Bennett, Emerson, 1822-1905 [1852], Walde-Warren: a tale of circumstantial evidence. (T.B. Peterson) [word count] [eaf479T].
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CHAPTER I. WALDE-WARREN.
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Far up towards the headwaters
of one of the tributaries
of the Cumberland river,
and not many leagues distant
from that portion of the Cumberland
mountains which divides
the state of Tennessee,
there is a wild, beautiful, romantic
valley. This valley
is about three miles in extent,
oval in shape, with the breadth
of a mile and a half in the
centre, closing up at either
end by the peculiar curve of
the hills which environ it, and
leaving just sufficient space
for the passage of the stream
alluded to, and a traveled
road which winds along its
banks and slightly cuts the
southern base of the projecting
eminences. About central
way of this valley, is a quiet,
picturesque village, of neat
white houses, overlooked by
the mountains, and as rural
and sequestered as one could
wish to find. This village occupies
both sides of the
stream, which is spanned by
an arched wooden bridge, beneath
which the waters
sparkle, foam and roar, as
they dash over a rocky bed,
and dart away with the frolicsomeness
of youth. In fact
the stream itself may not inappropriately
be likened to a
youth just freed from the
trammels and helplessness
of infancy, when budding
strength begins to give buoyancy,
independence, ambition,
and love of wild adventure;
for, nurtured among the
mountains, and fed to a good
estate, it has burst from the
control of parental nature, and
now comes hopping, skipping
and dancing along, with
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childish playfulness—occasionally
sobered for a moment as it
glides past some steep overhanging
cliff, like a youth full
of timid curiosity on entering
a place of deep shadow—but
in the main, wild, merry and
sportive—laughing in the sunshine—
rollicking, gamboling,
purling and roaring—now
playing hide and seek among
the bushes, and now rushing
away, with might and main,
to explore the world that lays
before it, unconscious that
aught of difficulty may lie in
its path.
The village in question consists
of some thirty or forty
buildings, the majority of
which are private dwellings.
That white structure which
stands a little back, on rising
ground, near the base of the
northern hills, crowned with a
neat, modest cupola, and which
seems to overlook the place
with a kind of calm, parental
affection, is the village church;
and that pretty little building
near it, with a lawn and some
shade trees in front, is the
village school-house. On the
right of this again, you see
the pastor's cottage, with its
trellissed windows, its flowery,
vine-creeping, shrubbery
yard, enclosed by white palings,
and its beautiful garden
in the rear—all looking so
rural, so cheerful, so calm, so
quiet, as if in keeping with
the sacred calling of him
who tenants it. On the opposite
side of the road, lower
down, near the bridge, is a
house of entertainment, with
its sign swinging and creaking
between two up-right
poles in front, its blazonry a
deer hunt, which corresponds
with its appellation, the White
Deer Inn. Just beyond this
inn, is a store—a little further
on a blacksmith, a shoemaker,
a tailor, a wheelwright, a cabinet
maker, and so forth, which
comprise nearly all the mechanical
trades of the village.
There are, besides, a number
of dwellings which we need
not specify, scattered along
the hard, smooth road, which
forms the only street of the
place.
Some quarter of a mile
above the village, on the opposite
side of the stream, are
a grist-mill and a saw-mill,
the dam for which, stretched
across the afore mentioned
stream, can be seen from the
bridge, and adds an artificial
waterfall to the otherwise picturesque
beauty of the valley.
Near these mills—the one
above and the other below—
are two dwellings, whose peculiar
architecture indicates
two periods in their existence,
namely, a rude new-territory
erection of early times with
modern improvements. And
such is their history. They
were the first buildings ever
put up in this valley, and belonged
to two families of settlers,
who removed hither
from Virginia, near the close
of the eighteenth century,
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when all around was a wilderness.
The names of these
families were Waldegrave and
Warren; and as they were
sole and equal proprietors of
the valley—having together
purchased it from Government—
and as the village was
equally founded by each, they
resolved to blend their names,
and at the same time perpetuate
them, by giving it the appropriate
title of Walde-Warren—
a name which it bears
at the present day, though we
warn the reader he will not
find it on any map of the
State.
