CHAPTER IV.
“I can’t remember,” said Mary, two months after Percy’s arrest, “I can’t remember,” raising herself, and laying her emaciated hand upon her brow. “Have I been sick, mamma?”
“Yes, Mary,” replied her mother, repressing her tears of joy at the sound of her child’s voice.
“Where’s Percy, mamma?”
But before Lucy could answer, she again relapsed into stupor. Another hour passed—there was reason in her glance. “Mamma? Percy—take me to him”—said Mary, with a burst of tears, as she strove vainly to rise from her couch.
“By-and-by, darling,” said her mother, coaxingly, laying her gently back upon the pillow, as she would an infant, “by-and-by, Mary, when you are stronger.”
“No—now” she replied, a spasm of pain contracting her features. “Is he—is he—there? How long have I lain here?”
“Two months, Mary.”
“Two months,” exclaimed poor Mary, in terror, “two months. O, mamma, if you ever loved me, if you want me to live—take me to him. Two months! He will think!—O, dear, mamma, take me to Percy!”
“Yes—yes, you shall go,” said Jacob, “only don’t cry. I would shed my heart’s blood to save you one tear. You shall go, Mary, even to that curs—”
“Well—well, I won’t say it,” said the old man, kissing her forehead; “but mind, it is only for your sake—here—Lucy, quick, she is fainting.”
Another week passed by, poor Mary making superhuman efforts to sit up, to gain strength to accomplish her heart’s wish. Jacob would look at her wasted figure, till the curse rose to his lip, and then rush suddenly from her presence.
“I did not think I could do this, even for her,” muttered Jacob, on the morning of their visit to the prison. “I don’t know what has come over me, Lucy—sometimes I wonder if I am Jacob. I don’t care for any thing, so she don’t grieve.”
The carriage came—in silence the sad trio moved toward the prison.
“Can’t do it,” whispered Jacob to Lucy, as they stopped before the door; “I thought I could go in with her; but I can’t do it, not even for Mary. The old feeling has come back. I can’t look on that man’s face without crushing him as I would a viper;” and the old man left them in the turnkey’s office, returned to the carriage, twitched down the blinds, and threw himself back upon the seat.
Ah! how much the poor heart may bear! Mary sat in the prison office—still—motionless!—but a bright spot burned upon her cheek, and her tone was fearful in its calmness, and Lucy asked her again “if she were strong enough to go through with it.” How distinctly the turnkey’s clock ticked! What a quantity of false keys and other implements which had been taken from refractory prisoners, were on exhibition in the glass case! How the clerk stared at them as they registered their names in the book! What a mockery for that little bird to sing in his cage, over Mary’s head! How crushed and broken-hearted the poor woman looked in the black bonnet, on the bench, waiting to see her prodigal son! How sad his young wife beside her, with the unconscious baby sleeping on her breast! The room grew smaller—the air grew stifled.
“You can go now, ma’am,” said the turnkey, rattling his keys and addressing Lucy.
“In a moment, please,” said Lucy, with a quivering lip, as Mary fell from her chair:—“Some water quick, please, sir”—and she untied the strings of Mary’s hat.
“Now,” said Mary, after a pause. And again the bright spot burned upon her cheek—and as with faltering step, she followed the turnkey, the young wife’s tears fell on her baby’s face, while she murmured, “God help her, and it’s my own heart that has the misery, too.”