She arose and rang the bell, and gave orders to have two seats secured for her in the coach that would leave in the morning for Baltimore. And then she began to walk up and down the floor, to try and walk off the excitement that was fast gaining upon her.
Before this night and this discovery, not for the world would Marian have made her existence known to him, far less would she have sought his presence. Nay, deeming such a meeting improper as it was impossible, her mind had never contemplated it for an instant. She had watched his course, sent anonymous donations to his charities, hoped much from his repentance and good works, but never hoped in any regard to herself. But now it was absolutely necessary that she should make her existence known to him. She would go to him! She must save him! She should see him, and speak to him—him whom she had never hoped to meet again in life! She would see him again in three days! The thought was too exciting even for her strong heart and frame and calm, self-governing nature! And in defiance of reason and of will, her long-buried youthful love, her pure, earnest, single-hearted love, burst its secret sepulchre, and rejoiced through all her nature. The darkness of the past was, for the time, forgotten. Memory recalled no picture of unkindness, injustice or inconstancy. Even the scene upon the beach was faded, gone, lost! But the light of the past glowed around her—their seaside strolls and woodland wanderings—
"The still, green places where they met,
The moonlit branches dewy wet,
The greeting and the parting word,
The smile, the embrace, the tone that made
An Eden of the forest shade—"
kindling a pure rapture from memory, and a wild longing from hope, that her full heart could scarce contain.
But soon came on another current of thought and feeling opposed to the first—doubt and fear of the meeting. For herself she felt that she could forget all the sorrows of the past; aye! and with fervent glowing soul, and flushed cheeks, and tearful eyes, and clasped hands, she adored the Father in Heaven that He had put no limit to forgiveness—no! in that blessed path of light all space was open to the human will, and the heart might forgive infinitely—and to its own measureless extent.
But how would Thurston meet her? He had suffered such tortures from remorse that doubtless he would rejoice "with exceeding great joy" to find that the deed attempted in some fit of madness had really not been effected. But his sufferings had sprung from remorse of conscience, not from remorse of love. No! except as his deliverer, he would probably not be pleased to see her. As soon as this thought had seized her mind, then, indeed, all the bitterer scenes in the past started up to life, and broke down the defenses reared by love, and faith, and hope, and let in the tide of anguish and despair that rolled over her soul, shaking it as it had not been shaken for many years. And her head fell upon her bosom, and her hands were clasped convulsively, as she walked up and down the floor—striving with herself—striving to subdue the rebel passions of her heart—striving to attain her wonted calmness, and strength, and self-possession, and at last praying earnestly: "Oh, Father! the rains descend, and the floods come, and the winds blow and beat upon my soul; let not its strength fall as if built upon the sand." And so she walked up and down, striving and praying; nor was the struggle in vain—once more she "conquered a peace" in her own bosom.
She turned her eyes upon little Angel. The infant was drooping over one arm of her rocking-chair like a fading lily, but her soft, hazy eyes, full of vague sympathy, followed the lady wherever she went.
Marian's heart smote her for her temporary forgetfulness of the child's wants. It was now twilight, and Marian rang for lights, and Angel's milk and bread, which were soon brought.
And then with her usual quiet tenderness she undressed the little one, heard her prayers, took her up, and as she rocked, sang a sweet, low evening hymn, that soothed the child to sleep and her own heart to perfect rest. And early the next morning Marian and little Angel set out by the first coach for Baltimore, on their way to St. Mary's County.
* * * * *
The Convent of Bethlehem was not only the sanctuary of professed nuns, the school for girls, the nursery of orphans, but it was also the temporary home of those Sisters of Mercy who go forth into the world only on errands of Christian love and charity, and return to their convent often only to die, worn out by toil among scenes and sufferers near which few but themselves would venture. And as they pass hence to Heaven, their ranks are still filled up from the world—not always by the weary and disappointed. Often young Catholic girls voluntarily leave the untried world that is smiling fair before them to enter upon a life of poverty, self-denial and merciful ministrations; so even in this century the order of the Sisters of Mercy is kept up.
Among the most active and zealous of the order of Bethlehem was the Sister Theresa, the youngest of the band. Youthful as she was, however, this Sister's heart was no sweet sacrifice of "a flower offered in the bud;" on the contrary, I am afraid that Sister Theresa had trifled with, and pinched, and bruised, and trampled the poor budding heart, until she thought it good for nothing upon earth before she offered it to Heaven. I fear it was nothing higher than that strange revulsion of feeling, world-weariness, disappointment, disgust, remorse, fanaticism—either, any, or all of these, call it what you will, that in past ages and Catholic countries have filled monasteries with the whilom, gay, worldly and ambitious; that has sent many a woman in the prime of her beauty and many a man at the acme of his power into a convent; that transformed the mighty Emperor Charles V. into a cowled and shrouded monk; the reckless swashbuckler, Ignatius Loyola, into a holy saint, and the beautiful Louise de la Valliere into an ascetic nun; which finally metamorphosed the gayest, maddest, merriest elf that ever danced in the moonlight into—Sister Theresa.
Poor Jacquelina! for, of course, you can have no doubt that it is of her we are speaking—she perpetrated her last lugubrious joke on the day that she was to have made her vows, for when asked what patron saint she would select by taking that saint's name in religion, she answered—St. Theresa, because St. Theresa would understand her case the best, having been, like herself, a scamp and a rattle-brain before she took it into her head to astonish her friends by becoming a saint. Poor Jacko said this with the solemnest face and the most serious earnestness; but, with such a reputation as she had had for pertness, of course nobody would believe but that she was making fun of the "Blessed Theresa," and so she was put upon further probation, with the injunction to say the seven penitential Psalms seven times a day, until she was in a holier frame of mind; which she did, though under protest that she didn't think the words composed by David to express his remorse for his own enormous sin exactly suited her case. Sister Theresa, if the least steady and devout, was certainly the most active and zealous and courageous among them all. She yawned horribly over the long litanies and long sermons; but if ever there was a work of mercy requiring extraordinary labor, privation, exposure and danger, Sister Theresa was the one to face, in the cause, lightning and tempest, plague, pestilence and famine, battle and murder, and sudden death! Happy was she? or content? No; she was moody, hysterical and devotional by turns—sometimes a zeal for good works would possess her; sometimes the old fun and quaintness would break out, and sometimes an overwhelming fit of remorse—each depending upon the accidental cause that would chance to arouse the moods.
