# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 25

"The hours are viewless angels, That still go gliding by, And bear each minute's record up To Him who sits on high."
The few weeks of Walter's vacation in the summer passed so quickly that Rosalind scarcely realized their flight until the time came for his departure. Every moment, was so occupied, and events of such interest and importance transpired, that it left very little of the impression of a holiday recreation to any of the parties. When the excitement was over and the house settled into its usual quiet, the active, restless spirit of Rosalind was far fix)m being contented and happy, even in anticipation of the pleasant prospects before her. Her visits to Mary Kingley were very frequent, and, excepting the time she spent with Ernest, they constituted the happiest part of her life through the ensuing autumn. The prominent part her brother had acted in effecting James Morgan's reformation, and the wide scope recently given to the genius of her own mind, were the kind of life she coveted, and having once tasted the enjoyment of it, nothing less could satisfy her. She was so original in character that it was impossible to fall into the common ways of the rest of the world and ​take hold of an enterprise already started with any degree of enthusiasm.
When the news of Amelia's successful undertaking reached her she was more dissatisfied than ever. That she, a girl of no culture, no advantages, no friends, and apparently below the average of people in point of talent, should have so far outdone her, who had all these advantages, made her own life seem very insignificant. Neither was she lacking in experience, the deepest source of inspiration, for few of her age had passed through a sterner discipline. She felt no prompting to such a mission, but the boldness and independence of the step commanded her warmest admiration.
Amelia possessed an advantage in not having any position to sacrifice, but on the contrary, a reputation to gain in the course she was pursuing. If in the eyes of the would she was stepping out of her sphere, no one could deny an amount of energy and ability which surprised them all, and won a certain kind of respect. Being of too gentle a nature to exhibit those prominent traits of decision and self-will which are apt to be conspicuous in those who contend successfully with opposition, she could be accused of nothing unfeminine in manner or speech, and the deep religious feeling pervading all her actions only added to the prevailing sentiment of the higher religious nature attributed to woman. There was no longer a lack of animation, a new life coursed through her veins and radiated every feature. Friends gathered around her, not only from among those she had risen to save, but from all classes.
​An incident soon occurred, however, which was sufficient to engage Rosalind's mind, and start a train of thought that was not likely soon to be exhausted.
A crime had been committed, and suspicion fastened upon a poor young girl, who led a wandering life and obtained a living, no one knew how. Valuable goods had been stolen, and her presence the same day at the store whence they were taken was considered sufficient proof to warrant her arrest. The missing articles were also found in the building whither she resorted, of which the other inmates declared themselves wholly ignorant, and she was silent, making no reply to any interrogatories addressed to her. Her stolid indifference surprised even the hardened officials who took her in custody, and yet there was something in her face in striking contrast with her apparent recklessness. An air of innocence breathed through her demeanor, wholly irreconcilable with the low companionship she seemed to have chosen; but neither persuasion nor entreaty could draw from her a single word of her history. When asked if she had any friends who would interest themselves in her favor, she resolutely shook her head, and it was evident to all that she must suffer the full penalty of the law, so strongly conclusive of her guilt were all the circumstances against her, while no one appeared in her behalf.
Amelia had frequent interviews with her, and after repeated attempts succeeded in drawing her into conversation. She denied all participation in the theft, but confessed to a partial knowledge of it. By degrees Amelia drew from her a sketch of ​her life, degraded enough, yet free from actual guilt or personal dishonor and extremely touching. Amelia related some of the leading incidents to Mr. Brewster and his wife, and also to James Morgan, all of whom felt a deep interest in the prisoner, and a strong desire that she should have able counsel. To this, however, she seemed perfectly indifferent, refusing to communicate to any one but Amelia.
The pen of an author may sketch in glowing pictures the story of some isolated sufferer, whether the creature of fact or fiction, which shall stir every generous emotion of the soul, while every day, had we but eyes to see, and hearts to feel, the same incidents are coming within the range of our observation, and we carelessly pass them by without a thought. The real poetry of the soul which it is the true function of the novelist to portray, fails to make itself felt in its daily contact with others, unless there is a corresponding delicacy of perception which is able to distinguish the lineaments of real suffering from the impositions so often practised in its name.
