occasion when the subject really assumed the importance that is usually given to gossip, but it was so lovingly and conscientiously touched upon that I was greatly impressed.

My father and mother were in the way of inviting many friends to dine with them on monthly meeting day. Quarterly meeting brought even more persons from a distance, and among the children little unaccustomed duties were distributed. I was frequently desired to remain for a time in the front chamber and assist our women visitors in removing their wraps and adjusting the cap crowns that often met with disaster beneath the stiff bonnets. It was always a pleasurable duty, for Friends never forget the young, and as each one grasped my little palm, she did not neglect to speak an encouraging word.

On the occasion to which I have alluded, meeting broke up somewhat later than usual. I hurried home, warmed my chilled fingers, and ran upstairs, where a bright fire was burning on the hearth. I glanced about to see that the wood box was full, and looked out of the window where my eye rested upon a short line of carriages all bent in the direction of our home. First came father and mother, grandfather and the three younger children; then a vehicle well known to me as that of Elias Chase from Derry Quarter; and thus I counted them off, as one by one they drew up beside the horse-block.

I missed Sarah Sidney, who generally came with Theophilus Baldwin’s family, and having seen her placid face in its usual place on the seat beneath the gallery, fronting the meeting, I was at a loss to explain her absence. She was tenderly attached to mother, and I could not believe any light matter would take her to another’s table.

A gentle voice called me to my duties:

“Why, Katherine dear, thee must have been very spry to get home before us. I was pleased to see thy interest in the meeting to-day.”

The good woman kissed me and thanked me for the little aid I was able to give in unpinning her great shawl.

Directly afterward, sweet Jane Spencer came tripping up the stairs. She was frequently spoken of as exhibiting “overmuch ardor” in all her good works, but we children loved the enthusiastic little woman.

“O Katherine, I am glad to make use of thy quick fingers. My cap strings are sadly awry. I have been most uncomfortable in them all through meeting. Our breakfast was a trifle late this morning, and we had far to drive.”

One and another arrived, each with a thought of me. “How thee grows, child,” or “Thy mother is blessed in her little helpers.”

The room was well-nigh full, when someone asked the question that had been trembling on my lips.

“Where is Sarah Sidney?”

No one directly replied, but after a moment’s reflection nearly all had a suggestion or a little interest in her to express.

“Methought her face bore traces of anxiety this morning. I trust she has met with no further financial disaster. Thee knows, Rhoda, she is benevolent to a surprising degree in one whose purse is not lengthy, and it is therefore a serious matter to be forced to curtail in her giving.”

“Sarah is too true a follower of the Great Teacher to be long afflicted by the things of this world,” replied an aged friend.

“Ah, Hannah dear,” answered the first speaker, “thee has never had the bread and butter trouble, and therefore thee can hardly compass its misery.”

I think we all felt the force of this argument, for Hannah was richly dowered. Presently Jane Spencer sighed:

“I cannot help wishing that Uncle Joseph would recognize that the hand of the Lord is pointing him to Sarah Sidney.”

“If such be the will of our Heavenly Father, I doubt not it will be revealed in due time,” and Hannah spoke with great deliberation.

“That is quite true, and undoubtedly it is only those among us who are a trifle worldly minded, that show a disposition to hasten these things.” Jane Spencer was always very meek under reproof, and I felt glad that others sustained her desire that Uncle Joseph should be a little less deliberate in his action.

“I can hardly think that he realizes Sarah’s worth,” said a late comer.

“On the contrary,” it was Rhoda Longstreet’s voice, “I am sometimes inclined to believe that his doubt rests upon his own merit. If he were one of the world’s people I should say he was bashful. As it is, I shall call him slow in perceiving his adaptation to any peculiar calling.”

“Thee may be right,” responded Jane Spencer, and I was struck with the note of merrymaking that accompanied her words. “If so, I can only wish that somebody would give him a hint, for I really believe that Sarah has perceived their true relationship, and that her spirit is troubled with doubt since no sign is given unto her.”

“Ah,” interrupted Hannah, “shall we never learn that God does not wish us to call upon him for _signs_?”

Now it had chanced, although none of those present were at that time conscious of it, that Sarah Sidney had given up her seat in a friend’s carriage to a person who was suffering from a weak limb, and had walked briskly along the frozen road toward our house.

