The Runaway Part 5

He had sinned against G.o.d, and some of the bitterness of punishment had already overtaken him. The idea that G.o.d was angry with him, and that _He_ was visiting his sins with the rod of chastis.e.m.e.nt, took possession of his soul. Now he ceased to blame others for his sufferings, and acknowledged to himself that all was deserved. Again he wept, but it was in terror at the thought of G.o.d's anger, and in grief that he had sinned so ungratefully against his Maker.

He tried to pray; but the words of the prayers he had been taught in his childhood did not seem to be appropriate to his present condition. Those prayers were a.s.sociated with days and scenes of comparative innocence and happiness. He now felt guilty and wretched, and felt deeply that other forms of pet.i.tion were necessary for him. But he could not frame words into a prayer that would soothe and relieve his soul. "G.o.d will not hear me," was his bitter thought. "I do not deserve to be heard. O! if G.o.d would have mercy upon me, and deliver me from this trouble, I think I would try to serve and obey Him as long as I lived."

He kneeled down upon the hard floor, and raised his clasped hands and streaming eyes toward heaven; but he could find no utterance for his emotions, save in sobs and tears. Prayer would not come in words. Again and again he tried to pray, but in vain; he felt that he could not pray; and, almost in despair, he paced the narrow cell, and was ready to believe that G.o.d's favor was forever withdrawn from his soul,--that there was no ear to listen, and no arm to save, and that nothing was left for him in the future but a life of misery, a death of shame, and an eternity of woe!

On the third morning, he awoke from a troubled sleep, and, as he rose with aching bones from the bare planks, his limbs trembled and tottered beneath him. Finding that he could not stand, he sat down in the corner of the dungeon, and leaned against the wall. His head was hot, and his throat parched, and the blood beat in throbs through his veins. A sort of delirious excitement began to creep over him, and his mind was filled with strange reveries.

He saw, or fancied he saw, great spiders crawling over the wall, and serpents, lizards, and indescribable reptiles, creeping about on the floor; and he shouted at them, and kicked at them, as they seemed to come near him. Soon they were viewed without dread or terror. He laughed at their motions, and thought he should have companions and pets in his loneliness; still he did not wish them to come too near.

Then there seemed to be other shapes in his cell. His old grandmother sat in one corner, reading, through her familiar spectacles, the well-worn family Bible. His sister sat there, playing with her baby, and his mother was singing as she sewed.

And he laughed and talked to them, but could get no answer.

Occasionally he felt a half-consciousness that it was all a delusion,--a mere vision of the brain; and yet their fancied presence made him happy, and he laughed and talked incessantly, as if they heard him, and were wondering at his own strange emotions.

And then the gruff voice of the jailer scared away his visions, and roused him for a moment from his reveries.

"You are merry, my boy, and you make too much noise," said the keeper.

The interruption made his head swim, and he attempted to rise; but he was very weak and faint, and fell back again. He turned to say, "I believe I am sick;" but before the words found utterance, the man had set down his pitcher and bread, and was gone.

There was an interval of dreary, blank darkness, and then there were other visions, too wild and strange to describe, and soon the darkness of annihilation settled upon his soul. How long a time elapsed while in this state of insensibility, he could not say; but he was at length half-aroused by voices near him, and he was conscious that some hand was feeling for his pulse, and that men were carrying him out of the dungeon. He afterwards learned that it was the jailer and the physician.

CHAPTER X.

THE HOSPITAL.

Upon a narrow cot, in the Hospital apartment of the jail, they laid Rodney, and immediately prepared the medicines suited to his case. The medicines were at length administered, and, with a pleasant consciousness of comfort and attention, he fell asleep.

When he awoke, it was evening; he was perfectly conscious, and felt better; but it was a long time before he could recall his thoughts, and understand where he was, and how he had come thither. He looked around him, and saw a line of cots on each side of him. About a dozen of them were occupied by sick men. A large case of medicines, placed on a writing-desk, stood at one end of the room. Two or three men, who acted as nurses, were sitting near it, talking and laughing together. In another part of the room, by a grated window, looking out upon the pleasant sunset, were two of the convalescent prisoners, pale and thin, conversing softly and sadly. There was not a face he knew,--none that seemed to feel the slightest interest for him; and the wicked scenes of the past two months, and the unhappy circ.u.mstances of the present hour, flashed through his mind, and he hid his face in his pillow and wept.

He heard steps softly approach his cot, and knew that some one was standing beside him. But he could not stifle his sobs, and he did not dare to look up.

"I am glad to see that you are better, though I am sorry to see you so much troubled, my poor boy," said a soft, kind voice.

It was long since he had been spoken to in a kind tone, and he only wept the more bitterly, and convulsively pressed his face closer to the pillow. Presently he felt an arm pa.s.sed slowly under the pillow, which wound around his neck, and gently drew his head toward the stranger.

