The Eagle's Heart

by Hamlin Garland

  CHAPTER V

  THE EAGLE'S EYES GROW DIM

  The county jail in Cedar County was a plain, brick structure set in themidst of the Court House Square. Connected with it was the officialresidence of the sheriff, and brick walks ran diagonally from corner tocorner for the convenience of citizens. Over these walks magnificentmaples flung gorgeous banners in autumn, and it was a favorite promenadefor the young people of the town at all seasons, even in winter.

  At times when the jail was filled with disorderly inmates these innocentlovers could hear the wild yells and see the insulting gestures of themen at the windows, but ordinarily the grounds were quiet and peaceful.The robins nested in the maples, the squirrels scampered from tree totree, and little children tumbled about on the grass, unmindful of thesullen captives within the walls.

  For seven years Harold himself had played about this yard, hearing thewild voices of the prisoners and seeing men come and go in irons. Overthese walks he had loitered with Dot--now he was one of those who clawedat the window bars like monkeys in a cage in order to look out at thesunshine of the world. The jail pallor was already on his face and asavage look was in his eyes. He refused to see anyone but Jack, who cameoften and whose coming saved him from despair.

  In one respect the county jail was worse, than the State's prison; ithad nothing for its captives to do. They ate, amused themselves as bestthey could through the long day, and slept. Most of them brooded, likeHarold, on the sunshine lost to them, and paced their cells like wildanimals. It had, however, the advantage of giving to each man a separatebed at night, though during the day they occupied a common corridor.Some of them sang indecent songs and cursed their fellows for theirstupidity, and fights were not uncommon.

  The jailer was inclined to allow Harold more liberty after his trial,but the boy said: "I'm not asking any favors from you. I'm working out asentence."

  He continued his systematic exercise, eating regularly and with care inorder that he should keep his health. He spent several hours each dayleaping up the stairway which led from the lower cells to the upper, andhis limbs were like bundles of steel rods. He could spring from thefloor, catch the hand rail of the runway above, and swing himself with asingle effort to the upper cells. Every possible combination of strengthand agility which the slender variety of means allowed he used, and notone of all the prisoners cared to try muscular conclusions with him.Occasionally a new prisoner would experiment, but those who held overknew better than to "bother the kid." When a rash and doubting man triedit, he repented it in cotton cloth and arnica.

  The only way in which Harold could be enticed into the residence part ofthe jail was by sending Jack to call upon him.

  At such times the jailer gave him plenty of time, and Harold pouredforth his latest plans in a swift torrent. He talked of nothing but theWest. "My sentence will be out in April," he said; "just the right timeto go. You must make all arrangements for me, old man. You take my moneyand get these things for me. I want a six-shooter, the best you canfind, the kind they use out on the plains, and a belt and ammunition. Iwant a valise--a good strong one; and I want you to put all my clothesin it--I mean my underclothes--I won't need cuffs and collars and suchknickknacks out there. I shall never enter father's door again. Then Iwant you to be on the lookout for a chance to drive cattle for somebodygoing West. We'll find chances enough, and we'll strike for Abilene andyour uncle's place. I haven't money enough to carry me out there on thetrain. Oh! won't it be good fun when we have a good horse apiece and goriding across the plains herding the longhorns! That's life, that is! IfI'd only gone last year, out where the buffalo and the antelope are!"

  At such times the eagle's heart in the youth could scarcely endure thepale, cold light of the prison. For an hour after one of these talkswith Jack he tore around his cell like a crazed wolf, till his wearymuscles absorbed the ache in his heart.

  During the winter the Young Men's Christian Association of the townorganized what they called a Prison Rescue Band, which held services inthe jail each Sunday afternoon. They were a great bore to Harold, whoknew the members of the band and disliked most of them. He consideredthem "a little off their nut"--that is to say, fanatic. He kept his cellclosely, and the devoted ones seldom caught a glimpse of him, though hewas the chief object of their care. They sang Pull for the Shore, Trustit all with Jesus, and other well-worn Moody and Sankey hymns, and theleader prayed resoundingly, and then, one by one, the others madelittle talks to the prison walls. There was seldom a face to be seen.Muttered curses occasionally rumbled from the cells where the prisonerswere trying to sleep.