Uncle Joseph, too, had chosen to leave his vehicle at home, and seeing in the distance a familiar plump little figure, he made haste to overtake her.

For a few moments they talked together of the lesser things of life. Then they fell into silence, which was at last broken by Uncle Joseph’s voice.

“My mind has dwelt much to-day upon the Bible teaching of the relation of Ruth and Boaz.”

I am sure the throbbing heart beneath the clear muslin kerchief of Sarah Sidney must have bounded a little at this. He went on: “Has thee ever thought it over, and applied the test to our own lives?”

It certainly was not strange that the good woman hesitated before she answered:

“If thee means to ask whether it has been shown to me that I am chosen of the Lord to be thy companion, I will admit that it has; but, Joseph, thee is not an old man, nor am I a young hand-maiden.”

Uncle Joseph stopped short in his walk, and catching a frightened look upon the honest face beside him, he gravely said:

“It was not upon _that_ relation my mind ran. I thought rather of the increased duty in this day and generation which must belong to the husbandman and his gleaners; or in other words the responsibility of him upon whom the benefits of this world have been showered, and the loud call that is ever sounding in my ear to extend help to those who need; and it has been whispered to me that thy material goods have been slipping from thee, and--and, I wished to offer my aid.”

Could one marvel if a feeling of faintness crept over the gentle Sarah, or that a beseeching look set the seal upon the awful stillness that followed? Her face grew first scarlet, then very, very white. Uncle Joseph’s voice sounded strange in her ear. She feared she should fall, but as the tones grew clearer, something else impressed her.

“Sarah, thee has a more receptive spirit than my own. I have sometimes longed to see aright in regard to the formation of a closer bond with thee, and I rejoice that through my own ill-chosen speech thee has been led to point the way.”

He took her trembling hand between his own, and smiled down upon the sweet but tearful face; then her lips were opened, the pain went forever out of her heart, and she whispered only:

“Dear Joseph.”

But her trial was not quite over. We were already summoned to the dining room when Uncle Joseph and Sarah Sidney entered the door together. I glanced about me, and was certain that I saw more than one look of satisfaction exchanged by the company present.

The moment of silent blessing was past. My mother moved as if to begin serving the soup, but she caught Uncle Joseph’s eye, and awaited his slow words:

“Dear friends,” he said with a little tremor in his voice, “rejoice with me, for to-day has our beloved Sarah Sidney revealed to me the message that the Lord has given into her keeping.”

He paused, and with a flush brightening her soft cheeks Sarah asked calmly:

“Joseph, will thee kindly explain thyself?”

I never knew him to do anything so well as he now related to us the manner in which he had obtained an insight into the secret knowledge of Sarah Sidney’s heart.

As he ceased speaking, her own rhythmic tones filled the room in tender thanksgiving to the Lord for his gift of companionship, and this has evermore remained in my memory as one of the most beautiful supplications I have been privileged to hear.

MY GRANDAME’S SECRET.

Almost a hundred years ago, there was born into a staid Quaker household a child whose very physique set at defiance all the rules of the orderly family.

The father, Daniel, and the mother, Lucretia Chester, were fair, colorless persons, and the brown hair of the latter was severely banded beneath her clear muslin cap. One can imagine the tinge of dismay that must have clouded the fatherly affection for his firstborn, when Daniel perceived that the babe was a dimpled, dark-eyed daughter, whose wealth of raven locks fell into soft rings about her brow.

As she grew into recognition of her immediate surroundings, her abounding vivacity made her singularly attractive. Her great eyes sparkled as she cooed in sympathy with the soft-toned stroke of the tall clock that had rung out the hour of her mother’s birth, and the play of the firelight on the pale wall inspired her to feverish exhibitions of delight. At such times Daniel laid his hand tenderly on the refractory curls, and vainly smoothing away their pretty curves, he said, “Alas, Lucretia, a very worldling has been given to our charge. It behooves thee and me to keep an untiring watch over the little one.” “She is the Lord’s own, is she not?” was the gentle reply. But to guide and to guard her after the fashion of the stern orthodox rule was the unrelenting training that the father practiced. More than once as the years went on, he took the scissors from the hand of his wife, with a strange misgiving lest she harbored a secret pleasure in the child’s ringlets, and severely he cut away so much of the crowning glory as scissors could cut, only to find an immediate renewal of nature’s willfulness, and it was with something like reproach that he spoke of her brilliant color.

