And so he walked up and down; vainly the fresh wind fanned his fevered brow; vainly the sparkling stars glanced down from holy heights upon him; he found no coolness for his fever in the air, no sedative for his anxiety in the stillness, no comfort for his soul in the heavens; he knew not whether he were indoors or out, whether it were night or day, summer or winter, he knew not, wrapped as he was in the mantle of his own sad thoughts, suffering as he was in the purgatory of his inner life.
While Paul walked up and down, like a maniac, Miriam returned to her room to pace the floor until nearly morning, when she threw herself, exhausted, upon the bed, fell into a heavy sleep, and a third time, doubtless from nervous excitement or prostration, suffered a repetition of her singular vision, and awoke late in the morning, with the words, "perform thy vow," ringing in her ears.
Several days passed in the gloomy mansion misnamed Dell-Delight. Miriam and Paul avoided each other like death. Both dreaded like death any illusion to the awful subject that lay so heavy upon the heart of each. Paul, unacquainted with her thoughts, and relying upon her promise to do nothing with the letters without further evidence, contented himself with watching her motions, feeling comparatively at ease as long as she should remain in the house; and being resolved to prevent her from going forth, or to accompany her if she persisted in leaving home.
With Miriam, the shock, the anguish, the struggle had well-nigh passed; she was at once subdued and resolved, like one into whom some spirit had entered and bound her own spirit, and acted through her. So strange did all appear to her, so strange the impassiveness of her own will, of her habits and affections, that should have rebelled and warred against her purpose that she sometimes thought herself not herself, or insane, or the subject of a monomania, or some strange hallucination, a dreamer, a somnambulist, perhaps. And yet with matchless tact and discretion, she went about her deadly work. She had prepared her plan of action, and now waited only for a day very near at hand, the fourth of April, the anniversary of Marian's assassination, to put Thurston to a final test before proceeding further.
The day came at last—it was cold and wintry for the season. Toward evening the sky became overcast with leaden clouds, and the chill dampness penetrated into all the rooms of the old mansion. Poor Fanny was muttering and moaning to herself and her "spirits" over the wood fire in her distant room.
Mr. Willcoxen had not appeared since breakfast time. Miriam remained in her own chamber; and Paul wandered restlessly from place to place through all the rooms of the house, or threw himself wearily into his chair before the parlor fire. Inclement as the weather was, he would have gone forth, but that he too remembered the anniversary, and a nameless anxiety connected with Miriam confined him to the house.
In the kitchen, the colored folk gathered around the fire, grumbling at the unseasonable coldness of the weather, and predicting a hail-storm, and telling each other that they never "'sperienced" such weather this time o' year, 'cept 'twas that spring Old Marse died—when no wonder, "'siderin' how he lived long o' Sam all his life."
Only old Jenny went in and out from house to kitchen, Old Jenny had enough to do to carry wood to the various fires. She had never "seed it so cold for de season nyther, 'cept 'twas de spring Miss Marian went to hebben, and not a bit o' wonder de yeth was cole arter she war gone—de dear, lovin' heart warm angel; 'deed I wondered how it ever come summer again, an' thought it was right down onsensible in her morning-glories to bloom out jest de same as ever, arter she was gone! An' what minds me to speak o' Miss Marian now, it war jes' seven years this night, since she 'parted dis life," said Jenny, as she stood leaning her head upon the mantel-piece, and toasting her toes at the kitchen fire, previous to carrying another armful of wood into the parlor.
Night and the storm descended together—such a tempest! such a wild outbreaking of the elements! rain and hail, and snow and wind, all warring upon the earth together! The old house shook, the doors and windows rattled, the timbers cracked, the shingles were torn off and whirled aloft, the trees were swayed and snapped; and as the storm increased in violence and roused to fury, the forest beat before its might, and the waves rose and overflowed the low land.
Still old Jenny went in and out of the house to kitchen and kitchen to house, carrying wood, water, meat, bread, sauce, sweetmeats, arranging the table for supper, replenishing the fire, lighting the candles, letting down the curtains—and trying to make everything cozy and comfortable for the reassembling of the fireside circle. Poor old Jenny had passed so much of her life in the family with "the white folks," that all her sympathies went with them—and on the state of their spiritual atmosphere depended all her cheerfulness and comfort; and now the cool, distant, sorrowful condition of the members of the little family circle—"ebery single mudder's son and darter ob 'em, superamblated off to derself like pris'ners in a jailhouse"—as she said—depressed her spirits very much. Jenny's reaction from depression was always quite querulous. And toward the height of the storm, there was a reaction and she grew very quarrelsome.
"Sam's waystin'[A] roun' in dere," said Jenny, as she thrust her feet into the kitchen fire, before carrying in the urn; "Sam's waystin', I tells you all good! all werry quiet dough—no noise, no fallin' out, no 'sputin' nor nothin'—all quiet as de yeth jest afore a debbil ob a storm—nobody in de parlor 'cept 'tis Marse Paul, settin' right afore de parlor fire, wid one long leg poked east and toder west, wid the boots on de andirons like a spread-eagle! lookin' as glum as if I owed him a year's sarvice, an' nebber so much as a-sayin', 'Jenny, you poor old debbil, ain't you a-cold?' an' me coming in ebery minnit wid the icicles a-jinglin' 'roun' my linsey-woolsey skurts, like de diamonds on de Wirgin Mary's Sunday gown. But Sam's waystin' now, I tells you all good. Lors Gemini, what a storm!
[Footnote A: Waysting—Going up and down.]
"I 'members of no sich since dat same storm as de debbil come in to fetch ole marse's soul—dis berry night seven year past, an' he carried of him off all in a suddint whiff! jist like a puff of win'. An' no wonder, seein' how he done traded his soul to him for money!
"An' Sam's here ag'in to-night! dunno who he's come arter! but he's here, now, I tells you all good!" said Jenny, as she took up the urn to carry it into the parlor.
When she got there she could scarcely get to the fire; Paul took up the front. His immobility and unconsciousness irritated Jenny beyond silent endurance.
"I tell you all what," she said, "I means to 'sign my sitewation! 'deed me! I can't kill myself for dem as wouldn't even care 'nough for me to have a mass said for de 'pose o' my soul."
"What do you mean?" asked Paul, angrily, for confinement, solitude, bad weather, and anxiety, had combined, to make him querulous, too.
"I means how ef yer doesn't have a kivered way made from de house to de kitchen an' back ag'in, I gwine give up waitin' on de table, now min' I tell yer, 'deed me! an' now ef you likes, yer may jes' go an' tell Marse Rooster."