Humane creatures are like climates—some of a temperate atmosphere, taking even life-long sorrow serenely—never forgetting, and never exaggerating its cause—never very wretched, if never quite happy. Others of a more torrid nature have long, sunny seasons of bird-like cheerfulness and happy forgetfulness, until some slight cause, striking "the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound," shall startle up memory—and grief, intensely realized, shall rise to anguish, and a storm shall pass through the soul, shaking it almost to dissolution, and the poor subject thinks, if she can think, that her heart must go to pieces this time! But the storm passes, and nature, instead of being destroyed, is refreshed and ready for the sunshine and the song-birds again. The elastic heart throws off its weight, the spirits revive, and life goes on joyously in harmony with nature.
So it was with Jacquelina, with this sad difference, that as her trouble was more than sorrow—for it was remorse—it was never quite thrown off. It was not that her conscience reproached her for the fate of Dr. Grimshaw, which was brought on by his own wrongdoing, but Marian's fate—that a wild, wanton frolic of her own should have caused the early death of one so young, and beautiful, and good as Marian! that was the thought that nearly drove poor Jacquelina mad with remorse, whenever she realized it. Dr. Grimshaw was forgiven, and—forgotten; but the thought of Marian was the "undying worm," that preyed upon her heart. And so, year after year, despite the arguments and persuasions of nearest friends, and the constancy of poor Cloudy, Jacquelina tearfully turned from love, friendship, wealth and ease, and renewed her vows of poverty, celibacy, obedience, and the service of the poor, sick and ignorant, in the hope of expiating her offense, soothing the voice of conscience, and gaining peace. Jacquelina would have made her vows perpetual by taking the black veil, but her Superior constantly dissuaded her from it. She was young, and life, with its possibilities, was all before her; she must wait many years before she took the step that could not be retracted without perjury. And so each year she renewed her vow a twelvemonth. The seventh year of her religious life was drawing to its close, and she had notified her superior of her wish now, after so many years of probation, to take the black veil, and make her vows perpetual. And the Abbess had, at length, listened favorably to her expressed wishes.
But a few days after this, as the good old Mother, Martha, the portress, sat dozing over her rosary, behind the hall grating, the outer door was thrown open, and a young man, in a midshipman's undress uniform, entered rather brusquely, and came up to the grating. Touching his hat precisely as if the old lady had been his superior officer, he said, hastily:
"Madam, if you please, I wish to see Mrs. ——; you know who I mean, I presume? my cousin, Jacquelina."
The portress knew well enough, for she had seen Cloudy there several times before, but she replied:
"You mean, young gentleman, that pious daughter, called in the world
Mrs. Grimshaw, but in religion Sister Theresa?"
"Fal lal!—that is—I beg your pardon, Mother, but I wish to see the lady immediately. Can I do so?"
"The dear sister Theresa is at present making her retreat, preparatory to taking the black veil."
"The what!" exclaimed Cloudy, with as much horror as if it had been the "black dose" she was going to take.
"The black veil—and so she cannot be seen."
"Madam, I have a very pressing form of invitation here, which people are not very apt to disregard. Did you ever hear of a subpoena, dear Mother?"
The good woman never had, but she thought it evidently something "uncanny," for she said, "I will send for the Abbess;" and she beckoned to a nun within, and sent her on the errand—and soon the Abbess appeared, and Cloudy made known the object of his visit.
"Go into the parlor, sir, and Sister Theresa will attend you," said that lady.
And Cloudy turned to a side door on his right hand, and went into the little receiving-room, three sides of which were like other rooms, but the fourth side was a grating instead of a wall. Behind this grating appeared Jacquelina—so white and thin with confinement, fasting and vigil, and so disguised by her nun's dress as to be unrecognizable to any but a lover's eyes: with her was the Abbess.
Cloudy went up to the grating. Jacquelina put her hand through, and spoke a kind greeting; but Cloudy glanced at the Abbess, looked reproachfully at Jacquelina, and then turning to the former, said:
"Madam, I wish to say a few words in confidence to my cousin here. Can I be permitted to do so?"
"Most certainly, young gentleman; Sister Theresa is not restricted. It was at her own request that I attended her hither."
"Thank you, dear lady—that which I have to say to—Sister Theresa—involves the confidence of others: else I should not have made the request that you have so kindly granted," said Cloudy, considerably mollified.
The Abbess curtsied in the old stately way, and retired.
Cloudy looked at Jacquelina reproachfully.
"Are you going to be a nun, Lina?"
"Yes. Oh, Cloudy, Cloudy! what do you come here to disturb my thoughts so for? Oh, Cloudy! every time you come to see me, you do so upset and confuse my mind! You have no idea how many aves and paters, and psalms and litanies I have to say before I can quiet my mind down again! And now this is worse than all. Dear, dear Cloudy!—St. Mary, forgive me, I never meant that—I meant plain Cloudy—see how you make me sin in words! What did you send Mother Ettienne away for?"
"That I might talk to you alone. Why do you deny me that small consolation, Lina? How have I offended, that you should treat me so?"
"In no way at all have you offended, dearest Cloudy—St. Peter! there it is again—I mean only Cloudy."
"Never mind explaining the distinction. You are going to be a nun, you say! Very well—let that pass, too! But you must leave your convent, and go into the world yet once more, and then I shall have opportunities of talking to you before your return."
"No, no; never will I leave my convent—never will I subject my soul to such a temptation."
"My dear Lina, I have the cabalistic words that must draw you forth—listen! Our cousin, Thurston Willcoxen, is in prison, charged with the murder of Marian Mayfield"—a stifled shriek from Jacquelina—"and there is circumstantial evidence against him strong enough to ruin him forever, if it does not cost him his life. Now, Lina, I cannot be wrong in supposing that you know who struck that death-blow, and that your evidence can thoroughly exonerate Thurston from suspicion! Am I right?"
"Yes! yes! you are right," exclaimed Jacquelina, in great agitation.
"You will go, then?"
"Yes! yes."
"When?"
"In an hour—this moment—with you."
"With me?"
"Yes! I may do so in such a case. I must do so! Oh! Heaven knows, I have occasioned sin enough, without causing more against poor Thurston!"
"You will get ready, then, immediately, dear Lina. Are you sure there will be no opposition?"