“I wish, Dorcas, thee had more of the mother’s tint about thee,” he said, emphasizing the plain Quaker name they had given the girl, as if to counteract the impression of her brilliant beauty which increased with time.

One day as she sat at dinner, flushed by a wild scamper across the lawn with her playfellow, a soft-eyed collie, straight before her hung a looking-glass which served her father in his frequent shaving trials, and the child, catching the reflection of her bright face, cried out:

“I do not see, dear father, why thee should wish me to be pale like mother. Mine is far the prettier color. She is a snowdrop, but I am the rose.”

The pain Daniel felt darkened his brow. “Dorcas,” he said, “thee speaks as the daughter of sin; thy words reveal the wiles of the devil.”

The sensitive girl trembled, then her brave spirit rose and despite her tears she had answer:

“Did not our Heavenly Father make us _all_, and why may I not admire myself, if I am his handiwork, as much as thee admires dear mother?”

Her innocence touched Lucretia, who made haste to forestall a severe reproof from her husband:

“The love of the flesh is unholy, my daughter. We are bidden to strive with all the might which the Lord vouchsafes against the things of this world. To purify the heart through the working of the Holy Spirit, this is the highest good.”

“I think I do not understand thee, mother. Is the rose blushing for its sin in not being made like snowdrops?”

“Dorcas, restrain thy tongue; and, Lucretia, perhaps we are in error not to take the child more persistently to meeting. That she is restless and disturbing to the meditations of others must not be allowed to have too much weight.”

From that time forward the active girl placed herself under bonds to subdue her natural inclinations, and many a bright spring morning she sighed as she watched the lambs frisking in the fields, and noted the disappointment of the collie as she refused his invitation to a race, and with dripping hands she smoothed and resmoothed her curls, preparatory to the ride to meeting. It was hard work, too, for her to keep awake during the long silence or the droning tones of the preacher, that seemed arranged in order to lull the restless children to sleep, but she formulated a private code of morals, under which this trial figured as a dispensation to school the spirit in its early encounters with the tempter.

Occasionally the sermon interested her. Far more frequent was her retirement within herself, and in misery of spirit she recounted the long list of her sins, sincerely soliciting aid from on high that they might be overcome. Among the chief of her trials was to make the honest confession that she was not averse to looking at her own image, and from this constant sense of the enormity of the transgression grew an absolute intolerance of her beauty. She would have become morbid over it, but for the thoroughly healthful nature which reveled in outdoor exercise, and was of no mean assistance to the busy father in his lesser tasks. Dorcas was unselfish, too, and her mind turned readily into other channels than that of self-consciousness. She was a deft little housemaid, and imitated her mother’s kindly ways with the servants; but perhaps the absence of childish companions gave her an air of maturity hardly in accord with her years. She was dreamy too. Somewhere in her nature lurked a drop of Southern blood; that which colored her rich dark skin colored also her mental constitution. She was filled with romance and yet she had never heard a fairy-tale or listened to a troubadour’s song, but her soul was on fire at the relation of a heroic deed, or the unspoken sentiment of a pair of lovers.

Lucretia had chosen to teach the little maiden at home; perhaps the staid father had hesitated to send the worldling into the midst of temptations such as lurk behind the schoolroom door. His pride in her ready insight must have been great for he did not scorn knowledge, although he scorned honors, and Dorcas displayed a marvelous aptitude for study. Even this bore a cross to him. “She is more like a boy than a girl at books,” he thought, and cherished the memory of every gentle womanly exhibition.

Daniel dearly loved Lucretia. She was to him a type of the true wife, and undemonstrative as he was, little as she would have acknowledged the wish, there lurked in the heart of each an unspeakable sorrow that the only child which God had given to their arms should be so unlike the meek and patient woman, the sweet orthodox saint, who had borne her.

In 1815 prison reform was a dim dream in the hearts of a few. Men incline toward a theory of retributive justice, and are keen to assume the judgment rôle and fasten a stigma to sin, forgetful that although the sin may be outgrown, the stigma rarely is wiped away.