"'Marse Rooster!' Will you ever give up that horrid nonsense. Why, you old—! Is my brother—is your master a barn-door chicken-cock, that you call him 'Rooster?'" asked the young man, snappishly.
"Well, Shrooster, den, ef you wants me to wring my tongue in two. Ef people's sponsors in baptism will gib der chillun such heathen names, how de debbil any Christian 'oman gwine to twis' her tongue roun' it? I thanks my 'Vine Marster dat my sponsors in baptism named me arter de bressed an' holy S'int Jane—who has 'stained an' s'ported me all my days; an' 'ill detect now, dough you do try to break my poor ole heart long wid onkindness at my ole ages o' life! But what's de use o' talkin'—Sam's waystin'!" And so saying, Jenny gave the finishing touches to the arrangement of the table, and then seized the bell, and rang it with rather needless vigor and violence, to bring the scattered members of the family together.
They came, slowly and singly, and drew around the table more like ghosts than living persons, a few remarks upon the storm, and then they sunk into silence—and as soon as the gloomy meal was over, one by one they dropped away from the room—first went poor Fanny, then Mr. Willcoxen, then Miriam.
"Where are you going, Miriam?" asked Paul, as the latter was leaving the room.
"To my chamber."
And before he could farther question, or longer detain her, she pressed his hand and went out. And Paul, with a deep sigh and a strangely foreboding heart, sank back into his seat.
When Miriam reached her bedroom, she carefully closed and locked the door, went to her bureau, opened the top-drawer, and took from it a small oblong mahogany glove-box. She unlocked the latter, and took out a small parcel, which she unwrapped and laid before her upon the bureau.
It was the xyphias poniard.
The weapon had come into her possession some time before in the following manner: During the first winter of Paul Douglass' absence from home, Mr. Willcoxen had emancipated several of his slaves and provided means for their emigration to Liberia. They were to sail early in March. Among the number was Melchisedek. A few days previous to their departure, this man had come to the house, and sought the presence of his youthful mistress, when he knew her to be alone in the parlor, and with a good deal of mystery and hesitation had laid before her a dagger which he said he should rather have given to "Marster Paul," if the latter had been at home. He had picked it up near the water's edge on the sands the night of Miss Mayfield's death, which "Marster" had taken so to heart, that he was afraid to harrow up his feelings by bringing it to him a second time—but that as it was an article of value, he did not like to take it away with him. And he begged Miss Miriam to take charge of it. And Miriam had taken it, and with surprise, but without the slightest suspicion, had read the name of "Thurston Willcoxen" carved upon its handle. To all her questions, Melchisedek had given evasive answers, or remained obstinately silent, being determined not to betray his master's confidence by revealing his share in the events of that fatal night. Miriam had taken the little instrument, wrapped it carefully in paper, and locked it in her old-fashioned long glove-box. And from that day to this she had not opened it.
Now, however, she had taken it out with a fixed purpose, and she stood and gazed upon it. Presently she took it up, rolled it in the paper, took her lamp, and slowly left her room, and passed along the passages leading to Mr. Willcoxen's library.
The storm howled and raved as she went, and the strong blast, driving through the dilapidated window-sashes, nearly extinguished her light before she reached the study door.
She blew out the light and set down the lamp, and rapped at the door.
Again and again she rapped, without awakening any response from within.
Then she turned the latch, opened the door, and entered. No wonder she had received no answer.
The abstracted man before her seemed dead to every sight and sound around him. He sat before the table in the middle of the room, his elbow on the mahogany; his face bowed upon his hand, his haggard countenance revealing a still, speechless despair as awful as it was profound.
Miriam approached and stood by him, her breath went by his cheek, so near she stood, and yet her presence was unheeded. She stooped to see the object upon which he gazed—the object that now shut out all the world from his sight—it was a long bright tress of golden auburn hair.
"Mr. Willcoxen!"
He did not hear her—how should he hear her low tones, when he heard not the cannonading of the storm that shook the house to its foundations?
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she said once more.
But he moved not a muscle.
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she repeated, laying her hand upon his arm.
He looked up. The expression of haggard despair softened out of his countenance.
"Is it you, my dear?" he said. "What has brought you here, Miriam? Were you afraid of the storm? There is no danger, dear child—it has nearly expended its force, and will soon be over—but sit down."
"Oh, no! it is not the storm that has brought me here, though I scarcely remember a storm so violent at this season of the year, except one—this night seven years ago—the night that Marian Mayfield was murdered!"
He started—it is true that he had been thinking of the same dread tragedy—but to hear it suddenly mentioned pierced him like an unexpected sword thrust.
Miriam proceeded, speaking in a strange, level monotone, as if unwilling or afraid to trust her voice far:
"I came this evening to restore a small but costly article of virtu, belonging to you, and left in my care some time ago by the boy Melchisedek. It is an antique dagger—somewhat rusty and spotted. Here it is."
And she laid the poniard down upon the tress of hair before him.
He sprang up as if it had been a viper—his whole frame shook, and the perspiration started from his livid forehead.
Miriam, keeping her eye upon him, took the dagger up.
"It is very rusty, and very much streaked," she said. "I wonder what these dark streaks can be? They run along the edge, from the extreme point of the blade, upwards toward the handle; they look to me like the stains of blood—as if a murderer had stabbed his victim with it, and in his haste to escape had forgotten to wipe the blade, but had left the blood upon it, to curdle and corrode the steel. See! don't it look so to you?" she said, approaching him, and holding the weapon up to his view.
"Girl! girl! what do you mean?" he exclaimed, throwing his hand across his eyes, and hurrying across the room.
Miriam flung down the weapon with a force that made its metal ring upon the floor, and hastening after him, she stood before him; her dark eyes fixed upon his, streaming with insufferable and consuming fire, that seemed to burn through into his brain. She said:
"I have heard of fiends in the human shape, nay, I have heard of Satan in the guise of an angel of light! Are you such that stand before me now?"
"Miriam, what do you mean?" he asked, in sorrowful astonishment.
"This is what I mean! That the mystery of Marian Mayfield's fate, the secret of your long remorse, is no longer hidden! I charge you with the murder of Marian Mayfield!"
"Miriam, you are mad!"
"Oh! well for me, and better still for you, if I were mad!"
He was tremendously shaken, more by the vivid memories she recalled than by the astounding charge she made.
"In the name of Heaven, what leads you to imagine such impossible guilt!"
"Good knowledge of the facts—that this month, eight years ago, in the little Methodist chapel of the navy yard, in Washington City, you made Marian Mayfield your wife—that this night seven years since, in just such a storm as this, on the beach below Pine Bluff, you met and murdered Marian Willcoxen! And, moreover, I as sure you, that these facts which I tell you now, to-morrow I will lay before a magistrate, together with all the corroborating proof in my possession!"
