Lewie; Or, The Bended Twig

by Sarah H. Bradford

No wonder, then, that as Agnes rose to meet her they stood looking at each other in silence for a moment; Agnes vainly endeavoring to discover a trace of Ruth Glenn in the easy and elegant woman before her, and Mrs. F—— trying to divine who this guest who had called herself an old friend might be.

For sickness and sorrow had changed Agnes too. Her bright bloom was all gone; her charming animation of manner had given place to a settled sadness; and though still most lovely, as she stood in her deep mourning dress, she was but a wreck of the Agnes Elwyn of former years.

But when after a moment Agnes said, “Ruth, do you not know me?”

The scream of delight with which Ruth opened her arms, and clasped her to her breast, crying out, “Agnes Elwyn!—my dear, dear Agnes!” convinced her that in heart at least her old school-mate was unchanged. Ruth immediately took Agnes to her own room, that they might be undisturbed, for she guessed at once her purpose in coming; and then Agnes opened to her her burdened heart; relating all her brother’s history; telling her of his naturally strong passions, and saying all that was necessary to say, in justice to her brother, of the injudicious training he had received; at the same time treating her mother’s memory with all possible delicacy and respect.

“And now, dear Ruth,” she said, “I do not come to ask that my young brother shall be permitted to walk forth to do like evil again;—there would be no danger of that, even if he were not greatly changed, as I solemnly believe he is, in heart and temper; for his doom is sealed; consumption is wasting his frame;—we only ask that we may carry him forth to die and be buried among his kindred. Oh! how he pines for the free air and the blue sky, and longs to die elsewhere than in a condemned cell! If I might be permitted to remove him to my uncle’s kind home, where he could have comforts and friends about him, I could close his eyes, it seems to me, with thankfulness, for I do believe that the Christian’s hope is his.”

Ruth’s sympathizing tears had been flowing down her cheeks, as, with her hand clasping that of Agnes, she had listened to her sad story. She now rose, and said she would go to her husband, who was slightly indisposed, and confined to his room, and prepare him to see Agnes. “And do, Agnes, talk to him just as you have done to me,” she said. “He is called a stern man; but he has tender feelings, I can assure you, if the right chord is only touched.”

Ruth was gone a long time, and Agnes walked the floor of her room in a state of suspense and agitation only equalled by that of the night after the trial. At length Ruth returned: she looked sad and troubled.

“Agnes,” said she, “you must see my husband yourself, and say to him all you have said to me. He is deeply grateful for all you have done for me, and would do anything in the world for you except what he thinks, or what he seems to think, would be yielding to the call of feeling at the expense of justice. He says his predecessor has been much censured for so often granting pardons to criminals, especially to any who had influential friends; and I fear that, in avoiding his errors, he will go to the opposite extreme. He remembers your brother’s case well, and says, that though it could not be called deliberate murder, still it was murder; and he agrees with the lawyer, Mr. G——, that some signal reproof should be given to this practice among the young men of carrying about them offensive weapons. This is all he said; but he has consented to see you, and is expecting you. I shall leave you alone with him; and oh! Agnes, do speak as eloquently as you did to me. I know he cannot resist it.”

The Governor, a tall, fine-looking man, was wrapped in his dressing-gown, and seated in his easy chair. He rose to receive Agnes, gave her a cordial welcome as a friend to his wife, and bade her take a seat beside him; but there was something in his look which said, that he did not mean to be convinced against his better judgment by two women.

Agnes was at first too much agitated to speak; but the Governor kindly re-assured her, by asking her some questions about her brother’s case, and soon she thought of nothing but him; her courage all revived; and with an eloquence the more effective from being all unstudied, she told her brother’s story to the Governor. “He is so young,” said she, “only eighteen years old; and yet he must die. But, oh! sir, if you would but save him from being dragged in his weakness to a death of shame, or from lingering out his few remaining days in that close, dark cell; oh! if he might only die free!”