The Prisoners.

What pen can describe the anguish of Arthur, when he found himself the inmate of a watch-house! His arrest had completely sobered him, and his intoxication was succeeded by a deathly and overpowering sickness, which he found it impossible to overcome.

His companion treated the whole affair with the utmost indifference, and when the key was turned upon them had thrown himself heavily upon a bench, and immediately gone off into a drunken slumber. There were a few other prisoners besides themselves, bearing such a villainous, cut-throat appearance that Arthur shuddered as he looked at them.

As his sickness in a measure subsided, he threw himself face downwards upon the hard, unyielding bench, and to escape the jeers of his companions, drew himself close up in a corner near the door, and pretended to be asleep. But alas! no sleep came to those burning eyeballs through those long—long hours, and though racked with a torturing headache and feverish thirst, he knew no way to relieve himself, and dared not move lest he should again encounter the ridicule of the brutes around him.

He thought of himself as he was a few short hours before, wending his way to church at his brother's side, happy in the consciousness of duty well performed, and proud in the love and esteem which he felt were but his due. He contrasted the morning with the night; and saw himself the inmate of a guard-house, herding with men whose very breath seemed crime and profanation, and whose every word was blackened with oaths or curses. He felt that the stain of guilt was on his hitherto pure brow, traced there by the finger of a justly angry God, whose laws he had violated, whose commands he had broken, and whose day he had abused.

He thought of the coming morning, with the public trial, when he would be turned forth with the stamp of a thief or drunkard upon him, and the finger of scorn pointing derisively at him. He thought of his blue-eyed, pure-minded brother, mourning his absence, and weeping over his shame. He remembered his mother—and the hot tears, so long pent up, gushed like raindrops through his trembling fingers, and bathed the hands which held that stricken head.

A sense of weight and oppression came over him—it seemed as if he could not breathe—and gasping, he sprang from his recumbent position. A glow of relief crossed his features as he saw that all the men around him were asleep, and glancing through the barred window he saw the streaks of light in the east, announcing the approach of day. At this moment he heard the key turned in the lock, and thinking that other prisoners were about being admitted, and not caring either to see or be seen by them, he again threw himself full length upon the bench. An instant more and a gush of cool air swept, over him, and a hand fell cautiously on his shoulder.

He raised his head, and met the twinkling eyes of Mr. Clinton fixed upon him.

"Hush!" whispered Clinton, laying his finger on his lips, as he saw Arthur about to speak. "Not a word; pick yourself up as noiselessly as you can, and get out of this hole. You are free."

Arthur glanced towards the door, and saw there the watchman who had arrested them, standing with a dogged expression of countenance in the gray light, and shaking nervously in his hand a gold coin.

He comprehended in a moment, as it were instinctively, that Clinton had procured his release by a bribe; and though he felt to rejoice in his freedom, he shrunk at feeling that he must be under obligations to such a man for it.

He drew his hat over his eyes, and went out softly. As he gained the open air, Quirk joined him, leaning on the arm of Mr. Clinton, and evidently not yet wholly recovered from what he was pleased to denominate a "dem fine spree."

"See what it is to have a friend, mon cher!" exclaimed Clinton, slapping Arthur upon the shoulder. "But for our acquaintance to-day, you might have come up for trial this morning, and been sent down for thirty days. 'Oh! my boy, always consider me one of you.'"

"Had I not so far forgotten myself as to be one of you to-day, I would probably have never seen the inside of such a place as this. Whatever expense you may have encountered in my behalf, this night, Mr. Clinton, consider me accountable for, and ready to refund at any moment."

Arthur spoke proudly, and experienced a sentiment of utter disgust, as he looked upon the two beings who had led him into sin, and been witnesses to his weakness. He felt that, in a measure, his good name lay in their hands, but he could not bend that proud spirit—humbled and chastened though it then was—to treat them in the slightest degree as his equals, or to accept, unrequited, any favor from such a source.

"Don't be huffy, boy," said Clinton, again; "and don't insult me by offering pay for what I've done! It's what I'd expect you to do for me in such a case, and I reckon I'd be a little grateful for it, too."

"Don't parley with him," chimed in Quirk, bending to the spout of a public hydrant at the same moment, and drinking a long draught. "You see, Clint, he's a fresh hand at this kind of life, and don't know the ropes yet. Let him alone."