The orthodoxy of society was as fixed as the theological dogma of that early day; leniency was license to the common mind; and the culprit was faced with continual reminders of his guilt as a necessary step toward repentance.

The wrath of man, like the wrath of God, was to be known and feared; the evil-doer was beaten into the path of the righteous, not led by the law of love. Too much of this spirit exists at the present time, but seventy-five years ago the force of public opinion tended in that direction.

The prisoners were permitted to come forth on Sabbath morning and listen, many of them with bound limbs, to a long exhortation from the strait-laced clergy, who pointed a finger of scorn as well as reproach at the guilty, and it was little wonder that their hearts were hardened by what they heard, and that when they went forth again into the world it was often with a determination to revenge themselves on society at large.

The home of Daniel and Lucretia Chester was a resting place for such Friends as repaired to that locality for religious purposes, and Daniel was frequently charged with bearing one of them company to the county jail, which stood on the outskirts of their little town. Here he never failed to be impressed with the terrors of sin, and to exhort his family afterward to tread the straight and narrow way. More than once Dorcas had been allowed to accompany her father on such visits, with the idea of permeating the maiden’s consciousness with a correct view of righteous punishment. On such an occasion, when she had just passed her sixteenth birthday, the Friend who had a “concern” to speak to the erring, aroused her indignation by his harsh denunciations. So touched was she that her sympathies far outran her judgment, and in passing through the room where the prisoners had assembled for worship, Dorcas let her eyes rove over the throng and tender smiles play about her mouth. One face among the many never faded from her memory. He was but a lad, scarcely greater in years than herself, but tall and well built. His keen glance was riveted to her face from the instant of her entrance, and when she kindly nodded to the sullen group, this youth fairly started from his seat. His bronze brow, his piercing black eyes, his clean-cut limbs--all were instantly photographed upon her mind.

She lingered a moment at the door, while Daniel turned his carryall, and as she paused, she was conscious that the boy had reached far over his companions and was eagerly watching her.

“Father,” she said, “does thee suppose all those prisoners are really guilty?”

“Undoubtedly, Dorcas. It is a sad sight--a sad sight; but there is no room to doubt that punishment awaits them hereafter as well as here.”

“I do not believe it,” she said sternly; “that is, dear father, I do not think our Heavenly Parent will afflict them always, because they have done wrong once. Would not thee take one of them to thy home and heart after his release just as eagerly as thee would have done before he was put in prison?”

“No, I would not. Are we not told that the way of the transgressor is hard, and are we to set our judgment in defiance of that of the Lord our God? It is our duty to enforce punishment for sin, to make the sinner feel his peril, his exclusion, in order that he may repent.”

“But suppose he has repented?”

“Then let him come before his Maker and confess.”

“I think it would be awfully hard, dear father, for me to go before thee and mother and say I was sorry, after you had so severely shown your displeasure with me. Now if we held out our hands and welcomed the sinner home, would he not be more likely to come? Was it not so in the parable of the Prodigal Son?”

“There be those,” Daniel answered, as if in protest, “who thus construe the passage, but I believe it not. No man may even turn to his father’s house until he has been fed on husks.”

The midsummer heat was upon the land. The red sun set in splendor, and the blood-dyed moon rose as in wrath.

The simple little chamber which was Dorcas’ own, had a broad window opening upon the upper veranda. The small white cot was close at its side, and the sweet night wind that bore the breath of the wild rose and the clustering honeysuckle, softly stirred the dark curls that strayed beneath the border of the muslin cap which the sleeper wore. The heat was so great that she had suffered the strings to remain untied, and the collar of her plain gown was turned away from the white throat. She stirred. Was the breath from the garden too free upon her cheek? Consciousness of some invasion made her restless. Presently her eyelids quivered and lifted; surely Dorcas was dreaming! and yet, no; there was a manly figure resting on the sill of the open window. She sat up, making a quick motion to close the neck of her gown, and tie the cap strings, but as quickly a voice broke upon her ear.

“Do not be afraid. I have been here several minutes wanting to tear off one of those strings, but I knew it would disturb you.”

Dorcas was never a coward, and her astonishment at this matter-of-fact statement forbade any outcry.

“Who is thee, and what does thee want?” was her commonplace exclamation.

