At the close of our interview, as Wilson was going out, he passed another prisoner on the way in to see me.
"Do you know Wilson?" was Newton's greeting as he approached me.
"Do you know Wilson?" was my question in reply.
Newton had taken offence at something in one of my letters and it was to make peace with him that I had planned the interview, but all misunderstanding evaporated completely in our common regret and anxiety about Wilson; for my feeling was fully shared by this man who—well, he was pretty thoroughly hardened on all other subjects. But here the chord of tenderness was touched; and all his hardness and resentment melted in the relief of finding some one who felt as he did on the subject nearest his heart.
"I have worked beside Wilson in the shop for two years, and I have never loved any man as I have grown to love him," he said. "And it has been so terrible to see him dying by inches, and kept at work when he could scarcely stand." The man spoke with strong emotion; the very depths of his nature were stirred. He told me all about this friendship, which had developed notwithstanding the fact that conversation between convicts was supposed to be confined to necessary communication in relation to work. Side by side they had worked in the shop, and as Wilson's strength failed Newton managed to help him. Newton's praise and affection really counted for something, as he was an embittered man with small faith in human nature. He said that in all his life nothing had been so hard as to see his friend sinking under his fate, while he was powerless to interfere. Newton and I had one comfort, however, in the fact that Wilson's sentence was near the end. In justice to the authorities of the prison where these men were confined I wish to state that dying prisoners were usually sent to the hospital. Wilson's was an exceptional case of hardship.
Early in July Wilson was released from prison. When he reached Chicago his evident weakness arrested the attention of a passer-by, who hired a boy to carry his bundle and see him to his destination. He had determined to try to support himself, believing that freedom would bring increased strength; but he was too ill to work. The doctor whom he consulted spoke encouragingly, but urged the necessity of rest and Minnesota air. I therefore sent him a pass to Minneapolis, and the route was by way of my own home.
Life was hard on Wilson, but it gave him one day of happiness apart from poverty or crime, when he felt himself a welcome guest in the home of a friend. When his train arrived from Chicago I was at the station to meet him, and before driving home we called on my physician that I might know what to anticipate. The doctor commended the plan for the climate of Minnesota, and spoke encouragingly to Wilson, but to me privately he gave the fiat, "No hope."
Wilson spent the rest of that day in the library of my home, and all the afternoon he was smiling. My face reflected his smiles, but I could not forget the shadow of death in the background. We talked of many things that afternoon; the breadth and fairness of his opinions on prison matters, the impersonal way in which he was able to consider the subject, surprised me, for his individual experience had been exceptionally severe.
When weariness came into his eyes and his voice I suggested a little music. The gayer music did not so much appeal to him, but I shall never forget the man's delight in the sweet and restful cadences of Mendelssohn. After a simple tea served Wilson in the library we took a drive into the country, where the invalid enjoyed the lovely view of hills and valleys wrapped in the glow of the summer sunset; and then I left him for the night at a comfortable hotel.