Of these two families it becomes
our province more particularly
to speak than of any
others of the valley, as certain
events connected with
their history forms the subject
of our present story. Archer
Waldegrave, and Horatio
Warren were both born in
the same year, and within a
mile of each other. They
were townsmen, play-mates,
schoolmates, and, from youth
up, sworn friends. They differed
in their tastes and dispositions
only so much as nature
requires to make two
distinct characters harmonize.
Two persons exactly alike do
not experience that pleasure
in each other's society, which
is felt when one finds in the
other peculiarities and qualifications
he does not himself
possess. Nature is made up
of contrast and variety; and
these are the aliments of the
human mind, without which
it would languish and become
imbecile.
Partly by accident and
partly by design, the two
friends were married on
the same day, and together
spent their honeymoon. As
both were now of age, and
had been given a fair start in
the world, they resolved to
settle in some new country,
and together spend their days.
To make short a long story,
they purchased the Walde-Warren
valley, and removed
hither, bringing with them
some ten or twelve slaves.
It is not our purpose to detail
the progress of the settlement
thus begun. Years
rolled on, and the rude logcabins
of early times were,
without being demolished,
gradually converted into the
two large mansions already
pointed out to the reader. And
in every respect were these
two mansions so much alike,
that to see one was to see
both. Both had lawns in
front, running down to the
road, enclosed by palings, and
set out with shade trees.
Both had fine gardens in the
rear, and orchards, and farms
stretching away to the enclosing
hills, which farms were
worked by negroes.
At the precise period our
story opens—and we must
date back some twenty-five
or thirty years—both Waldegrave
and Warren were very
wealthy. Without a legal
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copartnership, they had ever
acted as if one existed, in the
division of property. Thus
they had purchased together
the entire valley, and then
divided the lands in as equitable
a manner as was possible
for them to do at the time;
but there was an understanding
between them, that if at
any future period the one
should find his division more
valuable than that of his
friend, an equivalent should
to that friend be rendered;
and this verbal agreement had
been as faithfully regarded as
if it had been the very letter
of the law. Time had brought
other settlers to Walde-Warren,
and their purchases had
increased the value of the remaining
lands; but not equally,
as regarded the owners;
for Waldegrave now found his
division the most valuable,
and saleable; but at every
such sale, he was punctilious
and scrupulous in giving Warren
his share.
The village, small even at
the present day, had not been
rapid in its growth—it was
too far inland, and inaccessible
for that. It had sprung into
existence slowly, gradually;
and though it never bore any
similitude to the mushroom,
like many frontier settlements
we could name, still, what it
gained one year it retained
the next, and was never known
to retrograde.
Small as it now is, it was
smaller, though scarcely less
beautiful, at the time of which
we write. The house of devotion
was then there, for it
had been jointly erected some
years previously by Waldegrave
and Warren. The
school-house was also there,
the inn, the bridge, the store,
the mills, and several dwellings;
and though some of the
mechanical branches named
have since been added to the
place, there was even then a
pleasant variety of honest,
useful trades. Take it all in
all, it was a cheerful little
place, full of kindness and
hospitality, as every stranger,
who chanced to sojourn there
for never so brief a season,
could testify. It seemed as if
the true fraternal feeling existing
between the proprietors
of Walde-Warren valley, had
thrown an air of goodness
over the village—had imparted
itself to every one who
came in contact with them.
Men may preach what they
will—it is practice alone
which tells upon the heart.
Our passions, like our feelings,
gain or lose by sympathy.
Vice cannot flourish where
virtue prevails. Place a vicious
man in a strictly moral,
religious community, and he
can no more exist there a bad
man, than a fish can live out
of its native element. He
must either quit that community
or reform; for the examples
of goodness he must daily
witness, coupled with an absence
of sympathy for, and an
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abhorrence of, any thing evil,
will as naturally work a
change as water runs down
hill. We believe that every
human mind, however depraved,
possesses, as an inherent
quality, in a greater or
less degree, a love of approbation;
and therefore, when
we find none to applaud us
for a bad action, we instinctively
seek to do a good one,
and vice versa. Every part
of the physical system seeks
sympathy with some other
part; and hence a disease
here shows itself there. So
with the mind. Sin is entailed
upon all born of woman; so
is disease and death; —but as
by cleanliness, temperance,
and frugality, we render the
body less liable to malady, so
by an upright striving we fortify
the mind against its sinful
inclinations. As one man,
by the peculiar organization
of his physical system, is more
liable to disease than another,
so is the mind of one more
than another prone to vice;
and in either case a more careful
watching, a more guarded
action, is necessary. Indulge
the body with excesses, and
it becomes diseased; and vice
is a disease of the mind, fed
by the passions. Our tastes,
both physically and mentally
speaking, are not natural, but
acquired; we eat as others
eat—we like what others like—
we do as we see others do.