“I am Henri Beauclaire. I have escaped from the jail. You saw me there. I found out who you were after I was certain that it was not an angel who smiled on me last Sunday, and--do not stop me. I only want to tell you this: when I made up my mind to get out of that mad house, I made up my mind, too, that I would see you and talk to you before I went away.”

The girl was fascinated by the picture. A handsome youth with his soul blazing in his eyes, sitting upright in the brilliant moonlight that fell across her bed. There was no evil in his face. She kept silent and let him speak on.

“Your name is Dorcas Chester, and I want you to know that I never stole the money I was put in jail for stealing; but they proved I did, and so I had two whole years to serve if I did not get away from them. Would not you have tried to get out? That is hell over there.”

“Yes,” she half whispered.

“I knew you would. Nothing I can ever do or say will make me anything in this world but a jail-bird unless I hide. So I am going to France for a while. My _grandpère_ is there. By and by I will come back, and you must give me something that I can show you then so that you will know me, for I shall not look like this.”

He glanced disdainfully at the poor clothes he wore and reached out a hand as if to receive an offering.

“What shall I give thee? I have nothing.” A thought of a lock of her hair was in Dorcas’ mind, but she knew it would be missed, cut as cleverly as she might. Then came the doubt, too, whether it were right to thus encourage a culprit!

“Give me,” Henri said, and his voice was melodious, “give me that cap string.”

She shrank back into the shadow. It seemed indelicate to let him touch her nightgarb.

“Would it, would it make thee think of leading a better life, of God and forgiveness and----”

“It would make me think of you, and that is of God. Forgiveness I need not, for I never did the deed. No better life ask I than such one as my _grandpère_ lives.”

He reached for the cap string.

Mechanically Dorcas tore it off and lifted it to his height.

The boy looked out at the sweet stars paling under the tropical moon, then he bent his eyes upon the beautiful girl, and slowly said:

“I am going now. Remember, I never did it, and keep yourself just as you are until that day when the white cap string shall come home again.” He was gone, and Dorcas sat silent for a moment; then the painful consciousness forced itself upon her that her father’s voice was calling. She dropped her head upon the pillow, wrapped the sheet about her throat, and closed her eyes. The voice came nearer. “Dorcas, Dorcas,” it said; but she did not stir. Her heart was wildly beating with fear lest the youth of her dream should be pursued, but her parent went calmly away, and only at breakfast was there any allusion to the circumstance.

“Dorcas, thee talked strangely, last night, in thy sleep.”

The girl’s face crimsoned as she felt the untruthfulness of her reply: “How funny that is!” but the motherly eye was not long without discovering the loss of the nightcap string.

“Daughter,” she said, “how was it possible for thee to tear thy cap in this way? It is as though thee had willed to do it and done it with all thy might.”

And the girl replied, with some of her hoydenish spirit: “Throw the old thing away; I have plenty more,” for it seemed as if she could not tolerate the witness to her secret compact.

“I am surprised,” answered the gentle mother. “Waste not, want not. Get thy thimble and thread; here is some muslin, thee can hem another string.”

Dorcas did not allow herself to brood over her midnight adventure. Perhaps she was pained by the part of concealment that she played toward her parents; perhaps she was troubled, too, by a recollection of the rebuke contained in the boy’s words. She was sometimes inclined to feel that he was right and her own little world was wrong in so strictly upholding law, and in believing the ways of God were at utter variance from the ways of generous men.

“I care not to live any better life than that _mon grandpère_ lives.”

These words were ringing in her ears, and she pictured to herself the detail of that life, far enough from reality, no doubt, but a pretty idyl. She began to read much history, and once asked her mother to allow her to take French lessons from a villager. Lucretia was shocked.

“Ah, my child! there is little to be read in that tongue that could benefit thee. Blasphemers and winebibbers they are, with no sense of shame in their idolatry of sensual things.”

“Then they are an evil-minded people, mother?”

“Yea, yea; a frivolous and false-hearted race.”

Then Dorcas turned away sorrowfully. Could it be that Henri Beauclaire had told what was not true? If he could steal he might also lie. He was base had he done both; and if that race was false why was he an exception among Frenchmen? When this mood was upon her she blushed alone in her chamber at the thought of the bit of muslin that he so carefully rolled about his finger and put from sight. Mostly, however, her meditations were concluded with the memory of his respect for the clean life of his _grandpère_, and, do as she might, to think him guilty she could not.