  But the leader was a shrewd young man, and not many Sundays after hisinitial attempt the prisoners were amazed to hear female voices joiningin the songs. Heads appeared at every door to see the girls, who stoodtimidly behind the men and sang (in quavering voices) the songs thatpersuaded to grace.

  Some of these girlish messengers of mercy Harold knew, but others werestrange to him. The seminary was in session again and new pupils hadentered. For the most part they were colorless and plain, and theprisoners ceased to show themselves during the singing. Harold lay onhis iron bed dreaming of the wild lands whose mountains he could seeshining through his prison walls. Jack had purchased for him somephotographs of the Rocky Mountains, and when he desired to forget hissurroundings he had but to look on the seamless dome of Sierra Blanca orthe San Francisco peaks, or at the image of the limpid waters ofTrapper's Lake, and like the conjurer's magic crystal sphere, it curedhim of all his mental maladies, set him free and a-horse.

  But one Sabbath afternoon he heard a new voice, a girl's voice, so sweetand tender and true he could not forbear to look out upon the singer.She was small and looked very pale under the white light of the highwindows. She was singing alone, a wonderful thing in itself, and in hereyes was neither fear nor maidenly shrinking; she was indeed thrillinglyabsorbed and self-forgetful. There was something singular and arrestingin the poise of her head. Her eyes seemed to look through and beyond theprison walls, far into some finer, purer land than any earthly feet hadtrod, and her song had a touch of genuine poetry in it:

  "If I were a voice, a persuasive voice, That could travel the whole earth through, I would fly on the wings of the morning light And speak to men with a gentle might And tell them to be true-- If I were a voice."

  The heart of the boy expanded. Music and poetry and love were waked inhim by the voice of this singing girl. To others she was merely simpleand sweet; to him she was a messenger. The vibrant, wistful cadence ofher voice when she uttered the words "And tell them to be true," droppeddown into the boy's sullen and lonely heart. He did not look at her, butall the week he wondered about her. He thought of her almostconstantly, and the words she sang lay in his ears, soothing and healinglike some subtle Oriental balm. "On the wings of the morning light" wasone haunting phrase--the other was, "And tell them to be true."

  The other prisoners had been touched. Only one or two ventured coarseremarks about her, and they were speedily silenced by their neighbors.Harold was eager to seek Jack in order to learn the girl's name, butJack was at home, sick of a cold, and did not visit him during the week.

  On the following Sunday she did not come, and the singing seemedsuddenly a bitter mockery to Harold, who sought to solace himself withhis pictures. The second week wore away and Jack came, but by that timethe image of the girl had taken such aloofness of position in Harold'smind that he dared not ask about her, even of his loyal chum.

  At last she came again, and when she had finished singing Not half hasever been told, some prisoner started hand clapping, and a volley ofapplause made the cells resound. The girl started in dismay, and then,as she understood the meaning of this noise, a beautiful flush sweptover her face and she shrank swiftly into shadow.

  But a man from an upper cell bawled: "Sing The Voice, miss! sing TheVoice!"

  The leader of the band said: "Sing for them, Miss Yardwell."

  Again she sang If I were a Voic
e, and out of the cells the prisonerscrept, one by one, and at last Harold. She did not see him till she hadfinished the last verse, and then he stood so close to her he could havetouched her, and his solemn dark eyes burned so strangely into her facethat she shrank away from him in awe and terror. She knew him--no oneelse but the minister's son could be so handsome and so refined offeature.

  "You're that voice, miss," one of the men called out.

  "That's right," replied the others in chorus.

  The girl was abashed, but the belief that she was leading these sinnersto a merciful Saviour exalted her and she sang again. Harold crept asnear as he could--so near he could see her large gray eyes, into whichthe light fell as into a mountain lake. Every man there perceived thegirl's divine purity of purpose. She was stainless as a summer cloud--apassionless, serene child, with the religious impulse strong within her.She could not have been more than seventeen years of age, and yet sodignified and composed was her attitude she seemed a mature woman. Shewas not large, but she was by no means slight, and though colorless, herpallor was not that of ill health.

  Her body resembled that of a sturdy child, straight in the back, wide inthe waist, and meager of bosom.