"Certainly not. Why, Cloudy, are you one of those who credit 'raw head and bloody bones' fables about convents? I have no jailer but my own conscience, Cloudy. Besides, my year's vows expired yesterday, and I am free for awhile, before renewing them perpetually," said Jacquelina, hurrying away to get ready.
"And may I be swung to the yard-arm if ever I let you renew them," said
Cloudy, while he waited for her.
Jacquelina was soon ready, and Cloudy rejoined her in the front entry, behind the grating of which the good old portress, as she watched the handsome middy drive off with her young postulant, devoutly crossed herself, and diligently told her beads.
* * * * *
Commodore Waugh and his family were returning slowly from the South, stopping at all the principal towns for long rests on their way homeward.
The commodore was now a wretched, helpless old man, depending almost for his daily life upon the care and tenderness of Mrs. Waugh.
Good Henrietta, with advancing years, had continued to "wax fat," and now it was about as much as she could do, with many grunts, to get up and down stairs. Since her double bereavement of her "Hebe" and her "Lapwing," her kind, motherly countenance had lost somewhat of its comfortable jollity, and her hearty mellow laugh was seldom heard. Still, good Henrietta was passably happy, as the world goes, for she had the lucky foundation of a happy temper and temperament—she enjoyed the world, her friends and her creature comforts—her sound, innocent sleep—her ambling pony, or her easy carriage—her hearty meals and her dreamy doze in the soft armchair of an afternoon, while Mrs. L'Oiseau droned, in a dreary voice, long homilies for the good of the commodore's soul.
Mrs. L'Oiseau had got to be one of the saddest and maddest fanatics that ever afflicted a family. And there were hours when, by holding up too graphic, terrific, and exasperating pictures of the veteran's past and present wickedness and impenitence, and his future retribution, in the shape of an external roasting in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone—she drove the old man half frantic with rage and fright! And then she would nearly finish him by asking: "If hell was so horrible to hear of for a little while, what must it be to feel forever and ever?"
They had reached Charleston, on their way home. Mrs. L'Oiseau, too much fatigued to persecute her uncle for his good, had gone to her chamber.
The commodore was put comfortably to bed.
And Mrs. Waugh took the day's paper, and sat down by the old man's side, to read him the news until he should get sleepy. As she turned the paper about, her eyes fell upon the same paragraph that had so agitated Marian. Now, Henrietta was by no means excitable—on the contrary, she was rather hard to be moved; but on seeing this announcement of the arrest of Mr. Willcoxen, for the crime with which he was charged, an exclamation of horror and amazement burst from her lips. In another moment she had controlled herself, and would gladly have kept the exciting news from the sick man until the morning.
But it was too late—the commodore had heard the unwonted cry, and now, raised upon his elbow, lay staring at her with his great fat eyes, and insisting upon knowing what the foul fiend she meant by screeching out in that manner?
It was in vain to evade the question—the commodore would hear the news.
And Mrs. Waugh told him.
"And by the bones of Paul Jones, I always believed it!" falsely swore the commodore; and thereupon he demanded to hear "all about it."
Mrs. Waugh commenced, and in a very unsteady voice read the long account quite through. The commodore made no comment, except an occasional grunt of satisfaction, until she had finished it, when he growled out:
"Knew it!—hope they'll hang him!—d——d rascal! If it hadn't been for him, there'd been no trouble in the family! Now call Festus to help to turn me over, and tuck me up, Henrietta; I want to go to sleep!"
That night Mrs. Waugh said nothing, but the next morning she proposed hurrying homeward with all possible speed.
But the commodore would hear of no such thing. He swore roundly that he would not stir to save the necks of all the scoundrels in the world, much less that of Thurston, who, if he did not kill Marian, deserved richly to be hanged for giving poor Nace so much trouble.
Mrs. Waugh coaxed and urged in vain. The commodore rather liked to hear her do so, and so the longer she pleaded, the more obstinate and dogged he grew, until at last Henrietta desisted—telling him, very well!—justice and humanity alike required her presence near the unhappy man, and so, whether the commodore chose to budge or not, she should surely leave Charleston in that very evening's boat for Baltimore, so as to reach Leonardtown in time for the trial. Upon hearing this, the commodore swore furiously; but knowing of old that nothing could turn Henrietta from the path of duty, and dreading above all things to lose her comfortable attentions, and be left to the doubtful mercies of Mary L'Oiseau, he yielded, though with the worst possible grace, swearing all the time that he hoped the villain would swing for it yet.
And then the trunks were packed, and the travelers resumed their homeward journey.
The day of the trial came. It was a bright spring day, and from an early hour in the morning the village was crowded to overflowing with people collected from all parts of the county. The court-room was filled to suffocation. It was with the greatest difficulty that order could be maintained when the prisoner, in the custody of the high sheriff, was brought into court.
The venerable presiding judge was supposed to be unfriendly to the accused, and the State's Attorney was known to be personally, as well as officially, hostile to his interests. So strongly were the minds of the people prejudiced upon one side or the other that it was with much trouble that twelve men could be found who had not made up their opinions as to the prisoner's innocence or guilt. At length, however, a jury was empaneled, and the trial commenced. When the prisoner was placed at the bar, and asked the usual question, "Guilty or not guilty?" some of the old haughtiness curled the lip and flashed from the eye of Thurston Willcoxen, as though he disdained to answer a charge so base; and he replied in a low, scornful tone:
"Not guilty, your honor."
The opening charge of the State's Attorney had been carefully prepared. Mr. Thomson had never in his life had so important a case upon his hands, and he was resolved to make the most of it. His speech was well reasoned, logical, eloquent. To destroy in the minds of the jury every favorable impression left by the late blameless and beneficent life of Mr. Willcoxen, he did not fail to adduce, from olden history, and from later times, every signal instance of depravity, cloaked with hypocrisy, in high places; he enlarged upon wolves in sheeps' clothing—Satan in an angel's garb, and dolefully pointed out how many times the indignant question of—"Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?"—had been answered by results in the affirmative. He raked up David's sin from the ashes of ages. Where was the scene of that crime, and who was its perpetrator—in the court of Israel, by the King of Israel—a man after God's own heart. Could the gentlemen of the jury be surprised at the appalling discovery so recently made, as if great crimes in high places were impossible or new things under the sun? He did not fail to draw a touching picture of the victim, the beautiful, young stranger-girl, whom they all remembered and loved—who had come, an angel of mercy, on a mission of mercy, to their shores. Was not her beauty, her genius, her goodness—by which all there had at some time been blessed—sufficient to save her from the knife of the assassin? No! as he should shortly prove. Yet all these years her innocent blood had cried to Heaven in vain; her fate was unavenged, her manes unappeased.