"And what proof can you have?"
"A gentleman who, unknown and unsuspected, witnessed the private ceremony between yourself and Marian; a packet of French letters, written by yourself from Glasgow, to Marian, in St. Mary's, in the spring of 1823; a note found in the pocket of her dress, appointing the fatal meeting on the beach where she perished. Two physicians, who can testify to your unaccountable absence from the deathbed of your parent on the night of the murder, and also to the distraction of your manner when you returned late the next morning."
"And this," said Thurston, gazing in mournful amazement upon her; "this is the child that I have nourished and brought up in my house! She can believe me guilty of such atrocious crime—she can aim at my honor and my life such a deadly blow?"
"Alas! alas! it is my duty! it is my fate! I cannot escape it! I have bound my soul by a fearful oath! I cannot evade it! I shall not survive it! Oh, all the heaven is black with doom, and all the earth tainted with blood!" cried Miriam, wildly.
"You are insane, poor girl! you are insane!" said Thurston, pityingly.
"Would Heaven I were! would Heaven I were! but I am not! I am not! Too well I remember I have bound my soul by an oath to seek out Marian's destroyer, and deliver him up to death! And I must do it! I must do it! though my heart break—as it will break in the act!"
"And you believe me to be guilty of this awful crime!"
"There stands the fearful evidence! Would Heaven it did not exist! oh! would Heaven it did not!"
"Listen to me, dear Miriam," he said, calmly, for he had now recovered his self-possession. "Listen to me—I am perfectly guiltless of the crime you impute to me. How is it possible that I could be otherwise than guiltless. Hear me explain the circumstances that have come to your knowledge," and he attempted to take her hand to lead her to a seat. But with a slight scream, she snatched her hand away, saying wildly:
"Touch me not! Your touch thrills me to sickness! to faintness! curdles—turns back the current of blood in my veins!"
"You think this hand a blood-stained one?"
"The evidence! the evidence!"
"I can explain that evidence. Miriam, my child, sit down—at any distance from me you please—only let it be near enough for you to hear. Did I believe you quite sane, Miriam, grief and anger might possibly seal my lips upon this subject—but believing you partially deranged—from illness and other causes—I will defend myself to you. Sit down and hear me."
Miriam dropped into the nearest chair.
Mr. Willcoxen took another, and commenced:
"You have received some truth, Miriam. How it has been presented to you, I will not ask now. I may presently. I was married, as you have somehow ascertained, to Marian Mayfield, just before going to Europe. I corresponded with her from Glasgow. I did appoint a meeting with her on the beach, upon the fatal evening in question—for what purpose that meeting was appointed, it is bootless to tell you, since the meeting never took place—for some hours before I should have set out to keep my appointment, my grandfather was stricken with apoplexy. I did not wish to leave his bedside until the arrival of the doctor. But when the evening wore on, and the storm approached, I grew uneasy upon Marian's account, and sent Melchisedek in the gig to fetch her from the beach to this house—never to leave it. Miriam, the boy reached the sands only to find her dying. Terrified half out of his senses, he hurried back and told me this story. I forgot my dying relative—forgot everything, but that my wife lay wounded and exposed on the beach. I sprung upon horseback, and galloped with all possible haste to the spot. By the time I had got there the storm had reached its height, and the beach was completely covered with the boiling waves. My Marian had been carried away. I spent the wretched night in wandering up and down the bluff above the beach, and calling on her name. In the morning I returned home to find my grandfather dead, and the family and physicians wondering at my strange absence at such a time. That, Miriam, is the story."
Miriam made no comment whatever. Mr. Willcoxen seemed surprised and grieved at her silence.
"What have you now to say, Miriam?"
"Nothing."
"'Nothing?' What do you think of my explanation?"
"I think nothing. My mind is in an agony of doubt and conjecture. I must be governed by stern facts—not by my own prepossessions. I must act upon the evidences in my possession—not upon your explanation of them," said Miriam, distractedly, as she arose to leave the room.
"And you will denounce me, Miriam?"
"It is my insupportable duty! it is my fate! my doom! for it will kill me!"
"Yet you will do it!"
"I will."
"Yet turn, dear Miriam! Look on me once more! take my hand! since you act from necessity, do nothing from anger—turn and take my hand."
She turned and stood—such a picture of tearless agony! She met his gentle, compassionate glance—it melted—it subdued her.
"Oh, would Heaven that I might die, rather than do this thing! Would Heaven I might die! for my heart turns to you; it turns, and I love you so—oh! I love you so! never, never so much as now! my brother! my brother!" and she sunk down and seized his hands and wept over them.
"What, Miriam! do you love me, believing me to be guilty?"
"To have been guilty—not to be guilty—you have suffered remorse—you have repented, these many long and wretched years. Oh! surely repentance washes out guilt!"
"And you can now caress and weep over my hands, believing them to have been crimsoned with the life-stream of your first and best friend?"
"Yes! yes! yes! yes! Oh! would these tears, my very heart sobs forth, might wash them pure again! Yes! yes! whether you be guilty or not, my brother! the more I listen to my heart, the more I love you, and I cannot help it!"
"It is because your heart is so much wiser than your head, dear Miriam!
Your heart divines the guiltlessness that your reason refuses to credit!
Do what you feel that you must, dear Miriam—but, in the meantime, let
us still be brother and sister—embrace me once more."
With anguish bordering on insanity, she threw herself into his arms for a moment—was pressed to his heart, and then breaking away, she escaped from the room to her own chamber. And there, with her half-crazed brain and breaking heart—like one acting or forced to act in a ghastly dream, she began to arrange her evidence—collect the letters, the list of witnesses and all, preparatory to setting forth upon her fatal mission in the morning.
With the earliest dawn of morning, Miriam left her room. In passing the door of Mr. Willcoxen's chamber, she suddenly stopped—a spasm seized her heart, and convulsed her features—she clasped her hands to pray, then, as if there were wild mockery in the thought, flung them fiercely apart, and hurried on her way. She felt that she was leaving the house never to return; she thought that she should depart without encountering any of its inmates. She was surprised, therefore, to meet Paul in the front passage. He came up and intercepted her:
"Where are you going so early, Miriam?"
"To Colonel Thornton's."
"What? Before breakfast?"
"Yes."
He took both of her hands, and looked into her face—her pallid face—with all the color concentrated in a dark crimson spot upon either cheek—with all the life burning deep down in the contracted pupils of the eyes.
"Miriam, you are not well—come, go into the parlor," he said, and attempted to draw her toward the door.
"No, Paul, no! I must go out," she said, resisting his efforts.
