"Daughter," and the old man stood up, while his face glowed as with the light of prophecy, "it is not this ill-gotten wealth that shall purchase my life; but it is the death I shall suffer, which will purchase the salvation of my child. The way of providence is made clear to me now; I see it plainly, as if written upon the wall that has seemed so blank to my eyes till now."

The hand fell from her face. She gazed upon him with awe, for the solemn faith that beamed in his eyes held her breathless. That moment the cell door was opened, and Mrs. Warren came in, followed by her grand-daughter. The old woman paused motionless upon the threshold, hesitating and pallid. Ada stood up trembling and afraid in the presence of her mother. A moment the two stood face to face, gazing at each other; then the old woman stretched forth her arms, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Ada would have thrown herself forward, but the old prisoner interposed.

"No, wife, not yet; the time is at hand when our child shall come back to your bosom, like the lamb that was lost; but G.o.d has a work to accomplish first; have patience and let her depart."

"Patience, patience! Oh, Wilc.o.x, she is our child Ada, Ada!"

He was not strong enough to keep them apart. Their arms were interwoven; they clung together, filling the cell with soft murmurs and smothered sobs. Broken syllables of endearment--all the pathetic language with which heart speaks to heart in defiance of words, gave power to the scene. Remember, reader, it was a mother meeting her only child--her sinful, erring child--for the first time in years. They met in a prison, with death shadows all around. Was it wonderful that, forgiving, forgetting, they clung together? Or that the turnkey, as he looked in, felt the tears bathing his cheek?

It is a mercy that intense feeling has its limits, else a scene like this might have broken the two hearts that rushed together, as torrents meet in a storm. Their arms unlocked at length, and the two women only held by each other from weakness.

"And this is my child, my little Julia," said Ada, turning her eyes upon the young girl who stood by, troubled and amazed by all she saw.

She bent forward, and would have kissed the girl, but the old man interposed again solemnly, almost sternly.

"Not yet--the lip must be purified, the kiss made holy, which touches the forehead of this innocent one."

"I will go, father, I will go--this is bitter, but perhaps just. I will go while I have the strength."

Ada left the cell. We will not follow her to the scene of her solitary and splendid anguish. We will not remain in the prisoner's cell. The scene pa.s.sing there was too holy and too pathetic for description; yet was there more happiness that day in the prison, than Ada Leicester found in her palace-home. Truly it is much better to suffer wrong, than to do wrong!

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

THE DAWNING OF LIGHT.

As sunshine falls upon a flower That storms have beaten to the ground, Her heart began to feel the power Of his deep love and faith profound.

The sentence was p.r.o.nounced; the time of execution fixed. Each morning, as the prisoner awoke, he said to himself, another is gone; so many, and so many days are left. I dare not say that this man did not occasionally shrink from the agony that awaited him; or that the clouds of doubt did not grow black above his head, more than once; but at all times his mien was tranquil, his words full of resignation. Some hope, some sublime faith, stronger than death, seemed to bear him up.

His daughter came to him more than once, and always left the cell with a changed manner and subdued aspect. While there was a hope of saving the prisoner, she had been excited and almost wild in her demeanor. She appealed to the governor in person. She lavished gold. On every hand the great power of her personal influence was all tested to the utmost, but in vain. There exist cases in which the fangs of the law fasten deep, and no human power can unloose them. In this instance, mercy veiled her face, and justice became cruelty.

At no time did the old man sanction or partake of his daughter's efforts. Shall I say, that he did not even desire them to succeed? One sublime idea had taken possession of his mind, and when he prayed, it was not that he might be saved from death, but that the pang which sent him into eternity might open the gates of paradise to his child.

I have said that the old man was feeble, and scenes through which no human being could pa.s.s with unshaken nerves, had gradually undermined the little strength that age and privation had spared. Those who saw him every day scarcely noticed this, the change was so gradual; but the sheriff, who came but once each week, remarked how frail he was becoming, and how difficult it was for him to support the irons with which they had manacled his limbs. More than once he said to himself, "It will scarcely be more than a shadow that they force me to strangle."

Still, as his strength gave way, the holy faith within him beamed out stronger and brighter, as a flame becomes more brilliant from increased purity of the oil on which it feeds.

All hope was gone--and Ada saw her father every day, always alone, and her visits lasted for hours. At such times, Jacob Strong, who kept sentinel at the door, would pause and hold his breath, struck, as it were, by the sweet, solemn tones that came through the door. Sometimes you might have seen him brush one huge hand across his eyes; and then, bowing his head upon his bosom, pace slowly to and fro, with a mournful but not altogether dissatisfied look.

