>From first to last he had not wavered in his refusal to see Maria, and there had been an angry vehemence in the resistance he had made to her passionate entreaty for a meeting.When by the early autumn he went from the little town gaol to serve his five years in the State prison, his most vivid memory of her was as she looked with the moonlight on her face in the open field.As the months went on, this gradually grew remote and dim in his remembrance, like a bright star over which the clouds thicken, and his thoughts declined, almost without an upward inspiration, upon the brutal level of his daily life.Mere physical disgust was his first violent recoil from what had seemed a curious deadness of his whole nature, and the awakening of the senses preceded by many months the final resurrection of the more spiritual emotions.The sources of health were still abundant in him, he admitted, if the vile air, the fetid smells, the closeness as of huddled animals, the filth, the obscenity, the insufferable bestial humanity could arouse in him a bodily nausea so nearly resembling disease.There were moments when he felt capable of any crime from sheer frenzied loathing of his surroundings--when for the sake of the clean space of the tobacco fields and the pure water of the little spring he would have murdered Bill Fletcher a dozen times.As for the old man's death in itself, it had never caused him so much as a quiver of the conscience.Bill Fletcher deserved to die, and the world was well rid of him--that was all.
But his own misery! This was with him always, and there was no escape from the moral wretchedness which seemed to follow so closely upon crime.Fresh from the open country and the keen winds that blow over level spaces, he seemed mentally and physically to wither in the change of air--to shrink slowly to the perishing root, like a plant that has been brought from a rich meadow to the aridity of the close--packed city.And with the growing of this strange form of homesickness he would be driven, at times, into an almost delirious cruelty toward those who were weaker than himself, for there were summer nights when he would brutally knock smaller men from the single window of the cell and cling, panting for breath, to the iron bars.As the year went on, his grim silence, too, became for those around him as the inevitable shadow of the prison, and he went about his daily work in a churlish loneliness which caused even the convicts among whom he lived to shrink back from his presence.
Then with the closing of the second winter his superb physical strength snapped suddenly like a cord that has stood too tight a strain, and for weeks he lingered between life and death in the hospital, into which he was carried while yet unconscious.With his returning health, when the abatement of the fever left him strangely shaken and the unearthly pallor still clung to his face and hands, he awoke for the first time to a knowledge that his illness had altered for the period of his convalescence, at least the vision through which he had grown to regard the world.
A change had come to him, in that mysterious borderland so near the grave, and the bare places in his soul had burst suddenly into fulfilment.Sitting one Sunday morning in the open court of the prison, with his thin white hands hanging between his knees and his head, cropped now of its thick, fair hair, raised to the sunshine, it seemed to him that, like Tucker on the old bench, he had learned at last how to be happy.The warm sun in his face, the blue sky straight overhead, the spouting fountain from which a sparrow drank, produced in him a recognition, wholly passionless, of the abundant physical beauty of the earth--of a beauty in the blue sky and in the clear sunshine falling upon the prison court.
A month ago he had wondered almost hopefully if his was to be one of those pathetic sunken graves, marked for so brief a time by wooden headboards the graves of the men who had died within the walls--and now there pulsed through him, sitting there alone, a quiet satisfaction in the thought that he might still breathe the air and look into men's faces and see the blue sky overhead.The sky in itself! That was enough to fill one's memory to overflowing, Tucker had said.
A tall, lean convict, newly released from the hospital, crossed the court at a stumbling pace and stood for a moment at his side.
"I reckon you're hankerin', he remarked."I was sent down here from the mountains, an' I hanker terrible for the sight of the old Humpback Knob.""And I'd like to see a level sweep--hardly a hill, just a clean stretch for the wind to blow over the tobacco.""You're from the tobaccy belt, then, ain't you? What are you here for?""Killing a man.And you?"
"Killin' two."
He limped off at his feeble step, and Christopher rubbed his hands in the warm sunshine and wondered how it would feel to bask on one of the old logs by the roadside.
That afternoon Jim Weatherby came to see him, bringing the news that Lila's baby had come and that she had named it Christopher.
"It's the living image of you, she says," he added, smiling; "but I confess I can't quite see it.The funny part is, you know, that Cynthia is just as crazy about it as Lila is, and she looks ten years younger since the little chap came.""And Uncle Tucker?"
"His old wounds trouble him, but he sent you word he was waiting to go till you came back again."A blur swam before Christopher's eyes, and he saw in fancy the old soldier waiting for him on the bench beside the damask rose-bush.
"And the others--and Maria Wyndham?" he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Jim reached out and laid his hand on the broad stripes across the other's shoulder.
