When she had reached her own door Dorcas entered alone, and quietly spoke to her husband, who still sat by the breakfast table.
“George, I have brought home a very ill man; will thee please attend to his removal from the carriage while I prepare a bed? I shall put him into the little room next our own that I may the more carefully tend him.”
That night, as Dorcas sat late by the invalid’s side, the only word that he spoke was the whispered question:
“Are you not afraid?”
And as she bent over him tenderly she answered:
“Not for a moment do I fear thee; I only wish thee well.”
Slowly the strength came to the feeble pulse, but when the frail man was permitted to leave his sick bed, it was found that his cough became less frequent and his fever had subsided. Then, too, he was moved into a large upper chamber, the best the house afforded, and although the kind attentions of Dorcas were unremitted, he lost all sense of care or espionage. Gradually he recognized himself as a member of the family, and never was there any allusion to his advent or expected departure. Before many months he was the dear “uncle,” of the household, taking his part in all that went on; teaching the little Lucretia; reading aloud bits of quaint wisdom or humor, from “Le Roman de la Rose,” and “Le Roman du Renart;” pages from Froissart, his beloved Pascal, and La Bruyère; or listening to the many schemes for lifting the burdens of others that were constantly suggested by George or Dorcas.
From 1820 to 1830 there was a great awakening on the subject of Prison Reform. The work of England’s noble Howard had been supplemented by that of the devoted Elizabeth Fry, and the whole world rang with their achievements. Slow, alas! was the motion across the water, but sure in its coming.
Henri Beauclaire, too feeble to exert great physical effort, was keenly alive to the necessity of introducing humanitarian methods in all places for the confinement of the accused.
He labored unceasingly toward an enlargement and purification of the county jail, for separate day rooms for the men and women, for decent food and lavatories, and for constant occupation. In all he did Henri was warmly seconded by his true friends, and when at last the summons came that called him from their midst, no one among the villagers was more regretted.