Sweet Cicely | Page 6

what we ask if you will, out of pity to Paul, pity to us
who love him so, and who are forced to stand by powerless, and see
him going to ruin--we who would die for him willingly if it would do
any good. You can do this."
He was a little bit intoxicated, or he wouldn't have gid 'em the cruel
sneer he did at the last,--though he sneeren polite,--a holdin' his hat in

his hand.
"As I said, my dear madam, it is not I, it is the law; and I see no other
way for you ladies who feel so about it, only to vote, and change the
laws."
"Would to God I _could!_" said the old white-haired mother, with her
solemn eyes lifted to the heavens, in which was her only hope.
"Would to God I could!" repeated my sweet Cicely, with her eyes
fastened on the face of him who had promised to cherish her, and
comfort her, and protect her, layin' there at her feet, a mark for jeers
and sneers, unable to speak a word, or lift his hand, if his wife and
mother had been killed before him.
But they couldn't do any thing. They would have lain their lives down
for him at any time, but that wouldn't do any good. The lowest, most
ignorant laborer in their employ had power in this matter, but they had
none. They had intellectual power enough, which, added to their utter
helplessness, only made their burden more unendurable; for they
comprehended to the full the knowledge of what was past, and what
must come in the future unless help came quickly. They had the
strength of devotion, the strength of unselfish love.
They had the will, but they hadn't nothin' to tackle it onto him with, to
draw him back. For their prayers, their midnight watches, their tears,
did not avail, as I said: they went jest so far; they touched him, but they
lacked the tacklin'-power that was wanted to grip holt of him, and draw
him back. What they needed was the justice of the law to tackle the
injustice; and they hadn't got it, and couldn't get holt of it: so they had
to set with hands folded, or lifted to the heavens in wild appeal,-- either
way didn't help Paul any,--and see him a sinkin' and a sinkin', slippin'
further and further down; and they had to let him go.
He drunk harder and harder, neglected his business, got quarrelsome.
And one night, when the heavens was curtained with blackness, like a
pall let down to cover the accursed scene, he left Cicely with her pretty
baby asleep on her bosom, went down to the saloon, got into a quarrel

with that very friend of hisen, the saloon-keeper, over a game of
billiards,--they was both intoxicated,--and then and there Paul
committed murder, and would have been hung for it if he hadn't died in
State's prison the night before he got his sentence.
[Illustration: PAUL SHOOTING HIS FRIEND.]
Awful deed! Dreadful fate! But no worse, as I told Josiah when he wus
a groanin' over it; no worse, I told the children when they was a cryin'
over it; no worse, I told my own heart when the tears wus a runnin'
down my face like rain-water,--no worse because Cicely happened to
be our relation, and we loved her as we did our own eyes.
And our broad land is full of jest such sufferin's, jest such crimes, jest
such disgrace, caused by the same cause;--as I told Josiah, suffering,
disgrace, and crime made legal and protected by the law.
And Josiah squirmed as I said it; and I see him squirm, for he believed
in it: he believed in licensing this shame and disgrace and woe; he
believed in makin' it respectable, and wrappin' round it the mantilly of
the law, to keep it in a warm, healthy, flourishin' condition. Why, he
had helped do it himself; he had helped the United States lift up the
mantilly; he had voted for it.
He squirmed, but turned it off by usin' his bandana hard, and sayin', in a
voice all choked down with grief,--
"Oh, poor Cicely! poor girl!"
"Yes," says I, "'poor girl!' and the law you uphold has made her; 'poor
girl'--has killed her; for she won't live through it, and you and the
United States will see that she won't."
He squirmed hard; and my feelin's for him are such that I can't bear to
see him squirm voyalently, as much as I blamed him and the United
States, and as mad as I was at both on 'em.
So I went to cryin' agin silently under my linen handkerchief, and he

cried into his bandana. It wus a awful