After these visits, Ada would come forth with a subdued and gentle air, which no person had ever witnessed in her before. The entire character of her beauty changed. Her features became thin; her person lost something of its roundness, but gained in that refined grace which is indescribable. Her eyes grew darker and softer from the shadows that deepened under them. Something of holy light there was too, that brooded sadly there in place of the brilliancy that had kindled them so often almost into wildness. If Ada had been beautiful when we first knew her, she was far lovelier now. The heart yearned toward her as it felt the glance of her eyes. The earthly was becoming purified from her being, and the resemblance between her and the old man seemed to have found a spiritual link. Truly the solemn faith within him was near its reward.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

GATHERING FOR THE EXECUTION.

He was a man of simple heart, Patient and meek; the Christian part Came to his soul as came the air That heaved his bosom; hope, despair, Were chastened by a holy faith!

Meek in his life he feared not death.

The day of execution arrived, and every hearth-stone in the great metropolis was shadowed by a knowledge that at an hour to be fixed between sunrise and sunset, a human being was to be strangled to death--forced brutally into the presence of his Maker. Children whispered to one another in the grey dawn as they crept awe-stricken from their little couches. Mothers--those who had hearts--grew sad as they thought of the household ties which the law would that day tear asunder.

I do not say that this law of blood for blood, which some good men cling to so tenaciously, should be altogether abolished. Women who from the natural and just arrangement of social life, have no share in forming laws, can scarcely arrogate to themselves the right of advancing or of condemning those which owe their existence to the greatest masculine intellect; and we, who reason so much from the heart, can never be sure that the angel of mercy, whom we worship, may not sometimes crowd Justice from her seat. But there is no law that should permit a solemn act of justice to become a jubilee for the mob. Executions, if they must darken the history of a nation, should be still as the grave--solemn as the eternity to which they lead.

Two wardens had been placed over the prisoner that night, for the sheriff feared that the poor old man might attempt suicide. It was a useless precaution for one who was so close to death, and yet slept so calmly. There he lay in the deep slumber which is so sweet to old age.

The men kept a light in the cell, and it streamed softly over those calm, pale features, revealing a faint smile upon the lips, and the impalpable shadows scattered over his forehead by the white hair that lay around his temples. Sometimes, as the men gazed upon this picture, and thought of the morrow, with all its death horrors, they turned from each other with a sort of terror, and sat with downcast eyes, gazing upon the floor, for it made them heart-sick--the contrast of that peaceful slumber and the brutal death-sleep into which they were guarding the old man.

At the most, it was but a brief gleam of life that the law claimed; and even that had grown faint within the last few days, so faint that it seemed doubtful if the officers of the law would not be compelled to lift its victim to the scaffold, when the hour of sacrifice came. The day dawned quietly, and shed a sort of still, holy light over the slumbering man. Then, for the first time, his keepers remarked hew deathly pale was the serene countenance--how feeble was the breath that scarcely stirred the coa.r.s.e linen on his bosom.

Everything was still. The cold dawn, the quiet city, and the prison lying heavy and grim in its bosom. All at once this stillness was broken by the fall of a hammer, distinct and sharp as the beat of a death-watch. It made the officers start and look at each other with meaning eyes; but the old man slept on, and the sound might have been the sigh of an angel, instead of the hideous death-signal that it was, for it only disturbed that tranquil slumber pleasantly, as it would seem. A faint smile dawned upon the face, and he folded his hands softly upon his bosom, with a deeper breath, as if some vision of ineffable happiness filled his thought.

It seemed a cruelty to disturb the last sleep he was ever to know on earth, and so the morning deepened, and the prison was filled with that sort of m.u.f.fled tumult which bespeaks the opening day within those walls, before the old man awoke.

Other persons than the keepers were in the cell then. The wife, who was so soon to be a widow, and the grandchild, half orphaned at heart, were seated at the foot of the bed, watching him dimly through their tears.

He held forth his hands on seeing them, and with the same smile that had haunted his slumber, asked after their welfare. You should have seen that aged couple, in their humble but sublime sorrow, that day, for it was a beautiful sight, and one which is not often witnessed within the walls of a felon's cell. There they sat, hand in hand, linked together by that beautiful love that outlives all things, comforting each other with gentle earnestness--he reading pa.s.sages from the Bible to her now and then, and she more than once smiling hopefully through her tears, when he spoke of their great age, and of the little time that they could possibly be kept asunder. It did not seem as if they were talking of death, but of some important and not unpleasant journey, in which the wife would soon follow her husband to a new home.

The grandchild sat by in silent grief. It seemed a long time for her to wait, she was so young, so cruelly full of life. She could not, with her sensitive feelings and quick imagination, cast off the consciousness of all the horrors that would that day overwhelm her grandfather. Her eyes were heavy with weeping. At every sound a shiver of terrible apprehension ran through her frame, and she would grasp at the old man's hand, as if scared with dread that they might tear him away before the appointed time.

