CHAPTER LVII.
PLEADING FOR A PARDON.
The Governor of New York was alone in his private office one day, when his Secretary came in, followed by a little creature that would have appeared like a child but for a face, which possessed a wonderful power of expression, such as only thought and experience could give.
This young creature went up to the Governor where he sat, and, leaning on the table with one arm, looked earnestly into his face—so earnestly that the color mounted faintly over it.
“I have a brother,” said Ellen Nolan, “my eldest brother; he has committed a crime, and they have put him in State’s Prison. If he were innocent, I would ask your pardon as a right; but knowing him guilty, I have come up here to beg mercy for him. My father, sir, is dead; he was lost in a steamer, burned on the ocean more than a year ago. With his last words he bade me fill his place to this unhappy son, and I promised. Sir, my brother is ill; I fear his mind is becoming disturbed. He will die if you leave him there.”
That earnest face, those eyes so full of deep, deep feeling, had more power upon the Governor than this broken speech which seemed to come in gasps from her chest.
“Have you a memorial? Does the Judge or District Attorney sign your petition?”
“I have no petition.”
“No petition—no letters?”
“I am a stranger, sir, and do not know how these things are done. Yesterday I was in the prison for the first time; for I had been again and again and they refused to let me in. I found him alone in his cell, burning with fever, wild with distress. The very sight of me drove him half crazy. He is an educated man, who has committed one grave fault, but there is no wickedness in him. If ever a man was sorry for wrong-doing he is. I know he has done a dishonest thing, but he says it was under terrible temptation, and I believe him. You would believe him, sir, if you had held his poor, shaking hands and looked into his eyes as I did. Oh! sir, I wish you could see him. It would melt your heart. My father loved him so dearly; knowing all his faults, he could understand how a man might do wrong and yet not be so very bad. This is all the plea I have to make. If you keep him there he will die, and my promise, given to a father who was just entering the gates of Heaven, will go unredeemed.”
The Governor, who was a kind and most just man, listened to the girl with more than patience. Her energy, that broken language, which was half explanation half petition, all unstudied and earnest as a child pleads, took him by surprise. He asked her to sit down, but she would not. Supporting herself with one arm, she still kept her eyes on his face, looking as it were deep into his heart. The magnetism of a brain and heart like hers, united on one purpose, is more powerful with sympathetic men than argument or prayers; they troubled that man’s heart till it stirred mercifully in his bosom. He took Ellen’s hand. She seemed so small and helpless that it was like encouraging a child. He asked questions, and listened to the whole story as she had told it to Virginia months before. When she came to the robbery, her voice broke and her eyes fell; that painful truth brought the crimson of deep shame into her white cheeks. He was guilty, she owned, but not so guilty as might be thought. He positively believed his friend to be dead, and in a loose way that friend had almost promised the money, and more than that to him. It was all wrong—terribly wrong—but would the Governor forgive him for her sake? She was so helpless and an orphan. If he would, they two, with a younger brother she had, would go out West, far beyond the Rocky Mountains, and there work out a new life for him, such as her father could look down from Heaven and ask the angels to witness.
All this was touching and pathetic; but the Governor of a State cannot always listen to the pleadings of his own heart. He became restive under those wistful eyes, that shed no tears, but was all the more powerful for that, and at last broke off the conversation rather coldly. It was imprudent, he said, to listen to a petition which had really nothing but sisterly affection to recommend it. It grieved him to say this, but it seemed to him impossible to act otherwise.
He shook hands with the poor girl kindly, but chilled to the heart by his words, she went away feeling like death.
Virginia knew nothing of this. She thought Ellen busy negotiating for her book, and asked her about it when she came home at night, looking so tired and careworn. This reminded Ellen that the week was almost up. In her anxiety she had forgotten the precious manuscript.
The next day she went down to the city and came home radiant. Her manuscript was accepted with warm praise. In a few weeks it would be published.
“Now,” she said, stealing an arm around Virginia’s neck as she told her the news, “now we shall be independent.”
“Ah, how happy you look, Ellen! No wonder! You have done so much, while I have accomplished nothing and have no hope. Oh! Ellen, I tried to sing while you were away, and could not. My voice is gone.”
“That is because you have been so ill, dear lady. It will come back sweeter than ever; if not, my book will sell. I can write more, and that will be enough for us both. This is independence, lady!”
Virginia returned her kisses with warmth. She loved the generous girl well enough to take even money from her without a sense of obligation wounding her pride, and that is the greatest test of a magnanimous nature that a human being is capable of in this degenerate age.
“What is the difference?” said Ellen, brimming over with gratitude that she could do something for her lady. “Don’t I love to take everything from you? Oh! I’m so thankful that it is my turn now!”