The Salt Lake herald. [volume] (Salt Lake City [Utah]) 1870-1909, 1895-09-08

L
J that it started from a prison.
I Dear mother" it ran, Il have not
written to you for three weeks since 1
have been here, because [ have been
sick. L am now in a very safe place,
and am doing pretty we'll 1 clear my
/ food and board and seventyIfive cents
| day. / have not been paid yet.
| think you had better not write to me
until l can give you permanent ad-
dress. I read my Bible every day and
love you more dearly than ever
| have tried to do my duty as you would
! have me. Give my love to Abbie- /
will write soon again.
Ever your affectionate son, Isaac"
The Simpleton. Could he not suspect
] that country papers copy from city
/ columns all that is of special local in
tereSt and more? And did he not
know that it is one of the disgraces
of modern Journalism that no depart
ment is so copiously edited, annotated
| and illustrated as that of criminal in
| telligence?
Could he not surmise that on the
/ Saturday following his incarceration
! the very mountains rang with the
news? That it should be mangled and
| turned topsy-turvy, and that in the
! eyes of his simple minded neighbors
| he should be thought of as the muir
derer, by reason of his great strength?
| For how could it come into the intelli-
| gence of law abiding citizens and law
! respecting people, that a man should
| be shut up in prison, no matter what
the newspapers said, unless he had
done something to deserve it? What
| did the mountaineers know about the
laws of ball. and habeas corpus? And
/ could such news, gossiped by one
nelghbor, repeated by another con-
f1rmed by the third, fail to reach the
! desolate farm house in which a wom-
an, feeble, old and faint of heart lay
trembling between life and death?
The grand jury meets on the first
| Monday of each month to indict those
1 for trial against whom reasonable
proofs of guilt are obtained The sa-
loon loafer had been shot in the groin,
and pending his injuries, Indictment
was waived. In proportion as the
wound proved serious and the recov-
cry prolonged, trial was postponed
Isaac Masters had now been locked
UP six weeks. He had not yet heard
from home, and had only written once
About noon, one day, the keeper came
to tell him that a woman wished to
see him. Isaac thought that it was
his mother, and the shame of meet
ing her in the gaurd room, surround
ed by tiers upon tiers of murderers
and thieves and petty criminals, over
came him. The man of strength sat
down on his cot, and putting his
hands over his white face, trembled
violently. The guard, who knew that
Isaac was an innocent man, spoke to
him kindly.
60! Cor said the prisoner in a
voice of agony "and tell my mother
that I will be right there"
Mother CALCULATED the guard.
shes the youngest mother fur a man
of your size L ever see" He winked
at the sailor, and went.
Then Isaac knew that it was Abbie
who had come alone, and he frightened
his teeth and lips together and went
down.
Isaac slowly came down the per-
forated iron stairs that were attached
to the outside of his prison wing like
a fire escape. On the bench in the mid
die of the guard room sat Abbie-a
little, helpless thing she seemed to
him-facing the entrance, as if she
feared to remove her eyes from the
door that led TO freedom.
Abbie was greatly changed. She
was dressed in black If Isaac had
been a free man, this fact would have
startled him. AS it was, he was so
spent with suffering, that his dulled
mind could not understand it. AT
first Abbie did not recognize her
hearty lover. His huge frame was
gaunt and wasted. His ruddy face was
white, and his cheeks hung in folds
like moulded putty. His country
clothes dropped about him aimlessly
From crown to foot he had been de-
vastated by unmerited disgrace. Grief
may glorify; but the other ravages.
This TOaatiro no ho
was singularly undramatic. Each
shrank a little from the other. They
shook hands quietly. His was burning;
hers like swamp in October dew.
He sat down beside her on the bench
awkwardly. while the deputy looked at
them with careless curiosity He was
used to nothing but tragedy and
crime, and to his experienced mind.
the two had become long ago con-
fused.
'1Mother?" asked Isaac, nervously
moving his feet. Didn't she get my
letter."
The girl nodded grave1y, tried to
meet his eyes, and then looked away.
Tears fell unresisted down her cheeks.
She made no attempt to wipe them
off. 1t was as if she were too well ac-
quainted with them to check their
flow.
Then the truth began to filter
through Isaac's ibewebbed intellect.
He spread his knees apart-rested his
arms upon them, and bent his head
to his hands His great figure shook.
ooh my GodT' he sobbed, my Cod
My Godr'
"Oh don't Isaac, don'tr' Abbie put
her hand upon his head as if he had
been her boy. "Your mother was as
happy as could be. She was happy
to die. We buried her yesterday
How could she tell him that this
mother had died of grief-too sorely
smitten to bear it-for his sake?
But Isaac's head rose and fell-rose
and fell rhythmically between his
hands. His breath came in low groans
like that of an animal smitten dead
by eriminally heavy load.
''She sent her love before she passed
away. She wanted you to come back
to the farm as soon as you could
She believed in you key even if
you were in prison. She said Paul was
in prison, and that it was a terrible
mistake. She knew your fathers son
would not depart from his Godr'
AS Abbie uttered this feeble confess
sion of country faith, the pitiful man
lifted up his eyes from the tiled floor
and looked at her gratefully His
dry lips moved, and he tried to speak
yes" was all he said. with fierce
humility. Then the lack of breath
choked him.
She made me promise not to give
Won ND and To come and SEQ won OF