Fortunately it happened that Walter was at home at the time the trial was coming on, and having been acquainted with the facts, resolved to defend her himself. True to the choice of his boyhood, his mind was still fixed on the legal profession as the pursuit of his life, toward which he looked as the goal of a laudable ambition, where he would have ample opportunities to befriend the friendless, as well as to gratify his own ardent aspirations. This case enlisted all the benevolent impulses of his soul, and kindled anew the enthusiasm he had ever felt ​in the study of that science reverently described as "Law, which has her seat in the bosom of God." Without solicitation, or even preparation, he took his seat in the court-room, and listened to all the evidence, carefully observing the prisoner who stood with downcast eyes, manifesting the same indifference, scarcely appearing to notice anything that was said or done, until Walter arose, when those who observed her, perceived a slight tremor, a flashing of the eye when he began, which gradually softened as he went on. He spoke strongly against the danger of accepting circumstantial evidence as the conclusive proof of her guilt, discussed the divine nature of law, and the solemn responsibilities resting on those who assume its official duties, to see to it that injustice is done to none, urging the oft-repeated truism that it is better for a dozen guilty to escape than that one innocent should suffer. He then alluded to the possible circumstances of her childhood, the friendlessness of her position, the helplessness of her situation, and drew a vivid picture of all the difficulties attending "a homeless, penniless female sent from door to door in destitution and misery until every spark of self-respect has fled, and she gladly accepts the meanest hovel proffered by the lowest and basest of humankind, if so she may shelter her head from the biting blast of the north wind, and the still more biting sarcasm which too often awaits her at the rich man's door. Is he to be indiscriminately condemned, because, perchance, the frowns of the respectable have compelled her to accept the charities of the vilest? At whose door lies ​the greater guilt? At hers, or that of the millionaire who, while his hands horde the wealth fortune has lavished upon him, regardless of her appeal, lends his influence to keep her where she is by withholding the assistance and encouragement which might save her from such a life of degradation, and which it is his highest duty as a christian to render. Think of a young woman whose misfortune may be her greatest crime, dragged to these halls on the mere breath of suspicion, where no friendly woman's voice shall cheer her, no kindly face shall beam on her in sympathy with her woman's nature, and yet for all that it may be that she here meets with the greatest kindness her life has known,"—
A shriek from the prisoner here interrupted him, and her indifference now gave way to raving demonstrations. The proceedings were suspended, and she was remanded to her cell a maniac. The judge and jury were released from giving their decision, for a higher tribunal than theirs was to award the verdict. A physician was called in who expressed no hope of her recovery, and advised her removal to a more commodious apartment as soon as the paroxysm subsided; her strength being too far gone to sustain her much longer in that state of excitement. She was removed to an upper chamber of the prison, where, in a few days she became calm. Her first rational words were to ask for the counsel who had defended her.
Walter was sent for, and when he entered her room, she exclaimed,
​"May God forgive me the wrong I have done you, and done myself!"
Walter extended his hand, and requested an explanation.
She was very weak, and the effort that exclamation cost her had nearly wasted the little strength she had. Desiring to be raised in the bed, she looked round the chamber, and fully conscious of what had taken place, and where she was, spoke in substance as follows:
"Here I am within the walls of a prison, awaiting the penalty of the law, instead of sharing its protection, if God should see fit to spare me; and yet I speak the truth when I say that never before since my mother left me, have I been so comfortably provided for, or kindly cared for. For four years your face has haunted me; yes, you have been the evil genius that has driven me to desperation. Nay, do not start, it was all my fault, I see now how wicked it was in me, but I did not know any better, and there was nobody to teach me."
She stopped, and closed her eyes as if to shut out some bitter memory, then rallied again and proceeded. Her voice was fainter now, and Walter would have had her rest, but he feared it was the last opportunity, and his curiosity was greatly excited to know what strange connection he had with her.
"My mother," said she, and she lowered her voice to a whisper, as if afraid even to speak it now, "was a slave. She ran away before I was born and came north, where she lived until I was ten years old. ​She used to tell me about it, and try to assure herself that she was safe now and had nothing more to fear, but child as I was, I knew she was afraid of something, by the way she used to start when she heard an unusual noise, or when a stranger spoke to her. She would tell me sometimes that if ever anybody attempted to carry her off, never to tell that she was my mother, for then they would take me too, and that was what she ran away for so that I should not be a slave; I am quite white you see, she said I had my father's complexion, who was her master, and therefore a white man. She would not let me call her mother, but mammy, as the most sure way to escape detection. I don't remember how she lived and got along with me, I only remember these things that I wish I could forget, for they have burned my very soul out of me. They came and took her one day when she was at work at a tavern, and I saw her go. She made no outcry. I have wondered so many times since why she did not, but perhaps it was for my sake, thinking if she went peaceably I should not be discovered. She gave me one agonizing look, and motioned me to be still. I suppose she thought it impossible for me to have so hard a fate hero under any circumstances as I should meet there. Perhaps not, but this is a hard world. I only ask that I may die now, and I will trust the mercy of God."
She sunk back exhausted, but revived again in a few moments.