  Her voice and her eyes subdued the beast in the men. An indefinablepersonal quality ran through her utterance, a sadness, a sympathy, andan intuitive comprehension of the sin of the world unusual in one soyoung. She had been carefully reared: that was evident in every gestureand utterance. Her dress was a studiously plain gray gown, not without alittle girlish ornament at the neck and bosom. Every detail of herlovely personality entered Harold's mind and remained there. He hadhardly reached the analytic stage in matters of this kind, but he knewvery well that this girl was like her song; she could die but neverdeceive. He wondered what her first name could be; no girl like thatwould be called "Dot" or "Cad." It ought to be Lily or Marguerite. Hewas glad to hear one of the girls call her Mary.

  He gazed at her almost without ceasing, but as the other convicts didthe same he was not observably devoted, and whenever she raised her big,clear eyes toward him both shrank, he from a sense of unworthiness, shefrom the instinctive fear of men which a young girl of her type hasdeep-planted within her. She studied him shyly when she dared, and afterthe first song sang only for him. She prayed for him when the Bandknelt on the stone floor, and at night in her room she plead for himbefore God.

  The boy was smitten with a sudden sense of his crime, not in the way ofa repentant sinner, but as one who loves a sweet and gentle woman. Allthat his father's preaching and precept could not do, all that thejudge, jury, and prison could not do, this slip of a girl did with aglance of her big gray eyes and the tremor of her voice in song. All hismisdeeds arose up suddenly as a wall between him and the girl singer.His hard heart melted. The ugly lines went out of his face and it grewboyish once more, but sadder than ever.

  His was not a nature to rest inactive. He poured out a hundred questionsto Jack who could not answer half a dozen of them. "Who is she? Wheredoes she live? Do you know her? Is she a good scholar? Does she go tochurch? I hope she don't talk religion. Does she go to parties? Does shedance?"

  Jack replied as well as he was able. "She's a queer kind of a girl. Shedon't dance or go to parties at all. She's an awful fine scholar. Shesings in the choir. Most of the boys are afraid to speak to her, she'sso distant. She just says 'Yes,' or 'No,' when you ask her anything.She's religious--goes to prayer meeting and Sunday school. About a dozenboys go to prayer meeting just because she goes and sings. Her folkslive in Waverly, but she boards with her aunt, Mrs. Brown. Now, that'sall I can tell you about her. She's in some of my classes, but I dassenttalk to her."

  "Jack, she's the best and grandest girl I ever saw. I'm going to writeto her."

  Jack wistfully replied: "I wish you was out o' here, old man."

  Harold became suddenly optimistic. "Never you mind, Jack. It won't belong till I am. I'm going to write to her to-day. You get a pencil andpaper for me quick."

  Jack's admiration of Harold was too great to admit of any question ofhis design. He would have said no one else was worthy to tie Mary'sshoe, for he, too, worshiped her--but afar off. He was one of those whomwomen recognize only as gentle and useful beings, plain and unobtrusive.

  He brought the pad and pencil and sat by while the letter was written.Harold's was not a nature of finedrawn distinctions; he wrote as hefought, swift and determined, and the letter was soon finished, read,and approved by Jack.

  "Now, don't you let anybody see you give that to her," Harold said inparting.

  "Trust me," Jack stanchly replied, and both felt that here was businessof greatest importance. Jack proceeded at once to walk on the streetwhich led past Mary's boarding place, and hung about the corner, in thehope of meeting Mary on her return from school. He knew very exactly herhours of recitation and at last she came, her arms filled with books,moving with such stately step she seemed a woman, tall and sedate. Sheperceived Jack waiting, but was not alarmed, for she comprehendedsomething of his goodness and timidity.

  He took off his cap with awkward formality. "Miss Yardwell, may I speakwith you a moment?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Burns," she replied, quite as formally as he.

  He fell into step with her and walked on.

  "You know--my chum--" he began, breathing hard, "my chum, Harry Excell,is in jail. You see, he had a fight with a great big chap, Clint Slocum,and Clint struck Harry with a whip. Of course Harry couldn't stand thatand he cut Clint with his knife; of course he had to do it, for you seeClint was big as two of him and he'd just badgered the life out of Harryfor a month, and so they jugged Harry, and he's there--in jail--and Isuppose you've seen him; he's a fine-looking chap, dark hair, wellbuilt. He's a dandy ball player and skates bully; I wish you could seehim shoot. We're going out West together when he gets out o' jail. Well,he saw you and he liked you, and he wrote you a letter and wanted me tohand it to you when no one was looking. Here it is: hide it, quick."