All the women, and all the simple-hearted and unworldly among the men, were melted into tears, very unpropitious to the fate of Thurston; tears not called up by the eloquence of the prosecuting attorney, so much as by the mere allusion to the fate of Marian, once so beloved, and still so fresh in the memories of all.
Thurston heard all this—not in the second-hand style with which I have summed it up—but in the first vital freshness, when it was spoken with a logic, force, and fire that carried conviction to many a mind. Thurston looked upon the judge—his face was stern and grave. He looked upon the jury—they were all strangers, from distant parts of the county, drawn by idle curiosity to the scene of trial, and arriving quite unprejudiced. They were not his "peers," but, on the contrary, twelve as stolid-looking brothers as ever decided the fate of a gentleman and scholar. Thence he cast his eyes over the crowd in the court-room.
There were his parishioners! hoary patriarchs and gray-haired matrons, stately men and lovely women, who, from week to week, for many years, had still hung delighted on his discourses, as though his lips had been touched with fire, and all his words inspired! There they were around him again! But oh! how different the relations and the circumstances! There they sat, with stern brows and averted faces, or downcast eyes, and "lips that scarce their scorn forbore." No eye or lip among them responded kindly to his searching gaze, and Thurston turned his face away again; for an instant his soul sunk under the pall of despair that fell darkening upon it. It was not conviction in the court he thought of—he would probably be acquitted by the court—but what should acquit him in public opinion? The evidence that might not be strong enough to doom him to death would still be sufficient to destroy forever his position and his usefulness. No eye, thenceforth, would meet his own in friendly confidence. No hand grasp his in brotherly fellowship.
The State's Attorney was still proceeding with his speech. He was now stating the case, which he promised to prove by competent witnesses—how the prisoner at the bar had long pursued his beautiful but hapless victim—how he had been united to her by a private marriage—that he had corresponded with her from Europe—that upon his return they had frequently met—that the prisoner, with the treachery that would soon be proved to be a part of his nature, had grown weary of his wife, and transferred his attentions to another and more fortune-favored lady—and finally, that upon the evening of the murder he had decoyed the unhappy young lady to the fatal spot, and then and there effected his purpose. The prosecuting attorney made this statement, not with the brevity with which it is here reported, but with a minuteness of detail and warmth of coloring that harrowed up the hearts of all who heard it. He finished by saying that he should call the witnesses in the order of time corresponding with the facts they came to prove.
"Oliver Murray will take the stand."
This, the first witness called, after the usual oath, deposed that he had first seen the prisoner and the deceased together in the Library of Congress; had overheard their conversation, and suspecting some unfairness on the part of the prisoner, had followed the parties to the navy yard, where he had witnessed their marriage ceremony.
"When was the next occasion upon which you saw the prisoner?"
"On the night of the 8th of April, 182-, on the coast, near Pine Bluff. I had landed from a boat, and was going inland when I passed him. I did not see his face distinctly, but recognized him by his size and form, and peculiar air and gait. He was hurrying away, with every mark of terror and agitation."
This portion of Mr. Murray's testimony was so new to all as to excite the greatest degree of surprise, and in no bosom did it arouse more astonishment than in that of Thurston. The witness was strictly cross-questioned by the counsel for the prisoner, but the cross-examination failed to weaken his testimony, or to elicit anything more favorable to the accused. Oliver Murray was then directed to stand aside.
The next witness was Miriam Shields. Deeply veiled and half fainting, the poor girl was led in between Colonel and Miss Thornton, and allowed to sit while giving evidence. When told to look at the prisoner at the bar, she raised her death-like face, and a deep, gasping sob broke from her bosom. But Thurston fixed his eyes kindly and encouragingly upon her—his look said plainly: "Fear nothing, dear Miriam! Be courageous! Do your stern duty, and trust in God."
Miriam then identified the prisoner as the man she had twice seen alone with Marian at night. She further testified that upon the night of April 8th, 182-, Marian had left home late in the evening to keep an appointment—from which she had never returned. That in the pocket of the dress she had laid off was found the note appointing the meeting upon the beach for the night in question. Here the note was produced. Miriam identified the handwriting as that of Mr. Willcoxen.
Paul Douglass was next called to the stand, and required to give his testimony in regard to the handwriting. Paul looked at the piece of paper that was placed before him, and he was sorely tempted. How could he swear to the handwriting unless he had actually seen the hand write it? he asked himself. He looked at his brother. But Thurston saw the struggle in his mind, and his countenance was stern and high, and his look authoritative, and commanding—it said: "Paul! do not dare to deceive yourself. You know the handwriting. Speak the truth if it kill me." And Paul did so.
The next witness that took the stand was Dr. Brightwell—the good old physician gave his evidence very reluctantly—it went to prove the fact of the prisoner's absence from the deathbed of his grandfather upon the night of the reputed murder, and his distracted appearance when returning late in the morning.
"Why do you say reputed murder?"
"Because, sir, I never consider the fact of a murder established, until the body of the victim has been found."
"You may stand down."
Dr. Solomon Weismann was next called to the stand, and corroborated the testimony of the last witness.
Several other witnesses were then called in succession, whose testimony being only corroborative, was not very important. And the prisoner was remanded, and the court adjourned until ten o'clock the next morning.
"Life will be saved, but position and usefulness in this neighborhood gone forever, Paul," said Thurston, as they went out.
"Evidence very strong—very conclusive to our minds, yet not sufficient to convict him," said one gentleman to another.
"I am of honest Dr. Brightwell's opinion—that the establishment of a murder needs as a starting point the finding of the body; and, moreover, that the conviction of a murderer requires an eye-witness to the deed. The evidence, so far as we have heard it, is strong enough to ruin the man, but not strong enough to hang him," said a third.
"Ay! but we have not heard all, or the most important part of the testimony. The State's Attorney has not fired his great gun yet," said a fourth, as the crowd elbowed, pushed, and struggled out of the court-room.
Those from distant parts of the county remained in the village all night—those nearer returned home to come back in the morning.