"But why?"
"What is it to you? Let me go."
"It is everything to me, Miriam, because I suspect your errand. Come into the parlor. This madness must not go on."
"Well, perhaps I am mad, and my words and acts may go for nothing. I hope it may be so."
"Miriam, I must talk with you—not here—for we are liable to be interrupted every instant. Come into the parlor, at least for a few moments."
She no longer resisted that slight plea, but suffered him to lead her in. He gave her a seat, and took one beside her, and took her hand in his, and began to urge her to give up her fatal purpose. He appealed to her, through reason, through religion, through all the strongest passions and affections of her soul—through her devotion to her guardian—through the gratitude she owed him—through their mutual love, that must be sacrificed, if her insane purpose should be carried out. To all this she answered:
"I think of nothing concerning myself, Paul—I think only of him; there is the anguish."
"You are insane, Miriam; yet, crazy as you are, you may do a great deal of harm—much to Thurston, but much more to yourself. It is not probable that the evidence you think you have will be considered by any magistrate of sufficient importance to be acted upon against a man of Mr. Willcoxen's life and character."
"Heaven grant that such may be the case."
"Attend! collect your thoughts—the evidence you produce will probably be considered unimportant and quite unworthy of attention; but what will be thought of you who volunteer to offer it?"
"I had not reflected upon that—and now you mention it, I do not care."
"And if, on the other hand, the testimony which you have to offer be considered ground for indictment, and Thurston is brought to trial, and acquitted, as he surely would be—"
"Ay! Heaven send it!"
"And the whole affair blown all over the country—how would you appear?"
"I know not, and care not, so he is cleared; Heaven grant I may be the only sufferer! I am willing to take the infamy."
"You would be held up before the world as an ingrate, a domestic traitress, and unnatural monster. You would be hated of all—your name and history become a tradition of almost impossible wickedness."
"Ha! why, do you think that in such an hour as this I care for myself? No, no! no, no! Heaven grant that it may be as you say—that my brother be acquitted, and I only may suffer! I am willing to suffer shame and death for him whom I denounce! Let me go, Paul; I have lost too much time here."
"Will nothing induce you to abandon this wicked purpose?"
"Nothing on earth, Paul!"
"Nothing?"
"No! so help me Heaven! Give way—let me go, Paul."
"You must not go, Miriam."
"I must and will—and that directly. Stand aside."
"Then you shall not go."
"Shall not?"
"I said 'shall not.'"
"Who will prevent me?"
"I will! You are a maniac, Miriam, and must be restrained from going abroad, and setting the county in a conflagration."
"You will have to guard me very close for the whole of my life, then."
At that moment the door was quietly opened, and Mr. Willcoxen entered.
Miriam's countenance changed fearfully, but she wrung her hand from the clasp of Paul's, and hastened toward the door.
Paul sprang forward and intercepted her.
"What does this mean?" asked Mr. Willcoxen, stepping up to them.
"It means that she is mad, and will do herself or somebody else much mischief," cried Paul, sharply.
"For shame, Paul! Release her instantly," said Thurston, authoritatively.
"Would you release a lunatic, bent upon setting the house on fire?" expostulated the young man, still holding her.
"She is no lunatic; let her go instantly, sir."
Paul, with a groan, complied.
Miriam hastened onward, cast one look of anguish back to Thurston's face, rushed back, and threw herself upon her knees at his feet, clasped his hands, and cried:
"I do not ask you to pardon me—I dare not! But God deliver you! if it brand me and my accusation with infamy! and God forever bless you!" Then rising, she fled from the room.
The brothers looked at each other.
"Thurston, do you know where she has gone? what she intends to do?"
"Yes."
"You do?"
"Assuredly."
"And you would not prevent her?"
"Most certainly not."
Paul was gazing into his brother's eyes, and, as he gazed, every vestige of doubt and suspicion vanished from his mind; it was like the sudden clearing up of the sky, and shining forth of the sun; he grasped his brother's hands with cordial joy.
"God bless you, Thurston! I echo her prayer. God forever bless you! But,
Thurston, would it not have been wiser to prevent her going out?"
"How? Would you have used force with Miriam—restrained her personal liberty?"
"Yes! I would have done so!"
"That would have been not only wrong, but useless; for if her strong affections for us were powerless to restrain her, be sure that physical means would fail; she would make herself heard in some way, and thus make our cause much worse. Besides, I should loathe, for myself, to resort to any such expedients."
"But she may do so much harm. And you?"
"I am prepared to meet what comes!"
"Strange infatuation! that she should believe you to be—I will not wrong you by finishing the sentence."
"She does not at heart believe me guilty—her mind is in a storm. She is bound by her oath to act upon the evidence rather than upon her own feelings, and that evidence is much stronger against me, Paul, than you have any idea of. Come into my study, and I will tell you the whole story."
And Paul followed him thither.
Some hours later in that day Colonel Thornton was sitting, in his capacity of police magistrate, in his office at C——. The room was occupied by about a dozen persons, men and women, black and white. He had just got through with one or two petty cases of debt or theft, and had up before him a poor, half-starved "White Herring," charged with sheep-stealing, when the door opened and a young girl, closely veiled, entered and took a seat in the farthest corner from the crowd. The case of the poor man was soon disposed of—the evidence was not positive—the compassionate magistrate leaned to the side of mercy, and the man was discharged, and went home most probably to dine upon mutton. This being the last case, the magistrate arose and ordered the room to be cleared of all who had no further business with him.
When the loungers had left the police office the young girl came forward, stood before the magistrate, and raised her veil, revealing the features of Miriam.
"Good-morning, Miss Shields," said Colonel Thornton; and neither the countenance nor manner of this suave and stately gentleman of the old school revealed the astonishment he really felt on seeing the young lady in such a place. He arose and courteously placed her a chair, reseated himself, and turned toward her and respectfully awaited her communication.
"Colonel Thornton, you remember Miss Mayfield, and the manner of her death, that made some stir here about seven years ago?"
The face of the old gentleman suddenly grew darkened and slightly convulsed, as the face of the sea when clouds and wind pass over it.
"Yes, young lady, I remember."
"I have come to denounce her murderer."
Colonel Thornton took up his pen, and drew toward him a blank form of a writ, and sat looking toward her; and waiting for her further words.
Her bosom heaved, her face worked, her voice was choked and unnatural, as she said:
"You will please to issue a warrant for the arrest of Thurston
Willcoxen."
Colonel Thornton laid down his pen, arose from his seat, and took her hand and gazed upon her with an expression of blended surprise and compassion.
"My dear young lady, you are not very well. May I inquire—are your friends in town, or are you here alone?"
