Chapter XII

HOW THE WORTHY MR. MIDLER EXHORTED HIS PENITENTS TO DIE LIKE CHRISTIANS.

William Dow resided in Sixth Avenue, in a pretty and comfortably furnished house. He lived very retired, with a charming child of sixteen, Miss Jane, who called him “my friend,” and showed him the most tender affection. Who the young girl was none knew, and the few who tried to question Mrs. Wandright, the governess, gained little, for the good woman invariably answered: “Miss Jane is the daughter of a distant relative of Mr. Dow; she was an orphan, and he adopted her.”

However it was, Miss Jane was an adorable young girl, morally and physically. She was a blonde, slender, but not fragile, with a rosy, smiling mouth, large blue eyes, both lively and gentle, and was pretty enough to set the least poetical Yankee to dreaming. When one knew the kindness of her heart, the uprightness of her mind, and the refinement and purity of her sentiments, he could not but adore her.

William Dow adored her, but with a reserve, tinged with melancholy, that caused a struggle with his affectionate impulses.

When Miss Jane gazed at him with her pure eyes, after one of his frequent absences, and throwing her arms around his neck, covered his forehead and cheeks with innocent kisses, scolding him gently for leaving her so often, William, whose strength of will we already know, would turn suddenly pale and look sad.

When unobserved he gazed at the child, who looked smilingly at life, a shadow rested on his forehead and his eyes became moist. One would have thought Miss Jane was to him both the source of happiness and remorse.

She occupied all of the first story of the house. She had a dainty sleeping-room and a large parlor, fragrant with flowers, and filled with birds. Mrs. Wandright occupied a small room near her pupil’s apartments.

William Dow reserved the ground floor for himself, the principal room being his study. There he received the chief of police, Captain Young, and a few rare friends, but the most of his time was spent in solitude, his only companions being the books in his library.

Sometimes Miss Jane would come and take her friend away from his work, and he would then smile at the little girl he so dearly loved that she might have no anxiety. Occasionally they went out together, sometimes on horseback, sometimes on foot, and he completed her education during this exercise by interesting and instructive conversation. In a word, between these two, whom a mysterious event had united, there existed an intimacy of admiration and love on the part of the child, and protection and duty on the part of the man.

“How learned you are, my friend,” cried Jane, when, in his clear, precise way of stating things, her professor had explained to her some physical phenomenon or some controverted point in history.

William Dow, turning aside his head, blushed as if the compliment awoke some sorrowful memory.

Although Miss Jane was carefully guarded against indulging unhealthy curiosity, she learned, as every one in New York, the history of the drowned woman, James Gobson’s arrest and his appearance before the Criminal Court. Therefore she was impatiently awaiting William Dow, and when she heard him come in she ran to meet him in her eagerness to hear the news.

“Confess it was just,” said the detective, “the wretch is condemned to death.”

The young girl, in the kindness of her heart could not restrain a cry of pity, and, no doubt, she was about to ask for the details, but William Dow adroitly changed the conversation.

In the city hardly anything was talked of that evening but the sentence of James Gobson; and the next day when the papers gave the arguments, there were two opinions as among the hearers in court. The majority thought the sentence just, while the minority believed the explanations of the lawyer Macready, regarding the innocence of the condemned, or at least, the doubt, of which he ought to have the benefit.

But James Gobson belonged to no political party or religious sect, or any small church, and as none, in consequence, had any direct interest through party spirit in making himself his defender, the excitement rapidly died away, to be roused again on the eve of the execution.

All this time, Mary, who was on guard at the abandoned home, had been making an inventory of the unfortunate Miss Ada’s wardrobe, while the condemned man passed the last days allowed him by his honor Judge Douglas, with considerable bravery.

“He is a very agreeable boarder,” said Mr. Peters, the manager of the Tombs. “He has received an excellent education, and I enjoy calling on him. Everything will go very quietly between Master Meyer and him.”

The amiable Mr. Peters smiled as he got off this dismal joke, for Meyer, as we have said, was the hangman for the County of New York.

It was with him that James Gobson would have to do in a few days.

While awaiting this dreadful moment the prisoner seemed to be taking things rather philosophically. When the worthy Mr. Midler, the reverend Methodist, whose charge it was to prepare the condemned for death, came to visit him, James Gobson politely begged him to leave him in quiet; then he offered the worthy man, in the place of a religious talk, a glass of sherry, which was always accepted.

Mr. Midler was a worthy man, gentle and indulgent, having ordinary intelligence, but an excellent stomach, which made him sometimes forget one of the fundamental principles of the sect to which he belonged--to set the example of abstinence. He liked good living and good wines, which had a visible effect, for he was plump and fresh, rosy-faced and smiling.

Such was the consoler whom James Gobson received politely, but whose holy exhortations he philosophically repelled.

However, when a week had elapsed, the condemned lost his calmness somewhat at times, it required an effort to repress his anger, and when Mr. Mortimer, the sheriff, who was to be present at his execution, came to see him on the evening of the fatal day, he arose and walked directly toward him.

The honorable magistrate, perhaps for a moment, believed that the prisoner was going to make him some important revelation, but, as if ashamed of his weakness, James Gobson suddenly resumed his ordinary demeanor and simply asked his visitor:

“It is to-morrow, is it not?”

“Yes; to-morrow, at nine o’clock in the morning,” answered the sheriff, “and I come to offer myself as an intermediary in case you have any legal arrangements to make or any papers to convey to your family.”

“I am very grateful to you; you will find my will in my pocket; it contains my last wishes.”

“Have you nothing else to say to me?”

“Nothing, unless, as it is, to protest my innocence for the last time.”

“Would you like to receive a call from the pastor, Midler?”

