Lewie Part 18

"I was thinking," answered Tiney, "that I don't _know anybody_, there; not a single soul; and I feel so shy with strangers. Will they love me there, cousin Agnes, as you and papa do?"

Agnes could not repress the tears at this question, so natural, perhaps, to a simple child, and yet one which she had never thought of as likely to occur to one before. But she talked to Tiney so soothingly and sweetly of Him who loved little children when on earth, and who was watching for her now, and would send some lovely angel to bear her to His breast, that poor Tiney lost her fears, and longed for the hour of her release. And it came the next morning. Just as the glorious sun was rising over the lake, the spirit of poor little suffering Tiney left its earthly dwelling, and began its long and never-ending day of happiness.

Oh! what a brilliant light shone for once in those dark gray eyes, as Tiney raised them, with a look of wonder and astonishment and joy, as if she saw far, far beyond the limits which bounded her mortal sight!--and as, with an enraptured expression, she murmured something about "that lovely music," the light faded from the still wide open and gla.s.sy eye; and Agnes, pa.s.sing her hand gently over the lids, said, "Mr. Fairland, she is gone!" and the first thought of her sad heart was, "Oh that I too were at rest!" But she checked it in one moment, when she remembered that there were duties and conflicts and trials before her yet; and she determined she would go forward, in the Divine strength, into the furnace which she must needs go through, in order to be refined and purified.

Once, during Tiney's last sickness, a messenger called for Agnes, and put a note and a little bouquet of green-house flowers into her hand. At first, Agnes hoped that the note might contain tidings of her brother; but though disappointed in this respect, the contents of the note were soothing and grateful to her troubled heart. The words were simply these:

"Is there _anything_ I can do for you? And if you need a friend, will you call upon me?" The note was signed "C.H."

At first Agnes merely said, in a despairing tone, "Oh no! nothing can be done;" and then, feeling that a different answer should be sent to a message so kind, she tore off a bit of the paper, and wrote upon it:

"Nothing can be done for me now. Believe me, I will not hesitate to call upon you, when you can do me any good."

The day after Tiney's death, officers came to search Mr. Fairland's house for the fugitive, having traced him to Wilston. Every corner of the house was searched, and even the chamber of death was not spared.

The search, of course, was unsuccessful; but, the day after poor Tiney's funeral, came tidings to Agnes of the arrest of her brother. He was taken at last, and safely lodged in the jail at Hillsdale, where he was to await his trial.

And now Agnes, whose office ever seemed of necessity to be that of consoler and comforter, must leave her little charge, and go to be near her brother. It was a bitter parting; it seemed as if the children could not let her go; and the scene recalled so vividly to Agnes the parting with Miss Edwards at Brook Farm, that the recollection made her, if possible, still more sad, as she thought the resemblance might be carried out even to the end, and the close of this earthly scene to her might be as melancholy as was that of her beloved teacher.

She promised Mr. Fairland that, as soon as she could attend to it, she would ascertain if there were vacancies in Mrs. Arlington's school for Rosa and Jessie, and also if Mr. Malcolm would consent to take charge of Frank's education; and, accompanied by Mr. Fairland, she left Wilston, as she supposed, forever.

XVII.

The Jail.

"I may not go, I may not go, Where the sweet-breathing spring-winds blow; Nor where the silver clouds go by, Across the holy, deep blue sky; Nor where the suns.h.i.+ne, warm and bright Comes down, like a still shower of light; I must stay here In prison drear; Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on, Would G.o.d that thou wert gone."

--f.a.n.n.y KEMBLE.

They reached Brook Farm late in the evening, and here the greeting, though not as noisy and joyous, was warmer, and if possible more affectionate than ever. They all loved Lewie in spite of his many faults, and their sympathy was most sincere and hearfelt for Agnes, who was very dear to them all. As soon as Agnes could speak to Mr. Wharton alone, she said:

"Uncle, have you seen him?"

"Every day, dear Agnes, and have been with him some hours each day."

"And how does he feel, dear Uncle?"

"Relieved, I think, on the whole; that the suspense is over thus far. He says he would not live over again the last three weeks for worlds. Many and many a time he had almost resolved to return and give himself up for trial; but the thought of you, Agnes, prevented. He said that you must be a sharer in all his trouble and disgrace, and if he could spare your distress and suffering, by escaping from the country, he meant to try and do it, and then he would soon be forgotten, except by the few who cared for him."

"And how does he feel about the--the result, uncle?"

"Hopeful, I think; he seems to think it cannot be brought in murder, when murder was so far from his intention."

"And what do _you_ think, uncle?"

"I am inclined to think with Lewie, dear; there is always a leaning towards mercy, and your brother has counsel, the very best in the State."

"Oh, uncle, how very kind! how can we ever repay you for your kindness?"

"No thanks to me in this matter, Agnes; Mr. W---- has been retained by one who does not wish his name known; one who would be glad, I fancy, to have a nearer right to stand by you through these coming scenes, but who will not trouble you with these matters at present."

A bright blush came up in Agnes' cheek, and as suddenly died away as she said:

"One question more, uncle; when will it take place--the trial, I mean?"

"It will probably come on in November," her uncle answered.

"Two long months of imprisonment for my poor brother!" said Agnes.