The second day of the trial, the village was more crowded than before. At ten o'clock the court opened, the prisoner was shortly afterward brought in, and the prosecution renewed its examination of witnesses. The next witness that took the stand was a most important one. John Miles, captain of the schooner Plover. He deposed that in the month of April, 182-, he was mate in the schooner Blanch, of which his father was the captain. That in said month the prisoner at the bar had hired his father's vessel to carry off a lady whom the prisoner declared to be his own wife; that they were to take her to the Bermudas. That to effect their object, his father and himself had landed near Pine Bluff; the night was dark, yet he soon discerned the lady walking alone upon the beach. They were bound to wait for the arrival of the prisoner, and a signal from him before approaching the lady. They waited some time, watching from their cover the lady as she paced impatiently up and down the sands. At length they saw the prisoner approaching. He was closely wrapped up in his cloak, and his hat was pulled over his eyes, but they recognized him well by his air and gait. They drew nearer still, keeping in the shadow, waiting for the signal. The lady and the prisoner met—a few words passed between them—of which he, the deponent, only heard "Thurston?" "Yes, Thurston!" and then the prisoner raised his arm and struck, and the lady fell. His father was a cautious man, and when he saw the prisoner rush up the cliff and disappear, when he saw that the lady was dead, and that the storm was beginning to rage violently and the tide was coming in, and fearing, besides, that he should get into trouble, he hurried into the boat and put off and boarded the schooner, and as soon as possible set sail for Bermuda. They had kept away from this coast for years, that is to say, as long as the father lived.
John Miles was cross-examined by Mr. Romford, but without effect.
This testimony bore fatally upon the prisoner's cause—the silence of consternation reigned through the crowd.
Thurston Willcoxen, when he heard this astounding evidence, first thought that the witness was perjured, but when he looked closely upon his open, honest face, and fearless eye and free bearing, he saw that no consciousness of falsehood was there and he could but grant that the witness, naturally deceived by "foregone conclusions," had inevitably mistaken the real murderer for himself.
Darker and darker lowered the pall of fate over him—the awful stillness of the court was oppressive, was suffocating; a deathly faintness came upon him, for now, for the first time, he fully realized the awful doom that threatened him. Not long his nature bowed under the burden—his spirit rose to throw it off, and once more the fine head was proudly raised, nor did it once sink again. The last witness for the prosecution was called and took the stand, and deposed that he lived ten miles down the coast in an isolated, obscure place; that on the first of May, 182-, the body of a woman had been found at low tide upon the beach, that it had the appearance of having been very long in the water—the clothing was respectable, the dress was dark blue stuff, but was faded in spots—there was a ring on the finger, but the hand was so swollen that it could not be got off. His poor neighbors of the coast assembled. They made an effort to get the coroner, but he could not be found. And the state of the body demanded immediate burial. When cross-questioned by Lawyer Romford, the witness said that they had not then heard of any missing or murdered lady, but had believed the body to be that of a shipwrecked passenger, until they heard of Miss Mayfield's fate.
Miriam was next recalled. She came in as before, supported between Colonel and Miss Thornton. Every one who saw the poor girl, said that she was dying. When examined, she deposed that Marian, when she left home, had worn a blue merino dress—and, yes, she always wore a little locket ring on her finger. Drooping and fainting as she was, Miriam was allowed to leave the court-room. This closed the evidence of the prosecution.
The defense was taken up and conducted with a great deal of skill. Mr. Romford enlarged upon the noble character his client had ever maintained from childhood to the present time—they all knew him—he had been born and had ever lived among them—what man or woman of them all would have dared to suspect him of such a crime? He spoke warmly of his truth, fidelity, Christian zeal, benevolence, philanthropy and great public benefits.
I have no space nor time to give a fair idea of the logic and eloquence with which Mr. Romford met the charges of the State's Attorney, nor the astute skill with which he tried to break down the force of the evidence for the prosecution. Then he called the witnesses for the defense. They were all warm friends of Mr. Willcoxen, all had known him from boyhood, none would believe that under any possible circumstances he could commit the crime for which he stood indicted. They testified to his well-known kindness, gentleness and benevolence—his habitual forbearance and command of temper, even under the most exasperating provocations—they swore to his generosity, fidelity and truthfulness in all the relations of life. In a word, they did the very best they could to save his life and honor—but the most they could do was very little before the force of such evidence as stood arrayed against him. And all men saw that unless an alibi could be proved, Thurston Willcoxen was lost! Oh! for that alibi. Paul Douglass was again undergoing an awful temptation. Why, he asked himself, why should he not perjure his soul, and lose it, too, to save his brother's life and honor from fatal wrong? And if there had not been in Paul's heart a love of truth greater than his fear of hell, his affection for Thurston would have triumphed, he would have perjured himself.
The defense here closed. The State's Attorney did not even deem it necessary to speak again, and the judge proceeded to charge the jury. They must not, he said, be blinded by the social position, clerical character, youth, talents, accomplishments or celebrity of the prisoner—with however dazzling a halo these might surround him. They must deliberate coolly upon the evidence that had been laid before them, and after due consideration of the case, if there was a doubt upon their minds, they were to let the prisoner have the full benefit of it—wherever there was the least uncertainty it was right to lean to the side of mercy.
The case was then given to the jury. The jury did not leave their box, but counseled together in a low voice for half an hour, during which a death-like silence, a suffocating atmosphere filled the court-room.
Thurston alone was calm, his soul had collected all its force to meet the shock of whatever fate might come—honor or dishonor, life or death!
Presently the foreman of the jury arose, followed by the others.
Every heart stood still.
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?" demanded the judge.
"Yes, your honor," responded the foreman, on the part of his colleagues.
"How say you—is the prisoner at the bar 'Guilty or not guilty?'"
"Not guilty!" cried the shrill tones of a girl near the outer door, toward which all eyes, in astonishment and inquiry, were now turned, to see a slight female figure, in the garb of a Sister of Mercy, clinging to the arm of Cloudesley Mornington, and who was now pushing and elbowing his way through the crowd toward the bench.
All gave way—many that were seated arose to their feet, and spoke in eager whispers, or looked over each others' heads.
"Order! silence in the court!" shouted the marshal.
"Your honor—this lady is a vitally important witness for the defense," said Cloudy, pushing his way into the presence of the judge, leaving his female companion standing before the bench and then hurrying to the dock, where he grasped the hand of the prisoner, exclaiming, breathlessly: "Saved—Thurston! Saved!"