  She took the letter, mechanically moved to do so by his imperative voiceand action, and slipped it into her algebra. When she turned to speakJack was gone, and she walked on, flushed with excitement, her breathshortened and quickened. She had a fair share of woman's love of romanceand of letters, and she hurried a little in order that she might thesooner read the message of the dark-eyed, pale boy in the jail.

  It was well she did not meet Mrs. Brown as she entered, for the limpidgray of her eyes was clouded with emotion. She climbed the stairs to herroom and quickly opened the note. It began abruptly:

  "DEAR FRIEND: It is mighty good of you to come and sing to us poor cusses in jail. I hope you'll come every Sunday. I like you. You are the best girl I ever saw. Don't go to my father's church, he ain't good enough to preach to you. I like you and I don't want you to think I'm a hard case. I used up Clint Slocum because I had to. He had hectored me about enough. He said some mean things about me and some one else, and I soaked him once with my fist. He struck me with the whip and downed me, then a kind of a cloud came into my mind and I guess I soaked him with my knife, too. Anyhow they jugged me for it. I don't care, I'd do it again. I'd cut his head off if he said anything about you. Well, now I'm in here and I'm sorry because I don't want you to think I'm a tough. I've done a whole lot of things I had not ought to have done, but I never meant to do anyone any harm.

  "Now, I'm going West when I get out. I'm going into the cattle business on the great plains, and I'm going to be a rich man, and then I'm going to come back. I hope you won't get married before that time for I'll have something to say to you. If you run across any pictures of the mountains or the plains I wisht you'd send them on to me. Next to you I like the life in the plains better than anything.

  "I hope you'll come every Sunday till I get out. Yours respec'fly,

  "HAROLD EXCELL.

  "Jack will give this to you. Jack is my chum; I'd trust him with my life. He's all wool."<
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  The girl sat a long time with the letter in her hand. She was but achild, after all, and the lad's words alarmed and burdened her, for themeaning of the letter was plain. It was a message of love andadmiration, and though it contained no subtleties, it came from one whowas in jail, and she had been taught to regard people in jail as lostsouls, aliens with whom it was dangerous to hold any intercourse, savein prayer and Scripture. The handsome boy with the sad face had appealedto her very deeply, and she bore him in her thoughts a great deal; butnow he came in a new guise--as a lover, bold, outspoken, and persuasive.

  "What shall I do? Shall I tell Aunt Lida?" she asked herself, and endedby kneeling down and praying to Jesus to give the young man a new heart.

  In this fashion the courtship went on. No one knew of it but Jack, forMary could not bring herself to confide in anyone, not even her mother,it all seemed too strange and beautiful. It was God's grace workingthrough her, and her devoutness was not without its human mixture ofgirlish pride and exaltation. She worshiped him in her natural moments,and in her moments of religious fervor she prayed for him withimpersonal anguish as for a lost soul. She did not consider him acriminal, but she thought him Godless and rebellious toward hisSaviour.

  She wrote him quaint, formal little notes, which began abruptly, "MyFriend." They contained much matter which was hortatory, but at timesshe became girlish and very charming. Gradually she dropped the tonewhich she had caught from revivalists and wrote of her studies and ofthe doings of each member of the class, and all other subjects which ayoung girl finds valuable material of conversation. She was justbecoming acquainted with Victor Hugo and his resounding, antitheticphrases, and his humanitarian outcries filled her mind with commotion.Her heart swelled high with resolution to do something to help the worldin general and Harold in particular.

  She was not one in whom passion ruled; the intellectual dominated thepassional in her, and, besides, she was only a child. She was by nomeans as mature as Harold, although about the same age. Naturallyreverent, she had been raised in a family where religious observancesnever remitted; where grace was always spoken. In this home her lookswere seldom alluded to in any way, and vanity was not in her. She hadher lovelinesses; her hair was long and fair, her eyes were beautiful,and her skin was of exquisite purity, like her eyes. Her charm lay inher modesty and quaint dignity, her grave and gentle gaze, and in herglorious voice.