"Come, come," said the same soft voice, "don't give way to such grief; look up, and talk to me. Let me be a friend to you."

Rodney yielded to the encircling arm, and turned his tearful eyes to the man who spoke to him.

He was a tall, slender man, pale from sickness, decently dressed, and with an intelligent, benevolent countenance. He was one of those whom Rodney had observed looking out of the window.

"What is the matter?" said he; "what has brought you into this horrible place?"

The confidence of the boy was easily won. He had felt an inexpressible desire to talk to some one, and now he was ready to lay open his whole heart at the first intimation of sympathy.

"I ran away from home," was the frank and truthful reply.

"But they do not put boys in jail for running away; you must have done something else."

"I was charged with something else; but indeed, indeed, I am innocent!"

"That is very possible," said he, with a sigh; "but what did they charge you with doing?"

And Rodney moved closer to him, and leaned his head upon his breast, and told him all. There was such an evident sincerity, such consistency, such tones of truth in the simple narrative, that he saw he was believed, and the sympathizing words and looks of the listener inspired him with trust, as though he was talking to a well-known friend.

For several days, they were constantly together; the stranger waited upon Rodney, and gave him his medicine, and helped him from his cot, talked with him, and manifested for him the kindness of a brother. From several conversations, Rodney gleaned from him the following history.

Lewis Warren,--so will we call him--(indeed, Rodney never knew his true name),--was born and had lived most of his life in a New England village. He was the son of a farmer; a pious man, and deacon of a church, by whose help he received a liberal education. Soon after he had graduated at ---- College, he came on to Philadelphia, with the expectation of getting into some business. At the hotel where he stopped, he became acquainted with a man of very gentlemanly appearance and address, who said that he, too, was a stranger in the city, and proposed to accompany him to some places of amus.e.m.e.nt. Warren went with him to the theatre, and, on succeeding evenings, to various places of amus.e.m.e.nt. As they were one evening strolling up Chestnut-street, this friend, Mr. Sharpe, stopped at the well-lighted vestibule of a stately building, that had the air of a private house, although it was thrown open, and proposed that they should go in, and see what was going on there. Warren consented, and, after ascending to the second floor, and pa.s.sing through a hall, they entered a large, brilliantly-lighted billiard saloon.

Around several tables were gathered gentlemanly-looking men, knocking about little ivory b.a.l.l.s, with long, slender wands or cues, and seeming, evidently, engrossed in their respective games. After looking around for a while, Sharpe proposed going up stairs into the third story. They ascended to the upper rooms. In the upper pa.s.sage stood a stout, short negro-man, who glanced at Sharpe, stepped one side, and permitted them to pa.s.s unquestioned. They entered another smaller room,--for the third story was divided into several rooms,--and found other games than those exhibited below. After walking through some of the rooms, and observing the different games, most of which were new to Warren, his companion said to him:

"Do you understand anything about cards?"

"Not a great deal; I have occasionally played a game of whist or sledge."

"Well, that is about the sum of my knowledge. Suppose we while away a half-an-hour at one of these vacant tables."

Warren consented, and they sat down. After playing a game or two, Sharpe proposed having a bottle of wine, and, said he, laughingly, "Whoever loses the next game, shall pay for it."

"Agreed," said Warren; and the wine was brought, and he won the game.

"Well, that is your good luck; but I'll bet you the price of another bottle you can't do it again."

Warren won again.

They tried a third, and that Sharpe won; a fourth, and Warren rose the winner.

The next evening found them, somehow, without much talk about it, at the same place. They played with varied success; but when they left, Warren had lost ten dollars.

He wanted to win it back, and himself proposed the visit for the third night. He became excited by the game, and lost seventy dollars.

Still his eyes were not open; he did not dream that he was in the hands of a professed gambler, and, hoping to get back what he had lost, and what he felt he really could not spare from his small amount of funds, he went again.

"There!" said he, after they had been about an hour at the table, "there is my last fifty-dollar bill; change that, and I'll try once more."

"Well," said Sharpe, "here is the change; but the luck seems against you. We had better stop for to-night."

But Warren insisted upon continuing, and he won thirty dollars in addition to the fifty which Sharpe had changed for him. The gambler then rose, and told him that he would give him a chance to win all back another time, as fortune seemed to be again propitious to him.

Warren never saw him after that night. The next morning he determined to seek a more private boarding house, and economize his remaining funds, and seek more a.s.siduously some business situation. He stepped to the bar to pay his board, handing the clerk one of the notes he had received in change for his last fifty-dollar bill. The clerk examined it a moment, and pa.s.sed it back, saying, "That is a counterfeit note, sir." He took it back, amazed, and offered another.

"This is worse still," said the clerk. "I think we had better take care of you, sir. You will please go with me before a magistrate."

"But I did not know----!"

"You can tell that to the squire."