"Order! silence!" called out the marshal, by way of making himself agreeable—for there was silence in the court, where all the audience at least were more anxious to hear than to speak.
"Your honor, I move that the new witness be heard," said Mr. Romford.
"The defense is closed—the charge given to the jury, who have decided upon their verdict," answered the State's Attorney.
"The verdict has not been rendered, the jury have the privilege of hearing this new witness," said the judge.
The jury were unanimous in the resolution to withhold their verdict until they had heard.
This being decided, the Sister of Mercy took the stand, threw aside her long, black veil, and revealed the features of Jacquelina; but so pale, weary, anxious and terrified, as to be scarcely recognizable.
The usual oath was administered.
And while Cloudy stood triumphantly by the side of Mr. Willcoxen,
Jacquelina prepared to give her evidence.
She was interrupted by a slight disturbance near the door, and the rather noisy entrance of several persons, whom the crowd, on beholding, recognized as Commodore Waugh, his wife, his niece, and his servant. Some among them seemed to insist upon being brought directly into the presence of the judge and jury—but the officer near the door pointed out to them the witness on the stand, waiting to give testimony; and on seeing her they subsided into quietness, and suffered themselves to be set aside for a while.
When this was over—a lady, plainly dressed, and close-veiled, entered, and addressed a few words to the same janitor. But the latter replied as he had to the others, by pointing to the witness on the stand. The veiled lady seemed to acquiesce, and sat down where the officer directed her.
"Order! silence in the court!" cried the marshal, not to be behindhand.
And order and silence reigned when the Sister gave in her evidence as follows:
"My name is Jacquelina L'Oiseau—not Grimshaw—for I never was the wife of Dr. Grimshaw. I do not like to speak further of myself, yet it is necessary, to make my testimony clear. While yet a child I was contracted to Dr. Grimshaw in a civil marriage, which was never ratified. I was full of mischief in these days, and my greatest pleasure was to torment and provoke my would-be bridegroom; alas! alas! it was to that wanton spirit that all the disaster is owing. Thurston Willcoxen and Marian Mayfield were my intimate friends. On the morning of the 8th of April, 182-, they were both at Luckenough. Thurston left early. After he was gone Marian chanced to drop a note, which I picked up and read. It was in the handwriting of Thurston Willcoxen, and it appointed a meeting with Marian upon the beach, near Pine Bluff, for that evening."
Here Mr. Romford placed in her hands the scrap of paper that had already formed such an important part of the evidence against the prisoner.
"Is that the note of which you speak?"
"Yes—that is the note. And when I picked it up the wanton spirit of mischief inspired me with the wish to use it for the torment of Dr. Grimshaw, who was easily provoked to jealously! Oh! I never thought it would end so fatally! I affected to lose the note, and left it in his way. I saw him pick it up and read it. I felt sure he thought—as I intended he should think—it was for me. There were other circumstances also to lead him to the same conclusion. He dropped the note where he had picked it up and pretended not to have seen it; afterwards I in the same way restored it to Marian. To carry on my fatal jest, I went home in the carriage with Marian, to Old Field Cottage, which stands near the coast. I left Marian there and set out to return to Luckenough—laughing all the time, alas! to think that Dr. Grimshaw had gone to the coast to intercept what he supposed to be my meeting with Thurston! Oh, God, I never thought such jests could be so dangerous! Alas! alas! he met Marian Mayfield in the dark, and between the storm without and the storm within—the blindness of night and the blindness of rage—he stabbed her before he found out his mistake, and he rushed home with her innocent blood on his hands and clothing—rushed home and into my presence, to reproach me as the cause of his crime, to fill my bosom with undying remorse, and then to die! He had in the crisis of his passion, ruptured an artery and fell—so that the blood found upon his hands and clothing was supposed to be his own. No one knew the secret of his blood guiltiness but myself. In my illness and delirium that followed I believe I dropped some words that made my aunt, Mrs. Waugh, and Mr. Cloudesley Mornington, suspect something; but I never betrayed my knowledge of the dead man's unintentional crime, and would not do so now, but to save the innocent. May I now sit down?"
No! the State's Attorney wanted to take her in hand, and cross-examine her, which he began to do severely, unsparingly. But as she had told the exact truth, though not in the clearest style, the more the lawyer sifted her testimony, the clearer and more evident its truthfulness and point became; until there seemed at length nothing to do but acquit the prisoner. But courts of law are proverbially fussy, and now the State's Attorney was doing his best to invalidate the testimony of the last witness.
Turn we from them to the veiled lady, where she sat in her obscure corner of the room, hearing all this.
Oh! who can conceive, far less portray the joy, the unspeakable joy that filled her heart nearly to breaking! He was guiltless! Thurston, her beloved, was guiltless in intention, as he was in deed! the thought of crime had not been near his heart! his long remorse had been occasioned by what he had unintentionally made her suffer. He was all that he had lately appeared to the world! all that he had at first appeared to her!—faithful, truthful, constant, noble, generous—her heart was vindicated! her love was not the madness, the folly, the weakness that her intellectual nature had often stamped it to be! Her love was vindicated, for he deserved it all! Oh! joy unspeakable—oh! joy insupportable!
She was a strong, calm, self-governing woman—not wont to be overcome by any event or any emotion—yet now her head, her whole form, drooped forward, and she sank upon the low balustrade in front of her seat—weighed down by excess of happiness—happiness so absorbing that for a time she forgot everything else; but soon she remembered that her presence was required near the bench, to put a stop to the debate between the lawyers, and she strove to quell the tumultuous excitement of her feelings, and to recover self-command before going among them.
In the meantime, near the bench, the counsel for the prisoner had succeeded in establishing the validity of the challenged testimony, and the case was once more about to be recommitted to the jury, when the lady, who had been quietly making her way through the crowd toward the bench, stood immediately in front of the judge, raised her veil, and Marian Mayfield stood revealed.
With a loud cry the prisoner sprang upon his feet; but was immediately captured by two officers, who fancied he was about to escape.
Marian did not speak one word, she could not do so, nor was it necessary—there she stood alive among them—they all knew her—the judge, the officers, the lawyers, the audience—there she stood alive among them—it was enough!
The audience arose in a mass, and "Marian!" "Marian Mayfield!" was the general exclamation, as all pressed toward the newcomer.