"I am here alone. Nay, I am not mad, Colonel Thornton, although your looks betray that you think me so."
"No, no, not mad, only indisposed," said the colonel, in no degree modifying his opinion.
"Colonel Thornton, if there is anything strange and eccentric in my looks and manner, you must set it down to the strangeness of the position in which I am placed."
"My dear young lady, Miss Thornton is at the hotel to-day. Will you permit me to take you to her?"
"You will do as you please, Colonel Thornton, after you shall have heard my testimony and examined the proofs I have to lay before you. Then I shall permit you to judge of my soundness of mind as you will, premising, however, that my sanity or insanity can have no possible effect upon the proofs that I submit," she said, laying a packet upon the table between them.
Something in her manner now compelled the magistrate to give her words an attention for which he blamed himself, as for a gross wrong, toward his favorite clergyman.
"Do I understand you to charge Mr. Willcoxen with the death of Miss
Mayfield?"
"Yes," said Miriam, bowing her head.
"What cause, young lady, can you possibly have for making such a monstrous and astounding accusation?"
"I came here for the purpose of telling you, if you will permit me. Nor do I, since you doubt my reason, ask you to believe my statement, unsupported by proof."
"Go on, young lady; I am all attention."
"Will you administer the usual oath?"
"No, Miss Shields; I will hear your story first in the capacity of friend."
"And you think that the only capacity in which you will be called upon to act? Well, may Heaven grant it," said Miriam, and she began and told him all the facts that had recently come to her knowledge, ending by placing the packet of letters in his hands.
While she spoke, Colonel Thornton's pen was busy making minutes of her statements; when she had concluded, he laid down the pen, and turning to her, asked:
"You believe, then, that Mr. Willcoxen committed this murder?"
"I know not—I act only upon the evidence."
"Circumstantial evidence, often as delusive as it is fatal! Do you think it possible that Mr. Willcoxen could have meditated such a crime?"
"No, no, no, no! never meditated it! If he committed it, it was unpremeditated, unintentional; the accident of some lover's quarrel, some frenzy of passion, jealousy—I know not what!"
"Let me ask you, then, why you volunteer to prosecute?"
"Because I must do so. But tell me, do you think what I have advanced trivial and unimportant?" asked Miriam, in a hopeful tone, for little she thought of herself, if only her obligation were discharged, and her brother still unharmed.
"On the contrary, I think it so important as to constrain my instant attention, and oblige me to issue a warrant for the apprehension of Mr. Thurston Willcoxen," said Colonel Thornton, as he wrote rapidly, filling out several blank documents. Then he rang a bell, that was answered by the entrance of several police officers. To the first he gave a warrant, saying:
"You will serve this immediately upon Mr. Willcoxen." And to another he gave some half dozen subpoenas, saying: "You will serve all these between this time and twelve to-morrow."
When these functionaries were all discharged, Miriam arose and went to the magistrate.
"What do you think of the testimony?"
"It is more than sufficient to commit Mr. Willcoxen for trial; it may cost him his life."
A sudden paleness passed over her face; she turned to leave the office, but the hand of death seemed to clutch her heart, arresting its pulsations, stopping the current of her blood, smothering her breath, and she fell to the floor.
* * * * *
Wearily passed the day at Dell-Delight. Thurston, as usual, sitting reading or writing at his library table; Paul rambling uneasily about the house, now taking up a book and attempting to read, now throwing it down in disgust; sometimes almost irresistibly impelled to spring upon his horse and gallop to Charlotte Hall, then restraining his strong impulse lest something important should transpire at home during his absence. So passed the day until the middle of the afternoon.
Paul was walking up and down the long piazza, indifferent for the first time in his life to the loveliness of the soft April atmosphere, that seemed to blend, raise and idealize the features of the landscape until earth, water and sky were harmonized into celestial beauty. Paul was growing very anxious for the reappearance of Miriam, or for some news of her or her errand, yet dreading every moment an arrival of another sort. "Where could the distracted girl be? Would her report be received and acted upon by the magistrate? If so, what would be done? How would it all end? Would Thurston sleep in his own house or in a prison that night? When would Miriam return? Would she ever return, after having assumed such a task as she had taken upon herself?"
These and other questions presented themselves every moment, as he walked up and down the piazza, keeping an eye upon the distant road.
Presently a cloud of dust in the distance arrested both his attention and his promenade, and brought his anxiety to a crisis. He soon perceived a single horseman galloping rapidly down the road, and never removed his eyes until the horseman turned into the gate and galloped swiftly up to the house.
Then with joy Paul recognized the rider, and ran eagerly down the stairs to give him welcome, and reached the paved walk just as Cloudy drew rein and threw himself from the saddle.
The meeting was a cordial, joyous one—with Cloudy it was sincere, unmixed joy; with Paul it was only a pleasant surprise and a transient forgetfulness. Rapid questions were asked and answered, as they hurried into the house.
Cloudy's ship had been ordered home sooner than had been expected; he had reached Norfolk a week before, B—— that afternoon, and had immediately procured a horse and hurried on home. Hence his unlooked-for arrival.
"How is Thurston? How is Miriam? How are they all at Luckenough?"
"All are well; the family at Luckenough are absent in the South, but are expected home every week."
"And where is Miriam?"
"At the village."
"And Thurston?"
"In his library, as usual," said Paul, and touched the bell to summon a messenger to send to Mr. Willcoxen.
"Have you dined, Cloudy?"
"Yes, no—I ate some bread and cheese at the village; don't fuss; I'd rather wait till supper-time."
The door opened, and Mr. Willcoxen entered.
Whatever secret anxiety might have weighed upon the minister's heart, no sign of it was suffered to appear upon his countenance, as, smiling cordially, he came in holding out his hand to welcome his cousin and early playmate, expressing equal surprise and pleasure at seeing him.
Cloudy had to go over the ground of explanation of his sudden arrival, and by the time he had finished, old Jenny came in, laughing and wriggling with joy to see him. But Jenny did not remain long in the parlor; she hurried out into the kitchen to express her feelings professionally by preparing a welcome feast.
"And you are not married yet, Thurston, as great a favorite as you are with the ladies! How is that? Every time I come home I expect to be presented to a Mrs. Willcoxen, and never am gratified; why is that?"
"Perhaps I believe in the celibacy of the clergy."
"Perhaps you have never recovered the disappointment of losing Miss Le
Roy?"
"Ah! Cloudy, people who live in glass houses should not throw stones; I suspect you judge me by yourself. How is it with you, Cloudy? Has no fair maiden been able to teach you to forget your boy-love for Jacquelina?"
Cloudy winced, but tried to cover his embarrassment with a laugh.
