The Legacy of Cain | Page 7

of permitting any obstacle to interpose between the
Minister and his errand of mercy. I gently reminded the Prisoner that
she would have a later opportunity of seeing her child. "Your first
duty," I told her, "is to hear and to take to heart what the clergyman has
to say to you."

For the second time I attempted to leave the cell. For the second time
this impenetrable woman called me back.
"Take the parson away with you," she said. "I refuse to listen to him."
The patient Minister yielded, and appealed to me to follow his example.
I reluctantly sanctioned the delivery of the message.
After a brief interval the child was brought to us, tired and sleepy. For a
while the nurse roused her by setting her on her feet. She happened to
notice the Minister first. Her bright eyes rested on him, gravely
wondering. He kissed her, and, after a momentary hesitation, gave her
to her mother. The horror of the situation overpowered him: he turned
his face away from us. I understood what he felt; he almost overthrew
my own self-command.
The Prisoner spoke to the nurse in no friendly tone: "You can go."
The nurse turned to me, ostentatiously ignoring the words that had been
addressed to her. "Am I to go, sir, or to stay?" I suggested that she
should return to the waiting-room. She returned at once in silence. The
Prisoner looked after her as she went out, with such an expression of
hatred in her eyes that the Minister noticed it.
"What has that person done to offend you?" he asked.
"She is the last person in the whole world whom I should have chosen
to take care of my child, if the power of choosing had been mine. But I
have been in prison, without a living creature to represent me or to take
my part. No more of that; my troubles will be over in a few hours more.
I want you to look at my little girl, whose troubles are all to come. Do
you call her pretty? Do you feel interested in her?"
The sorrow and pity in his face answered for him.
Quietly sleeping, the poor baby rested on her mother's bosom. Was the
heart of the murderess softened by the divine influence of maternal love?
The hands that held the child trembled a little. For the first time it

seemed to cost her an effort to compose herself, before she could speak
to the Minister again.
"When I die to-morrow," she said, "I leave my child helpless and
friendless--disgraced by her mother's shameful death. The workhouse
may take her--or a charitable asylum may take her." She paused; a first
tinge of color rose on her pale face; she broke into an outburst of rage.
"Think of my daughter being brought up by charity! She may suffer
poverty, she may be treated with contempt, she may be employed by
brutal people in menial work. I can't endure it; it maddens me. If she is
not saved from that wretched fate, I shall die despairing, I shall die
cursing--"
The Minister sternly stopped her before she could say the next word.
To my astonishment she appeared to be humbled, to be even ashamed:
she asked his pardon: "Forgive me; I won't forget myself again. They
tell me you have no children of your own. Is that a sorrow to you and
your wife?"
Her altered tone touched him. He answered sadly and kindly: "It is the
one sorrow of our lives."
The purpose which she had been keeping in view from the moment
when the Minister entered her cell was no mystery now. Ought I to
have interfered? Let me confess a weakness, unworthy perhaps of my
office. I was so sorry for the child--I hesitated.
My silence encouraged the mother. She advanced to the Minister with
the sleeping infant in her arms.
"I daresay you have sometimes thought of adopting a child?" she said.
"Perhaps you can guess now what I had in my mind, when I asked if
you would consent to a sacrifice? Will you take this wretched innocent
little creature home with you?" She lost her self-possession once more.
"A motherless creature to-morrow," she burst out. "Think of that."
God knows how I still shrunk from it! But there was no alternative now;
I was bound to remember my duty to the excellent man, whose critical

position at that moment was, in some degree at least, due to my
hesitation in asserting my authority. Could I allow the Prisoner to
presume on his compassionate nature, and to hurry him into a decision
which, in his calmer moments, he might find reason to regret? I spoke
to him. Does the man live who--having to say what I had