Then came another--and that prison cell was crowded full of grief. Ada Leicester, modestly clad, with all the jewels stripped from her hands, and her superb beauty veiled and toned down by suffering, such as wrings all bitterness from the heart, stood with her parents once more, a portion of the household her own errors had desolated. Then the old man arose in his bed, and his benign features lighted up with such joy as the angels know over a sinner that repenteth.

"My child," he said, opening his arms to receive her, "my child, who was lost and is found!" For a moment he held her to his bosom; then lifting his head, he reached forth one hand, and drew his grandchild forward.

"It is your mother, Julia, your own mother; she has been far away for many years; G.o.d has sent her back. Ada, kiss your daughter; Julia, my grandchild, love your mother, reverence her, for this day shall I be one of those that rejoice over her in heaven."

Ada turned to her daughter, and timidly held forth her arms. A thrill so exquisite that it swept all the tears from her heart, pa.s.sed over the bereaved girl. She moved forward; she nestled close to the bosom of her mother; she murmured the name over and over again, "Mother--mother--mother!"

I have dwelt upon this scene, perhaps, tediously, and only, gentle reader, because my heart and nerves shrink from a description of that which was going on without the prison. It is so much better to describe that which is holy and strong in human nature, than to yield oneself up to scenes that shock and revolt every pure feeling, every gentle affection. But in portraying life as it is, an author cannot always choose the flower nooks, or keep back the clouds that darken human nature.

It was a winter's day, cold and drear, without being stormy. The sky was clouded a little, and of that pale, hard blue which is more desolate than absolute storm. The air seemed full of snow, but none fell; and the sunshine, when it did penetrate the atmosphere, streamed mournfully to the brown, frozen earth. Had you gone into the streets that day, something in the aspect of the populace would have told you that an event of no common interest was about to transpire. Men were grouped at the corners and around the doors. Business was in a degree suspended.

But few females were abroad, and they walked hurriedly, as if necessity alone had called them from home.

The time of execution was fixed at five in the afternoon, an hour when the gay world usually throngs Broadway. But for once that n.o.ble promenade was deserted; and though the cross streets began to fill long before noon, it was not by the cla.s.s who usually make the great thoroughfare so full of life.

It was a singular thing; but that day, a little after twelve, a star became visible, hanging, pale and dim, like a funereal lamp in the cold sky. At every corner you saw groups of men and boys gazing upward, with superst.i.tious awe, as if there must be some connection between this star and the human soul about to be launched into eternity. It might have been only the grey light; but every one who went forth that morning must have noticed how pallid were the faces that met his view in the streets.

It is difficult to excite the ma.s.ses of a great city; but in this case there had been so much to interest the public, that for once the mult.i.tude seemed perfectly aroused. The age of the prisoner, the exceeding beauty and touching loveliness of his grandchild, the position and fashionable a.s.sociations of William Leicester--all conspired to arouse public interest to a state of unusual excitement. Hours before the time of execution, the city prison was besieged by an eager mob.

Mechanics left their work; women of the lower cla.s.ses went forth, some with infants in their arms, some leading sons and daughters by the hand, all eager and full of open-mouthed curiosity to see a fellow-creature strangled to death in the face of high heaven.

It had been given forth that this execution would be private, in the court of the prison; that is, three or four hundred persons, favorites of the sheriff, or members of the press, might have the exquisite satisfaction of seeing how an old man could die, and these would duly report his struggles and his agonies, the next morning, through the daily press, that the crowd, heaving, swearing, and jostling together without the walls, might have their horrid curiosity satisfied.

All the cross streets around the prison filled rapidly up; and Centre street, down to Reade and above White, was crowded full of human beings.

Then they began to swarm closer, filling the housetops and windows, choking up the door pa.s.sages and alleys, till every standing place within sight of the prison was crowded full of eager, brutal life. I am saying now what might be deemed a cruel perversion of probability in fiction, but which many of my readers well know to be a disgraceful truth. But in the windows, and on the roofs of almost every house that overlooked the prison, appeared that day women _not_ of the lowest cla.s.ses, who came there to witness a scene at which the very soul revolts--women whom, with all the proud love of country thrilling at the heart, an American blushes to call countrywomen. When the time drew near, this ocean of human life began to heave and swell tumultuously against the prison walls. Many climbed upwards, fierce for a sight of bloodshed, though at the peril of life and limb, creeping like animals along the ma.s.sive stonework, or hoisted up on the shoulders of those below, till they hung on the gateway and walls, literally swarming there, like bees seeking for a hive.

As the hour drew near, the mob became more compact and more eager.