  The Reverend Excell was pleased to hear that his son was bearingconfinement very well, and made another effort to see him. Simplybecause Mary wished it, Harold consented to see his father, and theyheld a long conversation, at least the father talked and the boylistened. In effect, the minister said:

  "My son, I have forfeited your good will--that I know--but I think youdo me an injustice. I know you think I am a liar and a hypocrite becauseyou have seen me in rages and because I have profaned God in yourpresence. My boy, let me tell you, in every man there are two natures.When one is uppermost, actions impossible to the other nature becomeeasy. You will know this, you should know it now, for in you there isthe same murderous madman that is in me. You must fight him down. I loveyou, my son," he said, and his voice was deep and tremulous, "and ithurts me to have you stand aloof from me. I have tried to do my duty. Ihave almost succeeded in putting my worst self under my feet, and Ithink if you were to come to understand me you would not be so hardtoward me. It is not a little thing to me that you, my only son, turnyour face away from me. On the day of your trial I thought we camenearer to an understanding than in many years."

  Harold felt the justice of his father's plea and his heart swelled withemotion, but something arose up between his heart and his lips and heremained silent.

  Mr. Excell bent his great, handsome head and plead as a lover pleads,but the pale lad, with bitter and sullen mien, listened in silence. Atlast the father ended; there was a pause.

  "I want you to come home when your term ends," he said. "Will youpromise that?"

  Harold said, "No, I can't do that. I'm going out West."

  "I shall not prevent you, my son, but I want you to come and take yourplace at the table just once. There is a special reason for this. Willyou come for a single day?"

  Harold forced himself to answer, "Yes."

  Mr. Excell raised his head.

  "Let us shake hands over your promise, my boy."

  Harold arose and they shook hands. The father's eyes were wet withtears. "I can't afford to forfeit your good opinion," Mr. Excell wenton, "especially now when you are leaving me, perhaps forever. I thinkyou are right in going. There is no chance for you here; perhaps outthere in the great West you may get a start. Of my shortcomings as afather you know, and I suppose you can never love me as a son should,but I think you will see some day that I am not a hypocrite, and that Ifailed as a father more through neglect and passion than through anydeliberate injustice."

  The boy struggled for words to express himself; at last he burst forth:"I don't blame you at all, only let me go where I can do something worthwhile: you bother me so."

  The minister dropped his son's hand and a look of the deepest sadnesscame over his face. He had failed--Harold was farther away from him thanever. He turned and went out without another word.

  That he had hurt his father Harold knew, but in exactly what other wayhe could have acted he could not tell. The overanxiety on the father'spart irritated the boy. Had he been less morbid, less self-accusing, hewould have won. Harold passionately loved strength and decision,especially in a big man like his father, who looked like a soldier and aman of action, and who ought not to cry like a woman. If only he wouldact all the time as he did when he threw the sheriff across the walkthat day on the street. "I wish he'd stop preaching and go to work atsomething," he said to Jack. The psychology of the father's attitudetoward him was incomprehensible. He could get along very well without afather; why could not his father get along without him? He hated allthis fuss, anyway. It only made him feel sorry and perplexed, and hewished sincerely that his father would let him alone.

  Jack brought a letter from Mary which troubled him.

  "I am going home in March, a week before the term ends. Motherisn't very well, and just as soon as I can I must go. If I do, youmust not forget me."

  Of course he wrote in reply, saying:

  "Don't you go till I see you. You must come in and see me. Can't you come in when Jack does, he knows all about us, COME SURE. I can't go without a good-by kiss. Don't you go back on me now. Come."

  "I'm afraid to come," she replied, "people would find out everything and talk. Besides you mustn't kiss me. We are not regularly engaged, and so it would not be right."

  "We'll be engaged in about two minutes if you'll meet me with Jack," he replied. "You're the best girl in the world and I'm going to marry you when I get rich enough to come back and build you a house to be in, I'm going out where the cattle are thick as grasshoppers, and I'm going to be a cattle king and then you can be a cattle queen and ride around with me on our ranch, that's what they call a farm out there. Now, you're my girl and you must wait for me to come back. Don't you get impatient, sometimes a chap has a hard time just to get a start, after that it's easy. Jack will go with me, he will be my friend and share everything.

  "Now you come and call me sweetheart and I'll call you angel, for that's what you are. Get to be a great singer, and go about the country singing to make men like me good, you can do it, only don't let them fall in love with you, they do that too just the way I did, but don't let 'em do it for you are mine. You're my sweetheart. From your sweetheart,

  "HARRY EXCELL, Cattle King."