‘Of course, Ave. You and I have no past to grieve over together, but poor Henry will never feel free of having left me to my self-willed obstinacy, and let me go to that place. Besides, the disgrace in the sight of the world touches him more, and you can tread that down more easily than he.’ Then, in answer to a wondering look, ‘Yes, you can, when you recollect that it is crime, not the appearance of it, that is shame. I do not mean that I do not deserve all this—but—but—’ and his eye glistened, ‘Ave, dear, if I could only bring out the words to tell you how much peace and joy there is in knowing that—with that vast difference—it is like in some degree what was borne to save us, I really don’t think you could go on grieving over me any more; at least not more than for the loss,’ he added, tenderly; ‘and you’ll not miss me so much in a new country, you know, with Henry and the children to take care of. Only promise me to be kind to Henry.’
And having drawn forth a faint promise, that he knew would have more force by and by, Leonard went on, in his low quiet voice, into reminiscences that sounded like random, of the happy days of childhood and early youth, sometimes almost laughing over them, sometimes linking his memory as it were to tune or flower, sport or study, but always for joy, and never for pain; and thus passed the time, with long intervals of silent thought and recollection on his part, and of a sort of dreamy stupor on his sister’s, during which the strange peaceful hush seemed to have taken away her power of recalling the bitter complaints of cruel injustice, and the broken-hearted lamentations she had imagined herself pouring out in sympathy with her victim brother. Instead of being wrung with anguish, her heart was lulled and quelled by wondering reverence; and she seemed to herself scarcely awake, and only dimly conscious of the pale-cheeked bright-eyed face upturned to her, so calm and undaunted, yet so full of awe and love, the low steady tender voice, and the warm upholding arm.
A great clock struck, and Leonard said, ‘There! they were to come at four, and then the chaplain is coming. He is grown so very kind now! Ave, if they would let you be with me at my last Communion! Will you? Could you bear it? I think then you would know all the peace of it!’
‘Oh, yes! make them let me come.’
‘Then it is not good-bye,’ he said, as he fetched her bonnet and cloak, and put them on with tender hands, as if she were a child, in readiness as steps approached, and her escort reappeared.
‘Here she is, Henry,’ he said, with a smile. ‘She has been very good; she may come again.’ And then, holding her in his arms once more, he resigned her to Henry, saying, ‘Not good-bye, Ave; we will keep my birthday together.’
CHAPTER XVI
The captives went To their own places, to their separate glooms, Uncheered by glance, or hand, or hope, to brood On those impossible glories of the past, When they might touch the grass, and see the sky, And do the works of men. But manly work Is sometimes in a prison.—S. M. Queen Isabel
‘Commutation of punishment, to penal servitude for life.’
Such were the tidings that ran through Stoneborough on Sunday morning, making all feel as if a heavy oppression had been taken from the air. In gratitude to the merciful authorities, and thankfulness for the exemption from death, the first impressions were that Justice was at last speaking, that innocence could not suffer, and that right was reasserting itself. Even when the more sober and sad remembered that leniency was not pardon, nor life liberty, they were hastily answered that life was everything—life was hope, life was time, and time would show truth.
Averil’s first tears dropped freely, as she laid her head on Mary’s shoulder, and with her hand in Dr. May’s, essayed to utter the words, ‘It is your doing—you have twice saved him for me,’ and Minna stood calmly glad, but without surprise. ‘I knew they could not hurt him; God would not let them.’
The joy and relief were so great as to absorb all thought or realization of what this mercy was to the prisoner himself, until Dr. May was able to pay him a visit on Monday afternoon. It was at a moment when the first effects of the tidings of life had subsided, and there had been time to look forth on the future with a spirit more steadfast than buoyant. The strain of the previous weeks was reacting on the bodily frame, and indisposition unhinged the spirits; so that, when Dr. May entered, beaming with congratulations, he was met with the same patient glance of endurance, endeavouring at resignation, that he knew so well, but without the victorious peace that had of late gained the ascendant expression. There was instead an almost painful endeavour to manifest gratitude by cheerfulness, and the smile was far less natural than those of the last interview, as fervently returning the pressure of the hand, he said, ‘You were right, Dr. May, you have brought me past the crisis.’
‘A sure sign of ultimate recovery, my boy. Remember, dum spiro spero.’
Leonard attempted a responsive smile, but it was a hopeless business. From the moment when at the inquest he found himself entangled in the meshes of circumstance, his mind had braced itself to endure rather than hope, and his present depressed state, both mental and bodily, rendered even that endurance almost beyond his powers. He could only say, ‘You have been very good to me.’
‘My dear fellow, you are sadly knocked down; I wish—’ and the Doctor looked at him anxiously.
‘I wish you had been here yesterday,’ said Leonard; ‘then you would not have found me so. No, not thankless, indeed!’
‘No, indeed; but—yes, I see it was folly—nay, harshness, to expect you to be glad of what lies before you, my poor boy.’
‘I am—am thankful,’ said Leonard, struggling to make the words truth. ‘Wednesday is off my mind—yes, it is more than I deserve—I knew I was not fit to die, and those at home are spared. But I am as much cut off from them—perhaps more—than by death. And it is the same disgrace to them, the same exile. I suppose Henry still goes—’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘Ah! then one thing, Dr. May—if you had a knife or scissors—I do not know how soon they may cut my hair, and I want to secure a bit for poor Ave.’
Dr. May was too handless to have implements of the first order, but a knife he had, and was rather dismayed at Leonard’s reckless hacking at his bright shining wavy hair, pulling out more than he cut, with perfect indifference to the pain. The Doctor stroked the chestnut head as tenderly as if it had been Gertrude’s sunny curls, but Leonard started aside, and dashing away the tears that were overflowing his eyes under the influence of the gentle action, asked vigorously, ‘Have you heard what they will do with me?’
‘I do not know thoroughly. A year or six months maybe at one of the great model establishments, then probably you will be sent to some of the public works,’ said the Doctor, sadly. ‘Yes, it is a small boon to give you life, and take away all that makes life happy.’
‘If it were only transportation!’
‘Yes. In a new world you could live it down, and begin afresh. And even here, Leonard, I look to finding you like Joseph in his prison.’
‘The iron entering into his soul!’ said Leonard, with a mournful smile.
‘No; in the trustworthiness that made him honoured and blessed even there. Leonard, Leonard, conduct will tell. Even there, you can live this down, and will!’
‘Eighteen tomorrow,’ replied the boy. ‘Fifty years of it, perhaps! I know God can help me through with it, but it is a long time to be patient!’
By way of answer, the Doctor launched into brilliant auguries of the impression the prisoner’s conduct would produce, uttering assurances, highly extravagant in his Worship the Mayor, of the charms of the modern system of prison discipline, but they fell flat; there could be no disguising that penal servitude for life was penal servitude for life, and might well be bitterer than death itself. Sympathy might indeed be balm to the captive, but the good Doctor pierced his own breast to afford it, so that his heart sank even more than when he had left the young man under sentence of death. His least unavailing consolations were his own promises of frequent visits, and Aubrey’s of correspondence, but they produced more of dejected gratitude than of exhilaration. Yet it was not in the way of murmur or repining, but rather of ‘suffering and being strong,’ and only to this one friend was the suffering permitted to be apparent. To all the officials he was simply submissive and gravely resolute; impassive if he encountered sharpness or sternness, but alert and grateful towards kindliness, of which he met more and more as the difference between dealing with him and the ordinary prisoners made itself felt.