The years went quickly by. It was a round of simple duties to Dorcas, enlivened by a keen sense of the beautiful and a quick response to sympathetic needs. The weeks were much alike. First-day meeting, followed by the household laundry work. Fourth-day meeting, succeeded by the mending, sweeping, and baking. This was varied by monthly meeting day dinner, when several Friends were apt to be seated at their board, or a drive to a quarterly meeting in a larger community; and the crowning event--not often enjoyed by Lucretia and Dorcas--of passing a week in the great city at the time of the yearly gathering. It was on one of the latter occasions that Dorcas met and became much interested in a young man who was welcomed by Daniel as the son of a dear and distant friend. She had never mingled with youth a great deal, and George Townsend’s quick wit and good temper were a source of great pleasure to her. She had no idea of marriage in her mind, and when, after months of intimate acquaintance, he directly asked her to become his wife, she shrank from him as if he had struck her.

“Does thee feel that I have done wrong?” he gently questioned.

“No,” she stammered; but a strange vision of flashing dark eyes and an earnest injunction to “keep just as you are now” made her faint.

“Will thee let me dwell upon thy request in solitude?” she said, and the honest-hearted man made answer:

“Thee is right to question thy own soul. If there thee finds a single cloud, wait until the light cometh.”

When Dorcas sat alone she covered her face with both hands and a few tears trickled between her fingers. Presently she wiped them away, and began to question herself as she would have questioned another.

“Why do I hesitate? I am greatly drawn toward George Townsend. Father and mother regard him highly; he is a God-fearing man, capable and conscientious; he is a member of our meeting; his business can be readily arranged so that we may live near my dear parents and bless their declining years. Why not?”

To so pure a maiden, one whose affections had never keenly asserted themselves nor been lightly trifled with, the idea of having granted unasked the treasure of her love was in itself a reproach.

Dorcas paled in view of the thought to which she felt it right to give definite shape; then she walked restlessly toward the window where once sat the dark-eyed lad, and she said, honestly and bravely:

“Until to-day the actual meaning of that charge, to ‘keep as you are,’ never occurred to me. Am I certain that he intended that bit of muslin to typify my faith--faith to him personally? or was it, as I vaguely comprehended it then, faith that I would be the same in my just dealing with his apparent shortcomings? Who can tell? It is six years since he went away. Perhaps he died before seeing his _grandpère_ again. Perhaps he forgot the place where he suffered so much; or found his beautiful ancestral home too lovely to leave. Perhaps--” and this hurt her, but she thought it fair to admit the doubt, “perhaps he fell into evil ways again. And, indeed, had he been all that my dream pictured, would he not, within six years, have found an opportunity to communicate with me? Surely I deserved it.”

Then came another question; “Would I have married him, had he come back with a clean record and a demand for my love? Could I have given my life into the hand of an utter stranger, a foreigner of whose race I know no good? Would my father and mother have blessed me and bade me go to my husband’s arms with joy? No, it could not have been, and I could not have done it without. Should Henri return tomorrow for the fulfillment of such a desire, I should bid him leave me. Is it right to marry George Townsend with this secret in my heart? Ought I to reveal it, reveal my doubts and struggles concerning it? No. I should be quite willing to place my hand in his and say, ‘George, whatever thee has in thy heart that thee wishes to tell me, that do I wish to hear; but whatever trials thee has passed through and honestly left behind thee, with those I have no question.’

“Could I let George go from me and live my life alone, without a pang because of his absence? No, I could not. Therefore, O Lord, with a clean heart I will walk beside him, asking daily grace from thy hand, and humbly seeking to serve thee through serving him.”

She bathed her flushed face, smoothed the curls away, and went into the garden. There among the sweet-peas and the rich clove-pinks, she laid her hand in that of her lover and simply said:

“My heart tells me I will be a true wife unto thee.”

The next decade wrought a great change in Dorcas. The vivacity that she had seemed so likely to lose under the stern repression of her parents, assumed the semblance of loving good cheer. Her beauty as a matron surpassed that of her girlhood, and it became a matter of merrymaking in the household that a stranger never passed her without turning to look a second time. Her sweet spirit was overflowing with thankfulness for the great blessing of fervid affection from so manly and upright a companion as George Townsend. Indeed, if ever the taint of pride clung to Dorcas it was when she thought of her husband.