"Oh! I have been in love forty dozen times. I'm always in love; my heart is continually going through a circle from one fit to another, like the sun through the signs of the zodiac; only it never comes to anything."
"Well, at least little Jacko is forgotten, which is one congratulatory circumstance."
"No, she is not forgotten; I will not wrong her by saying that she is, or could be! All other loves are merely the foreign ports, which my heart visits transiently now and then. Lina is its native home. I don't know how it is. With most cases of disappointment, such as yours with Miss Le Roy, I suppose the regret may be short-lived enough; but when an affection has been part and parcel of one's being from infancy up; why, it is in one's soul and heart and blood, so to speak—is identical with one's consciousness, and inseparable from one's life."
"Do you ever see her?"
"See her! yes; but how?—at each return from a voyage. I may see her once, with an iron grating between us; she disguised with her black shrouding robe and veil, and thinking that she must suffer here to expiate the fate of Dr. Grimshaw, who, scorpion-like, stung himself to death with the venom of his own bad passions. She is a Sister of Mercy, devoted to good works, and leaves her convent only in times of war, plague, pestilence or famine, to minister to the suffering. She nursed me through the yellow fever, when I lay in the hospital at New Orleans, but when I got well enough to recognize her she vanished—evaporated—made herself 'thin air,' and another Sister served in her place."
"Have you ever seen her since?"
"Yes, once; I sought out her convent, and went with the fixed determination to reason with her, and to persuade her not to renew her vows for another year—you know, the Sisters only take vows for a year at a time."
"Did you make any impression on her mind?" inquired Thurston, with more interest than he had yet shown m any part of the story.
"'Make any impression on her mind!' No! I—I did not even attempt to. How could I, when I only saw her behind a grate, with the prioress on one side of her and the portress on the other? My visit was silent enough, and short enough, and sad enough. Why can't she come out of that? What have I done to deserve to be made miserable? I don't deserve it. I am the most ill-used man in the United States service."
While Cloudy spoke, old Jenny was hurrying in and out between the house and the kitchen, and busying herself with setting the table, laying the cloth and arranging the service. But presently she came in, throwing wide the door, and announcing:
"Two gemmun, axin to see marster."
Thurston arose and turned to confront them, while Paul became suddenly pale on recognizing two police officers.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Willcoxen—good-afternoon, gentlemen," said the foremost and most respectable-looking of the two, lifting his hat and bowing to the fireside party. Then replacing it, he said: "Mr. Willcoxen, will you be kind enough to step this way and give me your attention, sir." He walked to the window, and Thurston followed him.
Paul stood with a pale face and firmly compressed lip, and gazed after them.
And Cloudy—unsuspicious Cloudy, arose and stood with his back to the fire and whistled a sea air.
"Mr. Willcoxen, you can see for yourself the import of this paper," said the officer, handing the warrant.
Thurston read it and returned it.
"Mr. Willcoxen," added the policeman, "myself and my comrade came hither on horseback. Let me suggest to you to order your carriage. One of us will accompany you in the drive, and all remarks will be avoided."
"I thank you for the hint, Mr. Jenkins; I had, how ever, intended to do as you advise," said Thurston, beckoning his brother to approach.
"Paul! I am a prisoner. Say nothing at present to Cloudy; permit him to assume that business takes me away, and go now quietly and order horses put to the carriage."
"Dr. Douglass, we shall want your company also," said the officer, serving Paul with a subpoena.
Paul ground his teeth together and rushed out of the door.
"Keep an eye on that young man," said the policeman to his comrade, and the latter followed Paul into the yard and on to the stables.
The haste and passion of Paul's manner had attracted Cloudy's attention, and now he stood looking on with surprise and inquiry.
"Cloudy," said Thurston, approaching him, "a most pressing affair demands my presence at C—— this afternoon. Paul must also attend me. I may not return to-night. Paul, however, certainly will. In the meantime, Cloudy, my boy, make yourself as much at home and as happy as you possibly can."
"Oh! don't mind me! Never make a stranger of me. Go, by all means. I wouldn't detain you for the world; hope it is nothing of a painful nature that calls you from home, however. Any parishioner ill, dying and wanting your ghostly consolations?"
"Oh, no," said Thurston, smiling.
"Glad of it! Go, by all means. I will make myself jolly until you return," said Cloudy, walking up and down the floor whistling a love ditty, and thinking of little Jacko. He always thought of her with tenfold intensity whenever he returned home and came into her neighborhood.
"Mr. Jenkins, will you follow me to my library?" said Thurston.
The officer bowed assent and Mr. Willcoxen proceeded thither for the purpose of securing his valuable papers and locking his secretary and writing-desk.
After an absence of some fifteen minutes they returned to the parlor to find Paul and the constable awaiting them.
"Is the carriage ready?" asked Mr. Willcoxen.
"Yes, sir," replied the constable.
"Then, I believe, we also are—is it not so?"
The police officer bowed, and Mr. Willcoxen walked up to Cloudy and held out his hand.
"Good-by, Cloudy, for the present. Paul will probably be home by nightfall, even if I should be detained."
"Oh, don't hurry yourself upon my account. I shall do very well. Jenny can take care of me," said Cloudy, jovially, as he shook the offered hand of Thurston.
Paul could not trust himself to look Cloudy in the face and say "Good-by." He averted his head, and so followed Mr. Willcoxen and the officer into the yard.
Mr. Willcoxen, the senior officer and Paul Douglass entered the carriage, and the second constable attended on horseback, and so the party set out for Charlotte Hall.
Hour after hour passed. Old Jenny came in and put the supper on the table, and stood presiding over the urn and tea-pot while Cloudy ate his supper. Old Jenny's tongue ran as if she felt obliged to make up in conversation for the absence of the rest of the family.
"Lord knows, I'se glad 'nough you'se comed back," she said; "dis yer place is bad 'nough. Sam's been waystin' here eber since de fam'ly come from de city—dey must o' fetch him long o' dem. Now I do 'spose sumtin is happen long o' Miss Miriam as went heyin' off to de willidge dis mornin' afore she got her brekfas, nobody on de yeth could tell what fur. Now de od-er two is gone, an' nobody lef here to mine de house, 'cept 'tis you an' me! Sam's waystin'!"
Cloudy laughed and tried to cheer her spirits by a gay reply, and then they kept up between them a lively badinage of repartee, in which old Jenny acquitted herself quite as wittily as her young master.
And after supper she cleared away the service, and went to prepare a bed and light a fire in the room appropriated to Cloudy.
And so the evening wore away.