Arthur deigned not the slightest reply to this, and hastily turning into a side-street, left Mr. Clinton considerably in the rear, to bring up his "dear friend Quirk."

Free from the companionship of beings whom he detested, Arthur removed his hat, and lifted his brow to receive the breath of heaven. The sun was not yet risen, and save the occasional clatter of a market-cart, as it went jostling by, or the sluggish step of some sleepy servant, on his way to procure the breakfast for his fastidious owners, there was no signs of life or business in the streets.

Arthur was glad of this, and he thought of the alley-way between the store and the adjoining building, and the steep stairs which led from the back of this alley to his own room, and as he happened to have the key of this door about him, he hoped to effect an entrance by this way, and, if possible, to conceal from his brother the fact of his having been absent all night.

Elated by this prospect, he struck into a brisk pace toward Charles-street, and, having gained it, hurried rapidly onward in the direction of the store. He was within two blocks of his destination when two figures suddenly turned the corner ahead, and advanced towards him. There was no mistaking the slender form of the one with golden ringlets floating from his brow, and the tall, stalwart figure of the other was instantly recognized by Arthur, though part of the face was concealed by a handkerchief, tied over the mouth, as if the wearer was suffering from tooth-ache.

There was no way of retreat, save to turn short round, and go back, which was something that pride would not permit him to do; so assuming as bold an air as he could, with that heavy heart in his bosom, he walked on and met Guly and Wilkins, face to face.

"Ah! Arthur, good morning," said the latter, indifferently, as if nothing had happened; "I see you are enjoying a stroll, as well as ourselves, this fine morning."

"Mr. Wilkins has been showing me about the city," said Guly, taking his brother's hand, "and giving me such directions about the streets as will enable me to go round alone."

"If your walk is not finished allow me to join you," returned Arthur, slipping his hand through his brother's arm, and turning back with them.

He was evidently surprised at the cool manner in which his absence was treated, and had been very far from expecting such a reception. From Guly, at least, he had thought to hear some exclamations of joy at his return, some questions and many reproofs.

But this was the course which Wilkins had advised to be pursued before they started out, and Guly obeyed him to the letter. It was, undoubtedly, the best mode they could have hit upon—for, to have questioned him, to have rebuked him, would have been to again arouse that fierce pride, and call forth some false excuse for his behavior. As it was, he was left to believe that Wilkins was unaware of what had passed, and that Guly only guessed half the truth, or, if he did, was kind enough to conceal his thoughts. This roused a glow of generous feeling, and he felt that he could only be happy in confessing all to his brother.

The three walked on, chatting carelessly about indifferent matters, until Wilkins declared it to be breakfast time; when they turned back toward their restaurant.

As usual, the head clerk ordered his bottle of claret, and, as it was brought on, he offered it to Arthur. An expression of ineffable disgust crossed the youth's face as he refused it, which Wilkins remarked with a quiet, half-concealed smile.

It was with a racking headache and a fevered frame, that Arthur took his place in the store that morning. He could not plead illness as a pretext for absence, for there was one who he knew would be there that knew his secret all too well, and he could not trust him with it. As there were but few customers in that morning, however, he drew a stool behind the counter, and seated himself; an act which placed at defiance one of the strictest rules of the establishment.

He had scarcely done so when Mr. Delancey entered the door, and passed up between the lines of clerks, with his cold eyes, as usual, turning rapidly hither and thither, never looking for the right, but always for the wrong.

As his glance fell upon Arthur he stopped short, and, in a tone loud enough to be heard all over the store, exclaimed:—

"Haven't you been here long enough, young man, to know better than to sit down during business hours?"

Arthur rose and put away his stool with a flushed cheek, stammering out something about not feeling quite well that morning.

"It's very evident," returned the merchant, running his practised eye over the wan lines of Arthur's face, "that you've been having a Sunday night spree, in order, I s'pose, to have a Monday morning benefit. But it won't do here; stick to your post, and if I catch you in that lounging position again, you lose your place."

Without another word the merchant walked to the big desk, holding the head of his walking stick against his lips as he went.

Arthur raised his eyes, and although he had striven all the morning to avoid it, he caught the gaze of Charley Quirk fixed upon him, and received a quick, sly wink from his left eye.

That wink affected him like a blast of winter wind, and he felt chilled all over. The thought rushed upon him, too, that Charley had been keeping up an artillery of winks like that, to the other clerks, while Mr. Delancey was speaking, and he was assured that his case was understood throughout the house.

