Where was Dan? In prison. Alas for Mrs Jo! how her heart would have
ached if she had known that while old Plum shone with Christmas cheer
her boy sat alone in his cell, trying to read the little book she
gave him, with eyes dimmed now and then by the hot tears no physical
suffering had ever wrung from him, and longing with a homesick heart
for all that he had lost.

Yes, Dan was in prison; but no cry for help from him as he faced the
terrible strait he was in with the dumb despair of an Indian at the
stake; for his own bosom sin had brought him there, and this was to
be the bitter lesson that tamed the lawless spirit and taught him
self-control.

The story of his downfall is soon told; for it came, as so often
happens, just when he felt unusually full of high hopes, good
resolutions, and dreams of a better life. On his journey he met a
pleasant young fellow, and naturally felt an interest in him, as
Blair was on his way to join his elder brothers on a ranch in Kansas.
Card-playing was going on in the smoking-car, and the lad – for he
was barely twenty – tired with the long journey, beguiled the way with
such partners as appeared, being full of spirits, and a little
intoxicated with the freedom of the West. Dan, true to his promise,
would not join, but watched with intense interest the games that went
on, and soon made up his mind that two of the men were sharpers
anxious to fleece the boy, who had imprudently displayed a
well-filled pocket-book. Dan always had a soft spot in his heart for
any younger, weaker creature whom he met, and something about the lad
reminded him of Teddy; so he kept an eye on Blair, and warned him
against his new friends.

Vainly, of course; for when all stopped overnight in one of the great
cities, Dan missed the boy from the hotel whither he had taken him
for safe-keeping; and learning who had come for him, went to find
him, calling himself a fool for his pains, yet unable to leave the
confiding boy to the dangers that surrounded him.

He found him gambling in a low place with the men, who were bound to
have his money; and by the look of relief on Blair’s anxious face
when he saw him Dan knew without words that things were going badly
with him, and he saw the peril too late.

‘I can’t come yet – I’ve lost; it’s not my money; I must get it back,
or I dare not face my brothers,’ whispered the poor lad, when Dan
begged him to get away without further loss. Shame and fear made him
desperate; and he played on, sure that he could recover the money
confided to his care. Seeing Dan’s resolute face, keen eye, and
travelled air, the sharpers were wary, played fair, and let the boy
win a little; but they had no mind to give up their prey, and finding
that Dan stood sentinel at the boy’s back, an ominous glance was
exchanged between them, which meant:

‘We must get this fellow out of the way.’

Dan saw it, and was on his guard; for he and Blair were strangers,
evil deeds are easily done in such places, and no tales told. But he
would not desert the boy, and still kept watch of every card till he
plainly detected false play, and boldly said so. High words passed,
Dan’s indignation overcame his prudence; and when the cheat refused
to restore his plunder with insulting words and drawn pistol, Dan’s
hot temper flashed out, and he knocked the man down with a blow that
sent him crashing head first against a stove, to roll senseless and
bleeding to the floor. A wild scene followed, but in the midst of it
Dan whispered to the boy: ‘Get away, and hold your tongue. Don’t mind
me.’

Frightened and bewildered, Blair quitted the city at once, leaving
Dan to pass the night in the lock-up, and a few days later to stand
in court charged with manslaughter; for the man was dead. Dan had no
friends, and having once briefly told the story, held his peace,
anxious to keep all knowledge of this sad affair from those at home.
He even concealed his name – giving that of David Kent, as he had done
several times before in emergencies. It was all over very soon; but
as there were extenuating circumstances his sentence was a year in
prison, with hard labour.

Dazed by the rapidity with which this horrible change in his life
came upon him, Dan did not fully realize it till the iron door
clanged behind him and he sat alone in a cell as narrow, cold, and
silent as a tomb. He knew that a word would bring Mr Laurie to help
and comfort him; but he could not bear to tell of this disgrace, or
see the sorrow and the shame it would cause the friends who hoped so
much for him.

‘No,’ he said, clenching his fist, ‘I’ll let them think me dead first.
I shall be if I am kept here long’; and he sprang up to pace the
stone floor like a caged lion, with a turmoil of wrath and grief,
rebellion and remorse, seething in heart and brain, till he felt as
if he should go mad and beat upon the walls that shut him away from
the liberty which was his life. For days he suffered terribly, then
worn out, sank into a black melancholy sadder to see than his
excitement.