“To-morrow morning, certainly. The worthy chaplain will help me to finish the bottle of excellent whiskey which the warden kindly sent me; besides, when one has a disagreeable journey to take it is always well to be accompanied and encouraged, as long as possible, by a worthy man.”

Finding that he would obtain nothing from the condemned, Mr. Mortimer wished him good courage and left.

James Gobson returned to his table and leaned on his elbow, hiding his pale face in his hands. If the sheriff could have seen him then he would have discovered that there had been more bravado than real courage in his attitude. It seemed as if, sustained until then by an imaginary hope, it was now lost.

But he dined as usual, passed the night without complaining, and the next day at seven o’clock, when Mr. Midler came to him he manifested no emotion. Now, there remained but a few hours for him to live.

This was his own conviction, and he was listening to Mr. Midler’s religious exhortations with more thoughtfulness than the latter had hoped, when suddenly the door of the cell was opened to admit the warden, accompanied by Mr. Mortimer and Davis.

The prisoner turned somewhat pale, but soon recovering that powerful self-command of which he had given so many proofs, he said to them in a firm voice, taking out his watch:

“Why, gentlemen, you are ahead of time; it is hardly eight o’clock, and the execution is not to be until nine.”

“You will not be hanged to-day, James Gobson,” replied the sheriff.

“Why not? Is there any sudden proof of my innocence? It was time.”

“No; but a serious accident has happened to Meyer.”

“Meyer, ah! I know.”

“He broke his leg a moment ago.”

“Poor man.”

“As his aid is a young, inexperienced man, I have had to telegraph to have Meyer’s assistant sent me, and he cannot arrive until this evening.”

“Then it will be to-morrow.”

“It will be to-morrow.”

And, bowing to the prisoner as well as the pastor, the officers left the cell.

“Supposing we continue our conversation,” said the reverend gentleman to Gobson, after their departure.

“No,” answered Mr. Gobson, warmly, his face having suddenly recovered its sceptical expression; “no, Mr. Midler, we will not resume it until to-morrow morning, if you will be so kind. I have arisen earlier to-day than usual, and all these successive emotions have made a hollow place in my stomach. Will you do me the honor to breakfast with me? I have two bottles of exquisite port which I did not expect to drink; we will empty them together. I promise to listen to you while eating, and we will strengthen at the same time both soul and body.”

“Very well, Mr. Gobson,” sighed the good minister, somewhat abashed at the pleasantry, but evidently touched by the proposition. “It is my mission to remain with you until the time of----”

“The rope. Well, since an accident to Master Meyer gives me twenty-four hours more, let us breakfast.”

James Gobson had called the guard and ordered some ham, cold meats and Chester cheese.

Good Mr. Midler was sitting opposite his penitent.

“To your health,” said the latter, after filling a glass for the excellent man.

“To the health of your soul,” answered the pastor, with true unction, and raising his eyes to heaven he devoutly drank the wine, then bravely attacked the iced partridge which his host had placed before him.

James Gobson also fell to with a will, and there was a momentary silence between the convivial host and guest.

William Dow himself would have been astonished at the philosophy and coolness of the man he had caused to be arrested, and Mr. Davis, at the sight of his calmness, would have remembered his first doubts, which the arguments, it is true, had quickly banished from his mind.

When his partridge had disappeared, and his glass was emptied a second time, the Methodist threw himself back, uttering a deep sigh.

“What is the matter, reverend sir?” asked the prisoner, affectionately.

“What a misfortune,” answered Mr. Midler, “that I did not know you sooner. I should certainly have checked you by my advice on the path you have entered.”

“Do you think I regret it any less than you, sir? Will you have a slice of this ham?”

“Resist one’s propensities; everything is in that, Mr. Gobson. This ham is excellent.”

“It comes from York, where the best wine is had, too.”

“Yours is delicious. We are all predestined to eternal felicity, and----”

“Will you have a glass of port?”

“With pleasure. And these are the first concessions we make to our passions, and to our tastes, which lead us on, but----”

“Will you have a little of this cheese, it is perfect for digestion?”

“Yes, epicures think a great deal of it. But if our miserable nature causes us to fall, God renders our faith a justification and conversion takes place instantaneously----”

“Do you like coffee?”

“I think it indispensable to every meal.”

“I have not failed to ask for it. One would say that my guard was only waiting for the proper moment to bring it, for, see, here he comes.”

In fact, the servant appointed to wait on the prisoner was that moment entering the cell with a waiter, which he placed on the table, then left.

James Gobson filled Mr. Midler’s cup, who thanked him with a tender glance.

“Do you smoke?” asked the prisoner.

“No, thanks,” answered the minister; “Mrs. Midler does not allow me to do so.”

“But smoke does not incommode you.”

“By no means. What was I saying?”

“That God renders faith a justification, and that conversion takes place instantly.”

“Ah, yes! There is some pleasure in exhorting with you.”

“Talk on, sir, talk on; I am listening to you with the most respectful attention; but do not let your coffee get cold. You must take it smoking-hot or iced; otherwise it is a detestable drink.”

“You are right.” And while sipping his wine the worthy Midler resumed: “The conversion is instantaneous.... God’s miracles work ever ... the soul is elevated, and if there is any account to settle with men ... grace renders us worthy of this eternal felicity for which we are all predestined.”

But Gobson no longer listened, if ever he had listened seriously. With his chair tipped back against the wall, and leaning back in it, he was phlegmatically sending rings of smoke from his cigar to the ceiling, while his preacher, yielding to the influence of digestion, lowered his voice more and more, gently closed his eyelids, devoutly crossed his arms on his bosom and fell into his customary doze, murmuring:

“Excellent port ... instantaneous pardon ... York ham ... felicity eternal.”