It grew late, yet neither Thurston nor Paul appeared. Cloudy began to think their return unseasonably delayed, and at eleven o'clock he took up his lamp to retire to his chamber, when he was startled and arrested by the barking of dogs, and by the rolling of the carriage into the yard, and in a few minutes the door was thrown violently open, and Paul Douglass, pale, haggard, convulsed and despairing, burst suddenly into the room.
"Paul! Paul! what in the name of Heaven has happened?" cried Cloudy, starting up, surprised and alarmed by his appearance.
"Oh, it has ended in his committal!—it has ended in his committal!—he is fully committed for trial!—he was sent off to-night to the county jail at Leonardtown, in the custody of two officers!"
"Who is committed? What are you talking about, Paul?" said Cloudy, taking his hand kindly and looking in his face.
These words and actions brought Paul somewhat to his senses.
"Oh! you do not know!—you do not even guess anything about it, Cloudy!
Oh, it is a terrible misfortune! Let me sit down and I will tell you!"
And Paul Douglass threw himself into a chair, and in an agitated, nearly incoherent manner, related the circumstances that led to the arrest of Thurston Willcoxen for the murder of Marian Mayfield.
When he had concluded the strange story, Cloudy started up, took his hat, and was about to leave the room,
"Where are you going, Cloudy?"
"To the stables to saddle my horse, to ride to Leonardtown this night!"
"It is nearly twelve o'clock."
"I know it, but by hard riding I can reach Leonardtown by morning, and be with Thurston as soon as the prison doors are opened. And I will ask you, Paul, to be kind enough to forward my trunks from the tavern at Benedict to Leonardtown, where I shall remain to be near Thurston as long as he needs my services."
"God bless you, Cloudy! I myself wished to accompany him, but he would not for a moment hear of my doing so—he entreated me to return hither to take care of poor Fanny and the homestead."
Cloudy scarcely waited to hear this benediction, but hurried to the stables, found and saddled his horse, threw himself into the stirrups, and in five minutes was dashing rapidly through the thick, low-lying forest stretching inland from the coast.
Eight hours of hard riding brought him to the county seat.
Just stopping long enough to have his horse put up at the best hotel and to inquire his way to the prison, he hurried thither.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and the street corners were thronged with loungers conversing in low, eager tones upon the present all-absorbing topic of discourse—the astounding event of the arrest of the great preacher, the Rev. Thurston Willcoxen, upon the charge of murder.
Hurrying past all these, Cloudy reached the jail. He readily gained admittance, and was conducted to the cell of the prisoner. He found Thurston attired as when he left home, sitting at a small wooden stand, and calmly occupied with his pen.
He arose, and smilingly extended his hand, saying:
"This is very kind as well as very prompt, Cloudy. You must have ridden fast."
"I did. Leave us alone, if you please, my friend," said Cloudy, turning to the jailor.
The latter went out and locked the door upon the friends.
"This seems a sad event to greet you on your return home. Cloudy; but never mind, it will all be well!"
"Sad? It's a farce! I have not an instant's misgiving about the result; but the present indignity! Oh! oh! I could—"
"Be calm, my dear Cloudy. Have you heard anything of the circumstances that led to this?"
"Yes! Paul told me; but he is as crazy and incoherent as a Bedlamite! I want you, if you please, Thurston, if you have no objection, to go over the whole story for me, that I may see if I can make anything of it for your defense."
"Poor Paul! he takes this matter far too deeply to heart. Sit down. I have not a second chair to offer, but take this or the foot of the cot, as you prefer."
Cloudy took the foot of the cot.
"Certainly, Cloudy, I will tell you everything," said Thurston, and forthwith commenced his explanation.
Thurston's narrative was clear and to the point. When it was finished Cloudy asked a number of questions, chiefly referring to the day of the tragedy. When these were answered he sat with his brows gathered down in astute thought. Presently he asked:
"Thurston, have you engaged counsel?"
"Yes; Mr. Romford has been with me this morning."
"Is he fully competent?"
"The best lawyer in the State."
"When does the court sit?"
"On Monday week."
"Have you any idea whether your trial will come on early in the session?"
"I presume it will come on very soon, as Mr. Romford informs me there are but few cases on the docket."
"Thank Heaven for that, as your confinement here promises to be of very short duration. However, the limited time makes it the more necessary for me to act with the greater promptitude. I came here with the full intention of remaining in town as long as you should be detained in this infernal place, but I shall have to leave you within the hour."
"Of course, Cloudy, my dear boy, I could not expect you to restrict yourself to this town so soon after escaping from the confinement of your ship!"
"Oh! you don't understand me at all! Do you think I am going away on my own business, or amusement, while you are here? To the devil with the thought!—begging your reverence's pardon. No, I am going in search of Jacquelina. Since hearing your explanation, particularly that part of it relating to your visit to Luckenough, upon the morning of the day of Marian's death, and the various scenes that occurred there—certain vague ideas of my own have taken form and color, and I feel convinced that Jacquelina could throw some light upon this affair."
"Indeed! why should you think so?"
"Oh! from many small indexes, which I have neither the time nor inclination to tell you; for, taken apart from collateral circumstances and associations, they would appear visionary. Each in itself is really trivial enough, but in the mass they are very indicative. At least, I think so, and I must seek Jacquelina out immediately. And to do so, Thurston, I must leave you this moment, for there is a boat to leave the wharf for Baltimore this morning if it has not already gone. It will take me two days to reach Baltimore, another day to get to her convent, and it will altogether be five or six days before I can get back here. Good-by, Thurston! Heaven keep you, and give you a speedy deliverance from this black hole!"
And Cloudy threw his arms around Thurston in a brotherly embrace, and then knocked at the door to be let out.
In half an hour Cloudy was "once more upon the waters," in full sail for
Baltimore.
Great was the consternation caused by the arrest of a gentleman so high in social rank and scholastic and theological reputation as the Rev. Thurston Willcoxen, and upon a charge, too, so awful as that for which he stood committed! It was the one all-absorbing subject of thought and conversation. People neglected their business, forgetting to work, to bargain, buy or sell. Village shopkeepers, instead of vamping their wares, leaned eagerly over their counters, and with great dilated eyes and dogmatical forefingers, discussed with customers the merits or demerits of the great case. Village mechanics, occupied solely with the subject of the pastor's guilt or innocence, disappointed with impunity customers who were themselves too deeply interested and too highly excited by the same subject, to remember, far less to rebuke them, for unfulfilled engagements. Even women totally neglected, or badly fulfilled, their domestic avocations; for who in the parish could sit down quietly to the construction of a garment or a pudding while their beloved pastor, the "all praised" Thurston Willcoxen, lay in prison awaiting his trial for a capital crime?
