The old woman lifted her eyes slowly to that calm, thin face. She did not know it, had never seen it before in her life; but it was so seldom any one spoke to her, that a soft glow of comfort stole to her heart as she looked, and two great tears rolled from under her spectacles. Then she remembered that he had asked something.
"In prison, here, we get a down look," she said, with pathetic simplicity.
"But you will look in my face now."
She did gaze at him earnestly; but shook her head and dropped her eyes, for the force of habit was still upon her.
"I do not know you," she murmured.
"Did you then expect some friend?" asked the gentleman.
"I have no friends," was the sad reply.
"Does no one come to see you?"
"Years ago my son used to come and his wife, too; but they are both dead."
"Poor woman!"
She looked up again with a glance of earnest surprise. She was so unused to pity that the compa.s.sionate voice brought a dry sob to her throat.
"Are you content here? Tell me."
"Yes, I am content."
Her voice was low, but inexpressibly mournful.
"I know the crime for which you were committed," said the gentleman, "and have read the case over. Tell me, were you guilty?"
The old woman lifted her eyes slowly, and replied:
"Yes, I was a guilty woman."
"But were you, before G.o.d, guilty of murder?"
She met his eyes steadily. He saw a quiver of pain sweep over her features, and the thin lips began to stir.
"He is dead, my innocent, my honest son. Nothing can harm him now. I have not suffered in vain. Before G.o.d I was not guilty of murder, but terribly guilty in taking this crime on myself: but it was to save him, and I cannot repent, I cannot repent, and in that lies double guilt!"
The stranger searched her features keenly as she spoke. Perhaps he was prepared for this answer; but the light that came over his face was full of compa.s.sion.
"Have you done with me?" questioned the old woman, in the meek, sad voice that had become habitual to her. "Perhaps you will not believe me; but G.o.d knows!"
The man turned from her and stepped into the matron"s room.
The old woman sat down upon the bench from which she had arisen, took the coa.r.s.e needle from the bosom of her dress, where she had fastened it when spoken to, and threaded it again; but her hand shook a little, and the thread baffled her confused vision. Then the strange gentleman came back again, smiling, and with moisture in his eyes.
"My good woman," he said, "put up your work. You did not know it, but I am the Governor of New York, and your pardon has just gone to the warden."
The needle dropped from one quivering old hand--a thread fell from its companion.
"Pardon for me!"
Her lips were white, and the words trembled from them one by one. She did not comprehend that this man had given her back to the world.
"It is true," said the matron, weeping the glad, sweet tears of a benevolent heart, "His Excellency has pardoned you. This very hour you are free to leave the prison."
"G.o.d help me! Oh! G.o.d help me!" cried the poor old woman, looking around at her rude work and seating herself among it. "Where can I go?"
The Governor took some money from his pocket and laid it in her lap.
Then he went hastily from the room.
The matron sat down upon the bench, and clasped the withered hand in hers.
"Have you no friend?"
"None."
"No duties left undone?"
The old woman drew herself up. Duties last longer than friends. Yes, she had duties, and G.o.d had taken the shackles from her limbs that she might perform them. Freedom was before her and an object. She arose gently and looked around a little wildly.
"I will go now."
The matron went out and returned with a bundle of clothes and a black bonnet upon which was some rusty c.r.a.pe; a huge, old-fashioned thing that framed in her silver-white hair like a pent-house. The very shape and fashion of this bonnet was pathetic--it spoke of so long ago. The black dress and soft shawl with which she had come to the prison were a little moth-eaten, but not much, for they had been carefully h.o.a.rded; but the poor old woman looked with a sigh on her prison-dress as it fell to the floor, and wept bitterly before she went out, as if that gloomy ma.s.s of stones had been a pleasant home to her.
Slowly, and with a downcast look, the old woman went out of the prison, up through the rugged quarries, where a gang of men were at work, dragging their weary limbs from stone to stone, with the listless, haggard effort of forced labor. Some of these men looked up, as she pa.s.sed them, and watched her with bitter envy.
"There goes a pardon," they said to each other; "and that old woman with one foot in the grave, while we are young and strong! Freedom would be everything to us; but what good will it do to her?"
So the poor old prisoner pa.s.sed on, sadly bewildered and afraid, like a homeless child, but thanking G.o.d for a mercy she could not yet realize.
There was one place to which she must go. It might be empty and desolate, but there her son had died, and she had seen the roof of his dwelling from the graveyard when they let her come out from prison to see him buried.
She knew the road, for her path led to the grave first, and after that she could find the way, for every step, so far, had been marked by a pang, to which her heart was answering back now.
At sunset, that day, some workmen, pa.s.sing the village burying-place, saw an old woman sitting by a grave that had been almost forgotten in the neighborhood.
She was looking dreary and forlorn in the damp enclosure, for clouds were drifting low in the sky, and a cold rain was beginning to fall; but they did not know that this poor woman had a home-feeling by that grave, even with the rain falling, which belonged to no other place on earth.
A little later, when the gray darkness was creeping on, this same tall figure might have been discovered moving through the rough cedar pillars of the Yates cottage. There was no light in the house, for no human soul lived beneath its roof; but a door was so lightly fastened that she got it open with some effort, and entered what seemed to her like the kitchen; for the last tenant had left some kindling-wood in the fireplace, and two or three worn-out cooking utensils stood near the hearth, where they were beginning to rust.
When she left the prison, the matron had, with many kind words, thrust a parcel into the old woman"s hand. Knowing her helplessness, she had provided food for a meal or two, and to this had added some matches and candles.
In the gray light which came through one of the windows, she untied this parcel and found the candles. It seemed to the forlorn creature as if a merciful G.o.d had sent them directly to her, and she fell upon her knees, thanking Him. The light which she struck gave her the first gleam of hope that her freedom had yet brought. She was at liberty to build a fire on that dark hearth, and to sit there just as long as she pleased, enjoying its warmth. The rain that began to rattle down on the low roof made her shelter more pleasant. She began to realize that even in such desolation liberty was sweet.
She built a fire with the dry wood, and its blaze soon filled the kitchen with a golden glow. Her garments were wet, and a soft steam arose from them as she sat, enveloping her in a gray cloud. The loneliness might have been terrible to another person, but she had been so long accustomed to the darkness and gloom of a prison cell, that this illuminated s.p.a.ce seemed broad as the universe to her.