Wilkins, who had been regarding him steadily from behind the open door, stepped down from his place, and, sauntering towards the proprietor, addressed a few words to him in an under tone.

The merchant nodded in reply, impatiently, and waved his hand.

The head clerk came back again, and laying his hand on Arthur's shoulder, said, quietly:—

"I overheard you, I think, saying to Mr. Delancey you were not quite well. You are unacclimated, remember, and must take care of yourself. Go up stairs, and see if lying down awhile will not restore you."

Although Arthur felt certain now, that Wilkins knew all, he felt inexpressibly grateful for his apparent ignorance of it, and his kindness towards him, and showed as much in his manner.

"You hesitate—would you rather not go?"

"To tell the truth, Wilkins, I dislike to pass Mr. Delancey on my way to bed. He will see, too, that my place is vacant, and perhaps discharge me."

"No! You have his permission to go; your place will be taken care of by the next clerk."

"You are very kind."

"No—not a bit of it."

With a smile upon his pale lips, Arthur stepped out of the front-door, and turned into the narrow alley, which lay between the store and the adjoining building, and which was arched overhead, damp under foot, and hung with dirt and cobwebs. He reached a small door at the further end, which led to the right into a narrow paved court, where was a hydrant, which the clerks used for washing and drink.

He stopped here for a moment, to bathe his burning brow and quench his parching thirst. As he bent down to place his lips to the faucet, a dark figure sprang out from beneath the staircase behind, and darted through the alley door, and out of sight.

Startled and surprised, Arthur ran down the alley swiftly, in pursuit, and gaining the street, looked anxiously up and down, in a vain hope of seeing some one who would satisfy his curiosity as to who or what it was; for it had passed him so fleetly and lightly, that he could almost believe it had been a shadow. He could see nothing, however; but catching a glimpse of Mr. Clinton, leisurely sauntering down the other side of the street, smoking a cigar, he hurried back, lest he should be seen by him, and locked the alley door behind him, saying, as he did so—"It was a careless trick in whoever left that open; I'll see to it myself in future;" and then walked back to inspect the hiding-place of the shadow, or whatever it was.

It was the niche formed by the steep flight of stairs; and, as there was a number of old barrels there, and other rubbish, it afforded a fine place for concealment, especially on a dark night. As it was directly in front of the hydrant, and Arthur's back had in the first place been toward it, whoever was there had evidently feared detection, when he should turn round, and so fled.

Into this court the long windows of the back part of the store opened, and it was this way that Minny had found egress on the night of her visit to Wilkins; and it was this way that Jeff, whose invariable honesty rendered him a privileged character about the place, always found egress on Sundays, and other hours when the store was closed.

Musing upon the circumstances which had just occurred, Arthur took the way to his room, and flung himself upon his bed.

It was easy to see what had been Guly's occupation during the previous day of loneliness. There lay the Bible open, on the little rough stand; there was the strip of carpet rumpled before the chair, where he had been kneeling—and there was the folded letter, sealed and directed to his mother.

Arthur turned upon his pillow with a moan. How differently had his Sabbath been spent, and how different, in consequence, were his Monday morning reflections! But his sorrow was not a repentant sorrow. It had been in the morning, when he first met Guly and Wilkins, but he was changed now. Had he not been rebuked harshly by his employer, in the presence of all the clerks? Had he not been openly accused of the error he had committed, read through and through by those cold, staring eyes? Had not the attention of all the clerks been turned towards him, and his secret been laid bare to them by the merchant's reproof, and quick, malicious glances?

There was no longer any need of further concealment, with the resolution of future improvement—it was all known—and to draw back henceforth, would be but to be reminded that he had already fallen once, and could never retake the step he had made. Such was the view Arthur took of the case, however false a light his pride may have cast upon it; and he buried his face, with the glow of shame upon it, deep in the pillow, while, with bitter resentment, his young heart traced it all back to the primal cause—the contemptuous repulse he had met with at Delancey's pew door.

It is not a question for reflection, where the punishment for Arthur's first real sin should rest? Was it for that young heart, till now free from all taint or corruption, save the corruption of pride, to suffer alone? or was it for the older and stronger spirit—the spirit stronger still in pride, and so much older in firmness, and power, and discipline, to bear its share?