The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 13, November, 1858. Various
Justice passed that sentence;—to reverse it were the work of imbecility. Speak no more. It is not in man to grant what you ask."
He was trying her in her last stronghold,—proving her in her last depth.
"Is this your answer?" she asked. And indeed, after what had just passed between them, it did seem incredible.
The old man bowed. He seemed now impassible. He was stern, and hard as rock. He believed that he had wellnigh been deceived,—and deception practised successfully on him would have disgraced him in his own eyes forever. He believed, what he would not trust his lips to utter, that this applicant was Madeline Desperiers's agent. When he bowed and did not answer, a fear came down upon Elizabeth that almost took away her power of speech; that it did not quite deprive her of that power rendered it so much the more terrible for the anguish of its emphasis.
"Do women kneel to you when they ask the pardon of those they love?" said she, with a paling face. "What shall I do to move you? What have I not done? I trusted, that, having come so far, on such an errand, it must be that God was my leader. Am I mistaken? Or dare you withstand God? Tell me,—you are an old man,—have you no pity? Have you never had a sorrow? Can you not see that I never could have come here to plead for a bad man's life? Must I go back to see him die?"
"Madam, you are standing where I cannot come to argue with you. Pity and justice have their respective duties to perform. Oftentimes pity may be exercised, and the claims of justice waived; in the case of the man you plead for, it is simply impossible."
He had risen in displeasure to pronounce these final words. When that word "impossible" smote her as a sword, he touched a spring in the table, a bell sounded, Elizabeth went forth,—the audience was over.
She went not with tears, but self-possessed, imperious in mien, strong in despair. Coming into the presence of Madeline Desperiers, it was not needful that she should speak to make known the result of her audience.
"Have you learned when the vessel sails?" was her first question. It was her reply to the lady's glance,—a glance for which there were no attendant words in all the language.
"Tomorrow, Elizabeth."
"Are you ready?"
"I will be."
"Then I will give you to him. I promised that, too. I can fulfill that, at least. You must not think the prison-walls too dreary. My mother"—
"I understand, Elizabeth."
And they sailed on the morrow. No delay for wandering among the meadows of the pleasant town, for gossip with the men and women who were in childhood playmates of her father and her mother; no strolling along lovely river-banks. Chalons had nothing for Elizabeth; only one green nook of all the world had anything for her,—an island in the sea,—a prison on that island,—and there work to do worthy of Gabriel.
But—wonder of wonders!
Paul and Silas sang songs in their prison, and the jailer heard them; then there came an earthquake.
Who was he that found his cell-doors opened suddenly, and a messenger from out the courts of heaven there to guide his steps?
History is full of marvellous records; I add this to those. The eleventh hour goes always freighted with the weightiest events.
On board the vessel that carried Elizabeth and her charge back to Foray went a messenger commissioned of the king. He took from court to prison the partial pardon of Cordier. Liberty, but banishment henceforth. Stephen Cordier should be constrained to faithfulness towards his new love. Doomed to perpetual exile, he should be tempted by no late loyalty to Madeline Desperiers. The new acts of his drama should have nought to do with her. Justice forever!
Rascal that he was, according to the word of General Saterges, it was rascality which the General could pardon. He had gained many a victory in desperate strife,—now one other, the last and most complete: the kingdom's fairest star to shine among his honors! The proclamation of Stephen Cordier's pardon would instantly make broad the way to Château Desperiers. She came of a proud race, and he reckoned on her pride.
Let us not glory in that old man's defeat,—for he died ere his enemy received, through Elizabeth Montier, life, and the joy of life. Let us not call him by an evil name to whom the nation gave so fine a funeral,—but rather pause to listen to the music that comes forth in royal glory from the harmonious world of Adolphus,—and turn to look with loving reverence, not with doubt or wonder, and surely not with pity, on the serene face of Her Grace, the Drummer's Daughter.
WORK AND REST
What have I yet to do?
Day weareth on,—
Flowers, that, opening new,
Smiled through the morning's dew,
Droop in the sun.
'Neath the noon's scorching glare
Fainting I stand;
Still is the sultry air,
Silentness everywhere
Through the hot land.
Yet must I labor still,
All the day through,—
Striving with earnest will
Patient my place to fill,
My work to do.
Long though my task may be,
Cometh the end.
God 'tis that helpeth me,
His is the work, and He
New strength will lend.
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