The warden of this prison was a rough man who had won the ill will of
all by unnecessary harshness, but the chaplain was full of sympathy,
and did his hard duty faithfully and tenderly. He laboured with poor
Dan, but seemed to make no impression, and was forced to wait till
work had soothed the excited nerves and captivity tamed the proud
spirit that would suffer but not complain.

Dan was put in the brush-shop, and feeling that activity was his only
salvation, worked with a feverish energy that soon won the approval
of the master and the envy of less skilful mates. Day after day he
sat in his place, watched by an armed overseer, forbidden any but
necessary words, no intercourse with the men beside him, no change
but from cell to shop, no exercise but the dreary marches to and fro,
each man’s hand on the other’s shoulder keeping step with the dreary
tramp so different from the ringing tread of soldiers. Silent, gaunt,
and grim, Dan did his daily task, ate his bitter bread, and obeyed
commands with a rebellious flash of the eye, that made the warden
say:

‘That’s a dangerous man. Watch him. He’ll break out some day.’

There were others more dangerous than he, because older in crime and
ready for any desperate outbreak to change the monotony of long
sentences. These men soon divined Dan’s mood, and in the mysterious
way convicts invent, managed to convey to him before a month was over
that plans were being made for a mutiny at the first opportunity.
Thanksgiving Day was one of the few chances for them to speak
together as they enjoyed an hour of freedom in the prison yard. Then
all would be settled and the rash attempt made if possible, probably
to end in bloodshed and defeat for most, but liberty for a few. Dan
had already planned his own escape and bided his time, growing more
and more moody, fierce, and rebellious, as loss of liberty wore upon
soul and body; for this sudden change from his free, healthy life to
such a narrow, gloomy, and miserable one, could not but have a
terrible effect upon one of Dan’s temperament and age.

He brooded over his ruined life, gave up all his happy hopes and
plans, felt that he could never face dear old Plumfield again, or
touch those friendly hands, with the stain of blood upon his own. He
did not care for the wretched man whom he had killed, for such a life
was better ended, he thought; but the disgrace of prison would never
be wiped out of his memory, though the cropped hair would grow again,
the grey suit easily be replaced, and the bolts and bars left far
behind.

‘It’s all over with me; I’ve spoilt my life, now let it go. I’ll give
up the fight and get what pleasure I can anywhere, anyhow. They shall
think me dead and so still care for me, but never know what I am.
Poor Mother Bhaer! she tried to help me, but it’s no use; the
firebrand can’t be saved.’

And dropping his head in his hands as he sat on his low bed, Dan
would mourn over all he had lost in tearless misery, till merciful
sleep would comfort him with dreams of the happy days when the boys
played together, or those still later and happier ones when all
smiled on him, and Plumfield seemed to have gained a new and curious
charm.

There was one poor fellow in Dan’s shop whose fate was harder than
his, for his sentence expired in the spring, but there was little
hope of his living till that time; and the coldest-hearted man pitied
poor Mason as he sat coughing his life away in that close place and
counting the weary days yet to pass before he could see his wife and
little child again. There was some hope that he might be pardoned
out, but he had no friends to bestir themselves in the matter, and it
was evident that the great Judge’s pardon would soon end his patient
pain for ever.

Dan pitied him more than he dared to show, and this one tender
emotion in that dark time was like the little flower that sprung up
between the stones of the prison yard and saved the captive from
despair, in the beautiful old story. Dan helped Mason with his work
when he was too feeble to finish his task, and the grateful look that
thanked him was a ray of sunshine to cheer his cell when he was
alone. Mason envied the splendid health of his neighbour, and mourned
to see it wasting there. He was a peaceful soul and tried, as far as
a whispered word or warning glance could do it, to deter Dan from
joining the ‘bad lot’, as the rebels were called. But having turned
his face from the light, Dan found the downward way easy, and took a
grim satisfaction in the prospect of a general outbreak during which
he might revenge himself upon the tyrannical warden, and strike a
blow for his own liberty, feeling that an hour of insurrection would
be a welcome vent for the pent-up passions that tormented him. He had
tamed many a wild animal, but his own lawless spirit was too much for
him, till he found the curb that made him master of himself.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving, as he sat in chapel, Dan observed
several guests in the seats reserved for them, and looked anxiously
to see if any familiar face was there; for he had a mortal fear that
someone from home would suddenly confront him. No, all were
strangers, and he soon forgot them in listening to the chaplain’s
cheerful words, and the sad singing of many heavy hearts. People
often spoke to the convicts, so it caused no surprise when, on being
invited to address them, one of the ladies rose and said she would
tell them a little story; which announcement caused the younger
listeners to pack up their ears, and even the older ones to look
interested; for any change in their monotonous life was welcome.