"But remember, Agnes, those two months will be diligently employed by his counsel in preparing his defence."

"And by those on the other side, in making strong their cause against him, uncle. My poor dear Lewie! how I long to see him; and yet how I dread the first meeting, oh! if that were only over!"

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Wharton and Agnes drove over to Hillsdale. Agnes shuddered, and turned pale, as they drew near the gloomy jail with its iron-barred windows, and closing her eyes she silently prayed for strength and calmness for the meeting with her brother. Mr. Wharton conducted her to the door of the room in which her brother was confined, and left her there, as he knew they would both prefer that their first meeting should be without witnesses. In one respect Agnes was agreeably disappointed; she had expected to find her brother in a close, dark dungeon; and was much surprised to find herself in a pleasant, light room, with table, books, writing materials, and everything very comfortable about him; the only things there to remind her that she was in a prison, being the locked door, and the grated window.

Agnes had been preparing herself ever since she first received the tidings of her brother's arrest, for this meeting; and she went through it with a calmness and composure which astonished herself. But poor Lewie was completely overcome. He knew his sister would come to him; but he had not expected her so soon, and the first intimation he had of her arrival, was the sight of her upon the threshold of his door.

"Poor Agnes! poor dear sister!" said he, as soon as he could speak; "what have I ever been from my childhood up, but a source of trouble and distress to you. You were punished for my ungoverned temper all through your childhood; you are suffering for it now; you will have to suffer for it more, till your bloom is all gone, and you are worn to a skeleton. If I had dared, Agnes--if I had dared, I should have put an end to this mortal existence; and thus I should have saved you all this coming disgrace and misery. But I had not the courage to lay violent hands upon myself, and go, a deliberate suicide, into the presence of my Maker. I have tried all other means; I have gone through exposure and fatigue, which at any other time I know would have killed me; I have laid out all night in the rain; _I_, who used to be so susceptible to cold, but nothing seemed to hurt me. I have been reserved for other and more terrible things. And you, Agnes, who are always kind, and forbearing, and self-sacrificing, it seems to be your fate ever to suffer and endure for others. Oh, my sister, you deserve a happier lot!"

"Don't talk so, dear Lewie!" said Agnes; "you have given me very many happy hours, and all the little troubles of 'long, long ago' are forgotten. And now, what greater pleasure can I have than that of sitting with you here, working and reading, and trying to wile away the tedious hours of your captivity?"

"Agnes! this must not be! I cannot allow it. It will brighten the whole day for me, if you will come and spend an hour or two with me every morning; but I cannot consent that you shall be immured for the whole day in the walls of this gloomy prison-house."

"But what can you do, Lewie? I am going to be obstinate for once, and take my own course. Uncle will drive me over every morning, and come for me at night; and I am going to enjoy a pleasure long denied me, of spending every day with my darling brother."

"Oh, Agnes! this is too, too much!"

"Not too much at all, Lewie. Do you think I could be happy anywhere else than with you? What should I do at uncle's but roam the house, restless and impatient, every moment I am absent from you? And the nights will seem so long, because they separate me from you!"

"Oh! how utterly undeserving!--how _utterly undeserving_ such love and devotion!" said Lewie, pacing up and down the room. "Sweet sister!--dearest Agnes!--now has my prison lost all its gloom; and were it not for the future, I might be happier here than when out in the world; for temptation here is far from me, and only good influences surround me."

"And what of the future, dear?"

"Of my trial, Agnes? Well, I hardly know what to say. My friends and lawyers try to keep up my spirits, and mention to me many hopeful things; and, for the time, I too feel encouraged. But I can think of many things that a skilful lawyer can bring up against me, and which would weigh very heavily. I am trying to think of the _worst_ as a _probability_; so that if it comes, I shall not be overwhelmed."

"Oh!" said Agnes, shuddering, and covering her eyes, as if to shut out some horrid spectacle, "it cannot be! I cannot bring myself to contemplate it for a moment!"

"And yet it _may be_, Agnes! or they may spare my life, and doom me to wear out long years of imprisonment, and then send me out into the world a blighted and ruined man! That is the best I can hope for; and but for the disgrace which would come upon me, I should say the sudden end is better."

"And what of the future _after that_, Lewie? for that, after all, is the great concern."

"The _eternal future_ you mean, Agnes. Ah! my sister, the prospect there is darker and more dreary still. I know enough of religion to feel a.s.sured that my short life has not been spent in the way to prepare me for a future of happiness; and I am not yet so hardened as to pretend not to dread a future of misery."

"G.o.d grant such may not be your fate, dear brother. Whether life be long or short, happy or sorrowful, our future depends upon heart-felt repentance here, and faith in the 'sinner's Friend.' You have now time for quiet and reflection. Oh! improve it dear Lewie, in so humbling yourself before Him whom you have offended, and in so seeking for pardon, that He will bless you and grant you peace."

"I see, Agnes," said her brother, with a sad smile, "you want me to follow in the footsteps of all other offenders and criminals, who, after doing all the mischief possible, and living for their own selfish gratification while abroad in the world, spend the time of their imprisonment in acts of penitence and devotion, and go out of the world, as they all invariably do, in the full odor of sanct.i.ty, in peace with G.o.d, and in charity with men."