Jacquelina, stunned with the too sudden joy, swooned in the arms of Cloudy, who, between surprise and delight, had nearly lost his own senses.
The people pressed around Marian, with exclamations and inquiries.
The marshal forgot to be disorderly with vociferations of "Order!" and stood among the rest, agape for news.
Marian recovered her voice and spoke:
"I am not here to give any information; what explanation I have to make is due first of all to Mr. Willcoxen, who has the right to claim it of me when he pleases," and turning around she moved toward the dock, raising her eyes to Thurston's face, and offering her hand.
How he met that look—how he clasped that hand—need not be said—their hearts were too full for speech.
The tumult in the court-room was at length subdued by the rising of the judge to make a speech—a very brief one:
"Mr. Willcoxen is discharged, and the court adjourned," and then the judge came down from his seat, and the officers cried, "make way for the court to pass." And the way was made. The judge came up to the group, and shook hands first with Mr. Willcoxen, whom he earnestly congratulated, and then with Marian, who was an old and esteemed acquaintance, and so bowing gravely, he passed out.
Still the crowd pressed on, and among them came Commodore Waugh and his family, for whom way was immediately made.
Mrs. Waugh wept and smiled, and exclaimed: "Oh! Hebe! Oh! Lapwing!"
The commodore growled out certain inarticulate anathemas, which he intended should be taken as congratulations, since the people seemed to expect it of him.
And Mary L'Oiseau pulled down her mouth, cast up her eyes and crossed herself when she saw the consecrated hand of Sister Theresa clasped in that of Cloudy!
But Thurston's high spirit could not brook this scene an instant longer. And love as well as pride required its speedy close. Marian was resting on his arm—he felt the clasp of her dear hand—he saw her living face—the angel brow—the clear eyes—the rich auburn tresses, rippling around the blooming cheek—he heard her dulcet tones—yet—it seemed too like a dream!—he needed to realize this happiness.
"Friends," he said, "I thank you for the interest you show in us. For those whose faith in me remained unshaken in my darkest hour, I find no words good enough to express what I shall ever feel. But you must all know how exhausting this day has been, and how needful repose is"—his eyes here fell fondly and proudly upon Marian—"to this lady on my arm. After to-morrow we shall be happy to see any of our friends at Dell-Delight." And bowing slightly from right to left, he led his Marian through the opening crowd.
Who shall follow them, or intrude on the sacredness of their reconciliation, or relate with what broken tones, and frequent stops and tears and smiles, and clinging embraces, their mutual explanations were made?
At last Marian, raising her head from his shoulder, said:
"But I come to you a bankrupt, dear Thurston! I have inherited and expended a large fortune since we parted—and now I am more than penniless, for I stand responsible for large sums of money owed by my 'Orphans Home' and 'Emigrants Help'—money that I had intended to raise by subscription."
"Now, I thank God abundantly for the wealth that He has given me. Your fortune, dearest Marian, has been nobly appropriated—and for the rest, it is my blessed privilege to assume all your responsibilities—and I rejoice that they are great! for, sweetest wife, and fairest lady, I feel that I never can sufficiently prove how much I love and reverence you—how much I would and ought to sacrifice for you!"
"And even now, dear Thurston, I came hither, bound on a mission to the Western prairies, to find a suitable piece of land for a colony of emigrants."
"I know it, fairest and dearest lady, I know it all. I will lift that burden from your shoulders, too, and all liabilities of yours do I assume—oh! my dear Marian! with how much joy! and I will labor with and for you, until all your responsibilities of every sort are discharged, and my liege lady is free to live her own life!"
This scene took place in the private parlor of the hotel, while Paul Douglass was gone to Colonel Thornton's lodgings, to carry the glad tidings to Miriam, and also to procure a carriage for the conveyance of the whole party to Dell-Delight.
He returned at last, accompanied by Miriam, whom he tenderly conducted into the room, and who, passing by all others, tottered forward, and sank, weeping, at the feet of Mr. Willcoxen, and clasping his knees, still wept, as if her heart would break.
Thurston stooped and raised her, pressed the kiss of forgiveness on her young brow, and then whispered:
"Miriam, have you forgotten that there is another here who claims your attention?" took her by the hand and led her to Marian.
The young girl was shy and silent, but Marian drew to her bosom, saying:
"Has my 'baby' forgotten me? And so, you would have been an avenger, Miriam. Remember, all your life, dear child, that such an office is never to be assumed by an erring human creature. 'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord.'" And kissing Miriam fondly; she resigned her to Paul's care, and turned, and gave her own hand to Thurston, who conducted her to the carriage, and then returned for little Angel, who all this time had sat demurely in a little parlor chair.
They were followed by Paul and Miriam, and so set forth for
Dell-Delight.
But little more remains to be told.
Thurston resigned his pastoral charge of the village Church; settled up his business in the neighborhood; procured a discreet woman to keep house at Dell-Delight; left Paul, Miriam and poor Fanny in her care, and set out with Marian on their western journey, to select the site for the settlement of her emigrant protégés. After successfully accomplishing this mission, they returned East, and embarked for Liverpool, and thence to London, where Marian dissolved her connection with the "Emigrants' Help," and bade adieu to her "Orphans' Home." Thurston made large donations to both these institutions. And Marian saw that her place was well supplied to the "Orphans' Home" by another competent woman. Then they returned to America. Their travels had occupied more than twelve months. And their expenses, of all sorts, had absorbed more than a third of Mr. Willcoxen's princely fortune—yet with what joy was it lavished by his hand, who felt he could not do too much for his priceless Marian.
On their return home a heartfelt gratification met them—it was that the parish had shown their undiminished confidence in Mr. Willcoxen, and their high appreciation of his services, by keeping his pulpit open for him. And a few days after his settlement at home a delegation of the vestry waited upon him to solicit his acceptance of the ministry. And after talking with his "liege lady," as he fondly and proudly termed Marian, Mr. Willcoxen was well pleased to return a favorable answer.
And in a day or two Thurston and Marian were called upon to give decision in another case, to wit:
Jacquelina had not returned to Bethlehem, nor renewed her vows; but had doffed her nun's habit for a young lady's dress, and remained at Luckenough. Cloudy had not failed to push his suit with all his might. But Jacquelina still hesitated—she did not know, she said, but she thought she had no right to be happy, as other people had, she had caused so much trouble in the world, she reckoned she had better go back to her convent.