The speaker was a middle-aged woman in black, with a sympathetic
face, eyes full of compassion, and a voice that seemed to warm the
heart, because of certain motherly tones in it. She reminded Dan of
Mrs Jo, and he listened intently to every word, feeling that each was
meant for him, because by chance, they came at the moment when he
needed a softening memory to break up the ice of despair which was
blighting all the good impulses of his nature.

It was a very simple little story, but it caught the men’s attention
at once, being about two soldiers in a hospital during the late war,
both badly wounded in the right arm, and both anxious to save these
breadwinners and go home unmaimed. One was patient, docile, and
cheerfully obeyed orders, even when told that the arm must go. He
submitted and after much suffering recovered, grateful for life,
though he could fight no more. The other rebelled, would listen to no
advice, and having delayed too long, died a lingering death, bitterly
regretting his folly when it was too late. ‘Now, as all stories
should have a little moral, let me tell you mine,’ added the lady,
with a smile, as she looked at the row of young men before her, sadly
wondering what brought them there.

‘This is a hospital for soldiers wounded in life’s battle; here are
sick souls, weak wills, insane passions, blind consciences, all the
ills that come from broken laws, bringing their inevitable pain and
punishment with them, There is hope and help for every one, for God’s
mercy is infinite and man’s charity is great; but penitence and
submission must come before the cure is possible. Pay the forfeit
manfully, for it is just; but from the suffering and shame wring new
strength for a nobler life. The scar will remain, but it is better
for a man to lose both arms than his soul; and these hard years,
instead of being lost, may be made the most precious of your lives,
if they teach you to rule yourselves. O friends, try to outlive the
bitter past, to wash the sin away, and begin anew. If not for your
own sakes, for that of the dear mothers, wives, and children, who
wait and hope so patiently for you. Remember them, and do not let
them love and long in vain. And if there be any here so forlorn that
they have no friend to care for them, never forget the Father whose
arms are always open to receive, forgive, and comfort His prodigal
sons, even at the eleventh hour.’ There the little sermon ended; but
the preacher of it felt that her few hearty words had not been
uttered in vain, for one boy’s head was down, and several faces wore
the softened look which told that a tender memory was touched. Dan
was forced to set his lips to keep them steady, and drop his eyes to
hide the sudden dew that dimmed them when waiting, hoping friends
were spoken of. He was glad to be alone in his cell again, and sat
thinking deeply, instead of trying to forget himself in sleep. It
seemed as if those words were just what he needed to show him where
he stood and how fateful the next few days might be to him. Should he
join the ‘bad lot’, and perhaps add another crime to the one already
committed, lengthen the sentence already so terrible to bear,
deliberately turn his back on all that was good, and mar the future
that might yet be redeemed? Or should he, like the wiser man in the
story, submit, bear the just punishment, try to be better for it; and
though the scar would remain, it might serve as a reminder of a
battle not wholly lost, since he had saved his soul though innocence
was gone? Then he would dare go home, perhaps, confess, and find
fresh strength in the pity and consolation of those who never gave
him up.

Good and evil fought for Dan that night as did the angel and the
devil for Sintram, and it was hard to tell whether lawless nature or
loving heart would conquer. Remorse and resentment, shame and sorrow,
pride and passion, made a battle-field of that narrow cell, and the
poor fellow felt as if he had fiercer enemies to fight now than any
he had met in all his wanderings. A little thing turned the scale, as
it so often does in these mysterious hearts of ours, and a touch of
sympathy helped Dan decide the course which would bless or ban his
life.