A little maiden had for eight years walked beside her. A faithful representative of the Chester household. Truly, if Daniel had regretted his own daughter’s alien features, he was content now in the miniature Lucretia whose demure air was a marked contrast to the flashing wit of her dark-eyed mother.

The village, too, was changed. Through George Townsend’s exertions manufacturing interests flourished, and although wealth was pouring into his coffers, the comfort of a thousand lesser households told of just dealing between man and man. But the old jail still stood on the highway, and its barred windows were lengthened to a half score. The same fiery brick walls, the same foul atmosphere, the same class of inhabitants were closed behind the multitudinous bolts and bars. The passer-by winced as he heard the loud laugh or the fearful curse; and the faces that pressed against the iron casement were faces of the young and the old, of women as well as men, and gathered from the ranks of first offenders as well as those of the hardened criminals.

One morning, while yet Dorcas sat at the head of the breakfast table, dispensing as much of cheer by her sunny face as from the viands, a message was brought requesting her presence at the county jail. It was no unusual occurrence for the mother to be thus summoned from her peaceful home to smooth the path of the unrighteous, and very shortly she stepped from her carriage into the door of the plague spot of the neat village. She was met by the jailer’s wife, a coarse woman, but not untouched with good intentions.

“I was sorry to send for you,” she said, “but a queer-looking man was let in last night, who has been bleeding at the lungs, and all I could do and say was nothing till I promised to fetch you early this morning. He hadn’t ought to been here, I ’spose, but Thomas found him sitting on the doorstep, and rattling the latch, and when he asked to be let in and Thomas said as it was a jail, he up and told a queer story about once having broke out; and anyways it wasn’t right to leave him out there a-bleedin’, so I put him in one of my rooms; he seemed decent-like.”

An unaccustomed horror crept over Dorcas. She had to steady herself against the door-post for a moment before following the woman into the cramped little chamber.

Half-sitting upon the bed, surrounded with pillows and cloths stained with blood, was Henri Beauclaire. His eyes flashed with the old intensity, but from amid the pallor of a countenance wasted with disease.

“Stand there,” he whispered hoarsely; and motioning to the jailer’s wife to go out, he fastened his gaze on Dorcas’ half-frightened face.

“Look at me, woman; do you know me?”

She bowed her head.

“Do you know what this is?” he said again, as he drew from his breast a bit of soiled and yellow muslin.

“This is a betrothal ring. Yes, I tell you, by this you plighted your troth to me, and by the heavens above, you have broken your faith.”

Dorcas made motion as if to answer.

“Stop,” he said. “You can have nothing to say; it is I who must relieve my bursting heart. Do you know what this is?” laying his finger on the bright stains. “This is my life-blood, and you have spilled it. When I came over sea I had a cough, and they told me I needed care, but I laughed them to scorn, for I said to myself, when once I am there, where her gentle hands can smooth the pain away and her sweet smile bring back the light to my eyes, all will be well. Do you know how it was with me during these years? When, after being hunted like a wild beast from wood to cavern, from hill to seaport, at last I stood by my _grandpère_, his heart was filled with joy--for I was his only descendant left on earth, and on me he leaned feeble and childish. I could not leave him for an hour without reproach; how could I come to you? Year after year he lingered, and although I starved for your smile, I believed in you, and God knows, had I suspected the awful truth of your unfaithfulness, I should have done the same. Heaven itself could not have lured me from that poor man, whose dying blessing is sounding in my ears this day. When I had laid him away, scarce three months ago, and found that the old chateau with its thousands of meters of rich garden and tillage was mine, I bounded for my passport, I dreamed of naught else than a return to build a family worthy of the saintly dead.