As usual in such cases, there was very little cool reasoning, and very much passionate declamation. The first astonishment had given place to conjecture, which yielded in turn to dogmatic judgments—acquiescing or condemning, as the self-constituted judges happened to be favorable or adverse to the cause of the minister.
When the first Sabbath after the arrest came, and the church was closed because the pulpit was unoccupied, the dispersed congregation, haunted by the vision of the absent pastor in his cell, discussed the matter anew, and differed and disputed, and fell out worse than ever. Parties formed for and against the minister, and party feuds raged high.
Upon the second Sabbath—being the day before the county court should sit—a substitute filled the pulpit of Mr. Willcoxen, and his congregation reassembled to hear an edifying discourse from the text: "I myself have seen the ungodly in great power, and flourishing like a green bay-tree. I went by, and lo! he was gone; I sought him, but his place was nowhere to be found."
This sermon bore rather hard (by pointed allusions) upon the great elevation and sudden downfall of the celebrated minister, and, in consequence, delighted one portion of the audience and enraged the other. The last-mentioned charged the new preacher with envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness, besides the wish to rise on the ruin of his unfortunate predecessor, and they went home in high indignation, resolved not to set foot within the parish church again until the honorable acquittal of their own beloved pastor should put all his enemies, persecutors and slanderers to shame.
The excitement spread and gained force and fire with space. The press took it up, and went to war as the people had done. And as far as the name of Thurston Willcoxen had been wafted by the breath of fame, it was now blown by the "Blatant Beast." Ay, and farther, too! for those who had never even heard of his great talents, his learning, his eloquence, his zeal and his charity, were made familiar with his imputed crime and shuddered while they denounced. And this was natural and well, so far as it went to prove that great excellence is so much less rare than great evil, as to excite less attention. The news of this signal event spread like wildfire all over the country, from Maine to Louisiana, and from Missouri to Florida, producing everywhere great excitement, but falling in three places with the crushing force of a thunderbolt.
First by Marian's fireside.
In a private parlor of a quiet hotel, in one of the Eastern cities, sat the lady, now nearly thirty years of age, yet still in the bloom of her womanly beauty.
She had lately arrived from Europe, charged with one of those benevolent missions which it was the business and the consolation of her life to fulfill.
It was late in the afternoon, and the low descending sun threw its golden gleam across the round table at which she sat, busily engaged with reading reports, making notes, and writing letters connected with the affair upon which she had come.
Seven years had not changed Marian much—a little less vivid, perhaps, the bloom on cheeks and lips, a shade paler the angel brow, a shade darker the rich and lustrous auburn tresses, softer and calmer, fuller of thought and love the clear blue eyes—sweeter her tones, and gentler all her motions—that was all. Her dress was insignificant in material, make and color, yet the wearer unconsciously imparted a classic and regal grace to every fold and fall of the drapery. No splendor of apparel could have given such effect to her individual beauty as this quiet costume; I would I were an artist that I might reproduce her image as she was—the glorious face and head, the queenly form, in its plain but graceful robe of I know not what—gray serge, perhaps.
Her whole presence—her countenance, manner and tone revealed the richness, strength and serenity of a faithful, loving, self-denying, God-reliant soul—of one who could recall the past, endure the present, and anticipate the future without regret, complaint or fear.
Sometimes the lady's soft eyes would lift themselves from her work to rest with tenderness upon the form of a little child, so small and still that you would not have noticed her presence but in following the lady's loving glance. She sat in a tiny rocking chair, nursing a little white rabbit on her lap. She was not a beautiful child—she was too diminutive and pale, with hazy blue eyes and faded yellow hair; yet her little face was so demure and sweet, so meek and loving, that it would haunt and soften you more than that of a beautiful child could. The child had been orphaned from her birth, and when but a few days old had been received into the "Children's Home."
Marian never had a favorite among her children, but this little waif was so completely orphaned, so desolate and destitute, and withal so puny, fragile and lifeless that Marian took her to her own heart day and night, imparting from her own fine vital temperament the warmth and vigor that nourished the perishing little human blossom to life and health. If ever a mother's heart lived in a maiden's bosom, it was in Marian's. As she had cherished Miriam, she now cherished Angel, and she was as fondly loved by the one as she had been by the other. And so for five years past Angel had been Marian's inseparable companion. She sat with her little lesson, or her sewing, or her pet rabbit, at Marian's feet while she worked; held her hand when she walked out, sat by her side at the table or in the carriage, and slept nestled in her arms at night. She was the one earthly blossom that bloomed in Marian's solitary path.
Angel now sat with her rabbit on her knees, waiting demurely till Marian should have time to notice her.
And the lady still worked on, stopping once in a while to smile upon the child. There was a file of the evening papers lying near at hand upon the table where she wrote, but Marian had not yet had time to look at them. Soon, however, she had occasion to refer to one of them for the names of the members of the Committee on Public Lands. In casting her eyes over the paper, her glance suddenly lighted upon a paragraph that sent all the blood from her cheeks to her heart. She dropped the paper, sank back in her chair, and covered her blanched face with both hands, and strove for self-control.
Angel softly put down the rabbit and gently stole to her side and looked up with her little face full of wondering sympathy.
Presently Marian began passing her hands slowly over her forehead, with a sort of unconscious self-mesmerism, and then she dropped them wearily upon her lap, and Angel saw how pallid was her face, how ashen and tremulous her lip, how quivering her hands. But after a few seconds Marian stooped and picked the paper up and read the long, wonder-mongering affair, in which all that had been and all that had seemed, as well as many things could neither be nor seem, were related at length, or conjectured, or suggested. It began by announcing the arrest of the Rev. Thurston Willcoxen upon the charge of murder, and then went back to the beginning and related the whole story, from the first disappearance of Marian Mayfield to the late discoveries that had led to the apprehension of the supposed murderer, with many additions and improvements gathered in the rolling of the ball of falsehood. Among the rest, that the body of the unhappy young lady had been washed ashore several miles below the scene of her dreadful fate, and had been charitably interred by some poor fisherman. The article concluded by describing the calm demeanor of the accused and the contemptuous manner in which he treated a charge so grave, scorning even to deny it.
"Oh, I do not wonder at the horror and consternation this matter has caused. When the deed was attempted, more than the intended death wound didn't overcome me! And nothing, nothing in the universe but the evidence of my own senses could have convinced me of his purposed guilt! And still I cannot realize it! He must have been insane! But he treats the discovery of his intended and supposed crime with scorn and contempt! Alas! alas! is this the end of years of suffering and probation? Is this the fruit of that long remorse, from which I had hoped so much for his redemption—a remorse without repentance, and barren of reformation! Yet I must save him."