In the dark hour before the dawn, as he lay wakeful on his bed, a ray
of light shone through the bars, the bolts turned softly, and a man
came in. It was the good chaplain, led by the same instinct that
brings a mother to her sick child’s pillow; for long experience as
nurse of souls had taught him to see the signs of hope in the hard
faces about him, and to know when the moment came for a helpful word
and the cordial of sincere prayer that brings such comfort and
healing to tried and troubled hearts. He had been to Dan before at
unexpected hours, but always found him sullen, indifferent, or
rebellious, and had gone away to patiently bide his time. Now it had
come; a look of relief was in the prisoner’s face as the light shone
on it, and the sound of a human voice was strangely comfortable after
listening to the whispers of the passions, doubts, and fears which
had haunted the cell for hours, dismaying Dan by their power, and
showing him how much he needed help to fight the good fight, since he
had no armour of his own.

‘Kent, poor Mason has gone. He left a message for you, and I felt
impelled to come and give it now, because I think you were touched by
what we heard today, and in need of the help Mason tried to give
you,’ said the chaplain, taking the one seat and fixing his kind eyes
on the grim figure in the bed.

‘Thank you, sir, I’d like to hear it,’ was all Dan’s answer; but he
forgot himself in pity for the poor fellow dead in prison, with no
last look at wife or child.

He went suddenly, but remembered you, and begged me to say these
words: "Tell him not to do it, but to hold on, do his best, and when
his time is out go right to Mary, and she’ll make him welcome for my
sake. He’s got no friends in these parts and will feel lonesome, but
a woman’s always safe and comfortable when a fellow’s down on his
luck. Give him my love and good-bye for he was kind to me, and God
will bless him for it." Then he died quietly, and tomorrow will go
home with God’s pardon, since man’s came too late.’

Dan said nothing, but laid his arm across his face and lay quite
still. Seeing that the pathetic little message had done its work even
better than he hoped, the chaplain went on, unconscious how soothing
his paternal voice was to the poor prisoner who longed to ‘go home’,
but felt he had forfeited the right.

‘I hope you won’t disappoint this humble friend whose last thought
was for you. I know that there is trouble brewing, and fear that you
may be tempted to lend a hand on the wrong side. Don’t do it, for the
plot will not succeed – it never does – and it would be a pity to spoil
your record which is fair so far. Keep up your courage, my son, and
go out at the year’s end better, not worse, for this hard experience.
Remember a grateful woman waits to welcome and thank you if you have
no friends of your own; if you have, do your best for their sake, and
let us ask God to help you as He only can.’

Then waiting for no answer the good man prayed heartily, and Dan
listened as he never had before; for the lonely hour, the dying
message, the sudden uprising of his better self, made it seem as if
some kind angel had come to save and comfort him. After that night
there was a change in Dan, though no one knew it but the chaplain;
for to all the rest he was the same silent, stern, unsocial fellow as
before, and turning his back on the bad and the good alike, found his
only pleasure in the books his friend brought him. Slowly, as the
steadfast drop wears away the rock, the patient kindness of this man
won Dan’s confidence, and led by him he began to climb out of the
Valley of Humiliation towards the mountains, whence, through the
clouds, one can catch glimpses of the Celestial City whither all true
pilgrims sooner or later turn their wistful eyes and stumbling feet.
There were many back-slidings, many struggles with Giant Despair and
fiery Apollyon, many heavy hours when life did not seem worth living
and Mason’s escape the only hope. But through all, the grasp of a
friendly hand, the sound of a brother’s voice, the unquenchable
desire to atone for the past by a better future, and win the right to
see home again, kept poor Dan to his great task as the old year drew
to its end, and the new waited to turn another leaf in the book whose
hardest lesson he was learning now.

At Christmas he yearned so for Plumfield that he devised a way to
send a word of greeting to cheer their anxious hearts, and comfort
his own. He wrote to Mary Mason, who lived in another State, asking
her to mail the letter he enclosed. In it he merely said he was well
and busy, had given up the farm, and had other plans which he would
tell later; would not be home before autumn probably, nor write
often, but was all right, and sent love and merry Christmas to
everyone.

Then he took up his solitary life again, and tried to pay his forfeit
manfully.