Paul Ralston

by Mary Jane Holmes

He knew the trial would end the following day, and he would know the worst there was to know. Those twelve men, who had looked kindly but pityingly at him as they listened to Elithe, would do their duty as he should do it in their place, and must find him guilty. If they did not he was disgraced for life, and could never hold up his head again as he once had held it. There was no light in the future, and his appearance was that of an old man when he reëntered the jail. The officer who conducted him there was very kind and the jailer’s wife brought him many delicacies for his supper. But he could not eat. The last two days had been terrible to him, more terrible than any day could ever be again, he thought, unless——. He could not finish the sentence and contemplate a possible time when he would say good-bye forever to a world in which he had been so happy until within a few weeks. These weeks had seemed a horrible nightmare from which he must awaken either for better or worse. The awakening had come, and it was for the worse, and never had he felt so entirely hopeless and miserable as when he sat alone in his room reviewing the events of the day and dreading those of the morrow.

If I could only sleep and forget it, he thought, and after a while he fell asleep, so worn and exhausted that he could keep awake no longer. He had no means of knowing the hour when he awoke. It must be late, he knew, and it was very dark outside. In the distance he heard the rumbling of thunder and nearer the sound of the waves beating on the shore. He knew just how it looked down there by the sea. He had seen it many times when a storm was gathering, and, with shoes and stockings off, had waded out as far as he dared and then ran for the shore with the green waves in hot pursuit. He had thought it fun, but liked better the long, sunny beach by the tower, with the music and bathers, Clarice and himself, and Elithe and Sherry, his first dog, dead so long ago, “just as I may be when the season comes again,” he said, wondering if they would miss him and sometimes speak of him to each other.

Yes, he knew they would; his friends, who liked him, would speak of him pityingly, in low tones, as a good fellow who went astray. Others would repeat his story to those who did not know it, and point out the spot where Jack was killed, and the jail where the man who killed him was confined and from which he was taken to expiate his crime. It was horrible to think of it, and he so young, and so much to live for that he could not die, and in that way. Die and never see again the places he loved so well,—the green woods and hills of the country, the city haunts so dear to him, his home, and more than all, his friends, his father and mother and Clarice. He spoke her name aloud, “Clarice, Clarice, I loved you so much and you think I killed him,” he cried, stretching out his arms in the darkness and then letting them fall at his side in an abandonment of grief.

The thunder was louder and nearer now. The wind was rising and shook the bars of his window as they had never been shaken before; then died away towards the sea, but the shaking of the bars continued and a gleam like a lighted match flashed through them and disappeared, followed by another and another, and he could see the outline of four hands, two large and two small, tugging at the iron rods. Some one was there trying to get in and Paul felt a momentary fear as he listened to the grating sound and heard the lime and mortar give way. Again there was a flash of light. One bar was gone, and the big hands were wrenching another from its place.

“Who is there?” Paul asked.

The answer was in a whisper. “Tom,—come to set you free.”

The shock was so sudden, the joy so great, that without a thought of anything but the word free. Paul’s head fell forward upon his chest, and he knew no more until the cool night air and drops of rain were falling upon his face. Some one was holding his head, and a hand, which could not be Tom’s, was brushing back his hair, and it seemed to him, wiping away a drop of blood trickling from a place which smarted on his forehead. He knew he must he out of his cell, and had an indistinct remembrance of having been lifted and pushed and pulled in a most extraordinary way until his arms felt as if they were dislocated.

“Where am I?” he asked, rising to a sitting posture and trying to pierce the thick darkness and see who were with him.

“Whisper, or you’ll have Stevens here. I shouldn’t wonder if he was putting on his trousers now,—the racket we’ve made. You are out of prison. Free!”

“But,” Paul said, beginning to understand, “isn’t it better to stay and face it? People will certainly think me guilty if I run away. You meant it right, Tom, and I thank you, but I must go back.”