“Would you know the rest? How I came in the dusk to the village street and crept in the shadow to your father’s door, feeling that I could not at once bear the blaze of your beauty. When I had seen the old man open the casement and sit in the moonlight with a child upon his knee, my heart misgave me. Fainting for food, for I had been too eager to eat, I crept back to the inn. Slowly I questioned the _garçon_ concerning the people of the village, and gradually the truth dawned--you were untrue! I was like a madman that night. I wore a track in the floor, I doubt not, with my restless pacing, and when day broke I went forth with a wild intent to do murderous work. All through the hours of sunlight I examined the mill, and the dwelling-place where a false heart was beating, and at night I planned to carry out my work of destruction. I would fire the mill and the house and take care that, so quick would leap the flames, that no escape would be possible. And if, through some strange fatality, my plot was defeated, there, in the fierce distraction of a great conflagration, I would rush upon you with my knife and stab you to your death! Yes,” he leaned forward and hissed the words, “the woman who has taught me that there is no faith, that God and honor and love are myths, ought to die by the hand of the man whom she has wrecked.”

Again Dorcas stirred, and again he waved her into silence.

“And what was your excuse? Six years of silence. What were they to me? Six centuries might have waned, and I should have kept my faith. When I looked at this trysting string, I said alway and ever the same: ‘She is as strong as the threads she tore with so great an effort; she will never waver.’

“What was the good of nature’s brand that you bear: the mark of unyielding purpose, of faith and love as firm as God’s foundation, as broad as the firmament--you belie them all. There you stand now with your great eyes shining as if a _soul_ dwelt behind them; your rich smooth skin blooming with the color and purity of nature, not artifice; your red lips curved with a smile you cannot repress, and yet I swear you are as false as hell!

“Only this”--he touched the crimson stains--“only this defeated my plan, and enabled you to breath the sweet spring air once more; only this has made it possible for me to die cursing you with my latest breath without dealing that blow at your heart that should have mingled our blood in one stream.”

The exhausted man fell back upon his pillows, and Dorcas crept to his side and smoothed the rich waves of jet-black hair, and with a wet sponge moistened his lips. Presently he opened his eyes, and before he could speak she said calmly:

“I am going to take thee to our home. George Townsend will help me to nurse thee back to life and peace. I will tell thee, now, that I never knew thy full intent in asking me for the cap string; had I known it I should not have given it, for thy reason and my own would have rebelled against an alliance wholly at variance with Nature’s laws. Thee did not love _me_, the girl; thee loved my _faith_, my trust in thy honesty; and I bid thee go on loving it, for I shall trust thee now, just as I trusted thee then. I believed thee innocent of the crime for which thee had been confined. I believed it only because thee said it was so, and thy face told the same story. I believe in thee now, in despite thy _words_, for thy soul is speaking more truly through thy glance, and that tells me that thy devotion to thy _grandpère_ was no myth, while thy frenzy is. Thee shall find thy faith in me is rewarded, for thee shall live to be one of our household and to bless us all with thy goodness.”

She ceased speaking, summoned the jailer’s wife, and had the sick man borne to her carriage.

When she had reached her own door Dorcas entered alone, and quietly spoke to her husband, who still sat by the breakfast table.

“George, I have brought home a very ill man; will thee please attend to his removal from the carriage while I prepare a bed? I shall put him into the little room next our own that I may the more carefully tend him.”

That night, as Dorcas sat late by the invalid’s side, the only word that he spoke was the whispered question:

“Are you not afraid?”

And as she bent over him tenderly she answered:

“Not for a moment do I fear thee; I only wish thee well.”

Slowly the strength came to the feeble pulse, but when the frail man was permitted to leave his sick bed, it was found that his cough became less frequent and his fever had subsided. Then, too, he was moved into a large upper chamber, the best the house afforded, and although the kind attentions of Dorcas were unremitted, he lost all sense of care or espionage. Gradually he recognized himself as a member of the family, and never was there any allusion to his advent or expected departure. Before many months he was the dear “uncle,” of the household, taking his part in all that went on; teaching the little Lucretia; reading aloud bits of quaint wisdom or humor, from “Le Roman de la Rose,” and “Le Roman du Renart;” pages from Froissart, his beloved Pascal, and La Bruyère; or listening to the many schemes for lifting the burdens of others that were constantly suggested by George or Dorcas.

From 1820 to 1830 there was a great awakening on the subject of Prison Reform. The work of England’s noble Howard had been supplemented by that of the devoted Elizabeth Fry, and the whole world rang with their achievements. Slow, alas! was the motion across the water, but sure in its coming.

Henri Beauclaire, too feeble to exert great physical effort, was keenly alive to the necessity of introducing humanitarian methods in all places for the confinement of the accused.