"After she was gone I was afraid of everybody, afraid they would carry me off too, and I wandered ​about begging a subsistence, going every night to a place where my mother had made it her home; but they soon got tired of me, and treated me harshly if I failed to bring them home something. After a while I found it was impossible to get enough to satisfy my own hunger; and one dark, stormy night, when I was suffering intensely with cold and hunger, not daring to go home, as I called it, I thought I would try some of the rich folk's houses, and sec if I could get something there. Seeing a bright light in a large house standing a little back from the street, I ventured to go there, and before I dared to knock, I peeped through the window; and then a dog barked and frightened me, and I ran off. That night, and what I saw through the window, I never could forget, I suffered so much. I knew you the minute I looked towards you in the court-room, and the first thought was that you had come to seal my fate. You were a young boy then, but your face is not changed. You looked so happy as you sat at the table; and right opposite was a girl with curly hair, who looked up as I turned away, and a cat lay there asleep. I thought of my own wretchedness, when a spirit of revenge and hatred took possession of me, that I, a child, should be doomed to such misery, while even the brutes of the rich man's family were cared for and fed. What had I done that no one should care for me? When I went into the street again a watchman took me up and put me in a room somewhere where they kept me till morning, when, with a reprimand, I was permitted to go at large again. I grew heedless of my looks and ac​tions, caring only to stay hunger and get a lodging-place for the night anyhow, with anybody. But I never stole in my life, never did a real wicked thing though I have been the witness of a great many. Something had kept me from it, but then I have sinned in other ways. I have hated the whole world because I was so wretched, and chosen my associates from the vilest classes, because they have shown me hospitality that the respectable would have denied me,—but then such a hospitality! Oh, little do you know, young and unsuspecting as you are, what dens of sin and corruption those are driven to accept who feel that they are the outcasts of society, when a single friendly hand, interposed at the right time, might save them from destruction."
She ceased speaking, being too exhausted to say more, and Walter hastened home to acquaint his mother and Rosalind with this novel and affecting item of his experience. He would have considered the whole relation an effect of her mental aberration, but for the accuracy of the little incident connected with himself. Rosalind went alone to visit her the next day, to see if she would recognize her. She opened her eyes languidly without appearing to notice her at first, but in a few moments she spoke as if talking to herself, "Yes, that is she, the girl with curly hair, but she has grown older since then; now I wonder if the gray cat will come next to make out the picture that has haunted me so. If they should carry me to that big house to die, then it would be complete, but no, I am here a prisoner confronted with my fate, and looking back over the invisible ​threads I have so unconsciously spun into it, I can see what a slender one has separated me from what I might have been. If they gather round me now in my misfortune after the squalid life I have led, what might they not have done when I was an innocent child? Yes, I see it all now, it was wicked in me to put no more faith in human kind, to believe they all hated me, and then in turn to hate them with such bitter, cruel hatred. But I was not all to blame, how could I know any better? Didn't I see my mother taken away, and why shouldn't I be afraid of everybody? Yes, I see it all now, how her master came there and knew her, and when she went out to the pump he followed her and gagged her so she could not make any noise, told her she was his slave and threatened her if she gave any alarm, and so she went off. Oh God! why should we live to suffer so much?"
She appeared to be slightly wandering in her manner, but her words were coherent, and impressed one with a strong degree of truthfulness, yet it seemed scarcely credible that such a deed could have been done without being known.
She started up suddenly, and spoke at the top of her voice,
"Yes! you will be brought to judgment! for such deeds as these which you think will never be known, shall this nation yet be clothed in sackcloth and ashes! Oh God! receive my spirit. Thou who art the poor one's friend."
She sunk back exhausted, panting for breath, and soon fell into a quiet slumber. As she lay there ​passionless and still it was easy to trace the lineaments of a highly wrought organization; too proud to stoop to things low and mean, too sensitive to brook the world's scorn. While desperation had driven her to the vagrant life she led, it was evident that the publicity of being arrested as a criminal was so much of a shock to her nervous system, in addition to the powerful reaction which took place when Walter appeared in her behalf, that her mind lost its balance; the rigor of a prison life having rapidly undermined the health that had previously begun to fail.
At set of sun her spirit passed away. It is impossible to describe the sensations of Rosalind as she gazed on that motionless form, looking even beautiful in death. Now that all feeling of hatred had passed away, a heavenly serenity revealed a loveliness of feature hitherto unobserved amid the tumultuous passions of her earthly life. That one so young, and so innocent, should have been shut out of the social and refining influences of society, whether the result of chance or that lack of sympathy which too often repels those who would otherwise be attracted within its pale, was a source of inexplicable mystery to the wonder-seeking spirit of Rosalind, which still preserved some of the unsatisfied character of her childhood in searching the cause of every thing that happened. This was an instance where blame attached to no one, and it was impossible to arrest the chain of circumstances, beginning with the barking of a dog which had driven this friendless one to seek the companionship of the low​est, until her reputation was so tainted as to result in the almost certain conviction of a crime. Hard it is to fathom that overruling Wisdom, which in all its workings, compels us to acknowledge a divine power, and yet, to our short sightedness, often
—"hides itself so wondrously, As though there were no God,"
that we stagger blindly in our finite conceptions of that infinite plan, which, knowing the end from the beginning, assigns to every human agency, be it evil or good, its appointed sphere in the harmonious cycle of the universe, and always in such a way that the eye of faith cannot fail to discern how the evil is overruled by the good, which, in due time, if we possess our souls in patience, will be made manifest even to our finite conceptions.
Ah, God is other than we think. His ways are far above, Far above reason's hight, and reached Only by child-like love."