"And because you unintentionally occasioned some sorrow, now happily over, to some people, you would atone for the fault by adding one more to the list of victims, and making me miserable. Bad logic, Lina, and worse religion."
Jacquelina did not know—she could not decide—after so many grave errors, she was afraid to trust herself. The matter was then referred—of all men in the world—to the commodore, who graciously replied, that they might go to the demon for him. But as Cloudy and Lina had no especial business with his Satanic Majesty they declined to avail themselves of the permission, and consulted Mrs. Waugh, whose deep, mellow laugh preceded her answer, when she said:
"Take heart, Lapwing! take heart, and all the happiness you can possibly get! I have lived a long time, and seen a great many people, good and bad, and though I have sometimes met people who were not so happy as they merited—yet I never have seen any one happier than they deserved to be! and that they cannot be so, seems to be a law of nature that ought to reconcile us very much to the apparent flourishing of the wicked."
But Mrs. L'Oiseau warned her daughter not to trust to "Aunty," who was so good-natured, and although such a misguided woman, that if she had her will she would do away with all punishment—yes, even with Satan and purgatory! But Jacquelina had much less confidence in Mrs. L'Oiseau than in Mrs. Waugh; and so she told Cloudy, who thought that he had waited already quite long enough, to wait until Marian and Thurston came home, and if they thought it would be right for her to be happy—why—then—maybe—she might be! But the matter must be referred to them.
And now it was referred to them, by the sorely tried Cloudy. And they gave Jacquelina leave to be "happy." And she was happy! And as for Cloudy, poor, constant fellow! he was so overjoyed that he declared he would petition the Legislature to change his name as no longer appropriate, for though his morning had been cloudy enough, his day was going to be a very bright one!
When Mrs. L'Oiseau heard of this engagement, she crossed herself, and told her beads, and vowed that the world was growing so wicked that she could no longer live in it. And she commenced preparations to retire to a convent, to which in fact she soon after went, and where in strict truth, she was likely to be much happier than her nature would permit her to be elsewhere.
Cloudy and Lina were very quietly married, and took up their abode at the pleasant farmhouse of Locust Hill, which was repaired and refurnished for their reception. But if the leopard cannot change his spots, nor the Ethiope his skin—neither can the fairy permanently change her nature; for no sooner was Jacko's happiness secured, than the elfish spirit, the lightest part of her nature, effervesced to the top—for the torment of Cloudy. Jacko and Cloudy, even, had one quarrel—it was upon the first occasion after their marriage, of his leaving her to join his ship—and when the whilom Sister of Charity drove Cloudy nearly frantic by insisting—whether in jest or earnest no one on earth could tell—upon donning the little middy's uniform and going with him! However, the quarrel happily was never renewed, for before the next time of sailing, there appeared a certain tiny Cloudy at home, that made the land quite as dear as the sea to its mother. And this little imp became Mrs. Waugh's especial pet. And if Jacquelina did not train the little scion very straight, at least she did not twist him awry. And she even tried, in her fitful, capricious way, to reform her own manners, that she might form those of her little children. And Mrs. Waugh and dear Marian aided her and encouraged her in her uncertain efforts.
About this time, Paul and Miriam were united, and went to housekeeping in the pretty villa built for them upon the site of Old Field Cottage by Thurston, and furnished for them by Mrs. Waugh.
And a very pleasant country neighborhood they formed—these three young families—of Dell-Delight, Locust Hill and the villa.
Two other important events occurred in their social circle—first, poor harmless Fanny passed smilingly to her heavenly home, and all thought it very well.
And one night Commodore Waugh, after eating a good, hearty supper, was comfortably tucked up in bed, and went into a sound, deep sleep from which he never more awoke. May he rest in peace. But do you think Mrs. Waugh did not cry about it for two weeks, and ever after speak of him as the poor, dear commodore?
But Henrietta was of too healthful a nature to break her heart for the loss of a very good man, and it was not likely she was going to do so for the missing of a very uncomfortable one; and so in a week or two more her happy spirits returned, and she began to realize to what freedom, ease and cheerfulness she had fallen heir! Now she could live and breathe, and go and come without molestation. Now when she wished to open her generous heart to the claims of affection in the way of helping Lapwing or Miriam, who were neither of them very rich—or to the greater claims of humanity in the relief of the suffering poor, or the pardon of delinquent servants, she could do so to her utmost content, and without having to accompany her kind act with a deep sigh at the anticipation of the parlor storm it would raise at home. And though Mrs. Henrietta still "waxed fat," her good flesh was no longer an incumbrance to her—the leaven of cheerfulness lightened the whole mass.
Mrs. Waugh had brought her old maid Jenny back. Jenny had begged to come home to "old mistress" for she said it was "'stonishin how age-able," she felt, though nobody might believe it, she was "gettin' oler and oler, ebery singly day" of her life, and she wanted to end her days "'long o' ole mistress."
Old mistress was rich and good, and Luckenough was a quiet, comfortable home, where the old maid was very sure of being lodged, boarded, and clothed almost as well as old mistress herself—not that these selfish considerations entered largely into Jenny's mind, for she really loved Mrs. Henrietta.
And old mistress and old maid were never happier than on some fine, clear day, when seated on their two old mules, they ambled along through forest and over field, to spend a day with Lapwing or with Hebe—or perhaps with the "Pigeon Pair," as they called the new married couple at the villa.
Yes; there was a time when Mrs. Henrietta was happier still! It was, when upon some birthday or other festival, she would gather all the young families—Thurston and Hebe, Cloudy and Lapwing, the Pigeons, and all the babies, in the big parlor of Luckenough, and sit surrounded by a flock of tiny lapwings, hebes and pigeons, forming a group that our fairy saucily called, "The old hen and chickens."
And what shall we say in taking leave of Thurston and Marian? He had had some faults, as you have seen—but the conquering of faults is the noblest conquest, and he had achieved such a victory. He called Marian the angel of his salvation. Year by year their affection deepened and strengthened, and drew them closer in heart and soul and purpose. From their home as from a center emanated a healthful, beneficent and elevating influence, happily felt through all their social circle. A lovely family grew around them—and among the beautiful children none were more tenderly nursed or carefully trained than the little waif, Angel. And in all the pleasant country neighborhood, the sweetest and the happiest home is that of Dell-Delight.