The first mental faculty developed
in the child is imita
tion, and its proudest and happiest
achievement is to do exactly
what it has seen others
do. As it is taught, so will it
learn—as it is trained, so will
it grow up, for good or evil;
hence the importance, not
alone of precept, but of good
example. Think of this, ye
mothers of the rising generation!
Remember that on you,
mainly, rests the heavy responsibility
of the future conduct
of your offspring! In
proof of this assertion, you
shall take an infant and train
it to the most rigid abstemiousness,
to any faith, to any
principle of honor, and its
early education will become
as much a part of its inner
being as the air is of its outer
life—the one inseparate from
the other.
But we digress.
There was no wretchedness,
misery, drunkenness, or avarice,
in the vale of Walde-Warren—
but every where
cheerfulness, sobriety, frugality,
honesty, and good fellowship.
Each one was at peace
with himself, loved his neighbor,
feared God, and respected
the Sabbath. And all this
was the fruit of the noble example
of its founders.
But Providence, which
metes out blessings, likewise
metes out afflictions; and it
was ordained, doubtless for a
wise purpose, that the friends,
whose lives had so long run
parallel in prosperity and happiness,
should suddenly be
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bowed with sorrow and anguish,
and that there should
be woe in the valley where so
long had been rejoicing.
Neither Warren nor Waldegrave
had been blessed with
children, but each with a
child—the former a son, the
latter a daughter. Each was
the pride of its parents, who
fondly looked forward to the
day when the two families,
who had always lived in such
pleasant harmony, might find
themselves united by other
ties than those of friendship.
At the date of our story, Arthur
Warren was about twenty-one,
and Marian Waldegrave
seventeen years of age.
For the last four or five years,
they had seen very little of
each other, both having been
kept away at school. They
had occasionally met at home
during the holidays; but then
there was so many friends to
visit, so many to call upon
them — for they were well
known for miles around—and
so many little things to see to
and occupy their time, that
they were rarely alone together.
As children, they
had been very partial to each
other, and had grown up
warm friends—but there had
never any thing passed between
them to warrant the
report that they would ever
be connected by a closer tie.
Still such a report had gone
abroad, and was universally
believed; for the wishes of
the parents on this point were
no secret; and it was reasonable
to suppose that parental
desires, and family interest,
would bring about a union in
every respect so equal. Perhaps
both Arthur and Marian
looked forward to such an alliance
when the proper time
should arrive; but be that as
it may, nothing had ever passed
between them on the subject
and neither had confirmed
or contradicted the rumor that
all was settled for such an
event.
The precise time chosen for
the opening of our narrative—
for what has gone before,
we consider merely introductory—
is the day fixed on for
the return of Arthur Warren.
He had just graduated at one
of our northern medical colleges,
and had written home,
that on the day in question, nothing
unforeseen preventing,
he expected to reach Walde-Warren
by the mail coach,
which thrice a week passed
through the village, and
should bring with him a
friend, a college chum, who
was on his way to his residence
in Alabama, but who
had consented to sojourn for a
few days at his father's house.
We will only premise in this
connection, that Marian Waldegrave,
having finished her
course of studies abroad, had
been at home some three
months, though she and Arthur
had not met for more
than a year. Our prelude
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finished, we will now, forthwith,
enter upon our story.
CHAPTER II. THE RETURN.
It was one of those mild,
soft, balmy days of Spring,
which so refreshingly follow
the chill blasts and frosts of
winter, and give us a foretaste
of the approaching summer,
that a small group of persons
was collected in front of the
piazza of the White Deer,
awaiting the arrival of the
mail coach, which, it being
past ten o'clock in the morning,
was already due.
The eldest of this group was
a man between forty-five and
fifty years of age, stout built,
of medium height, and robust
and active. His countenance
had scarcely lost the freshness
of youth, and expressed frankness,
good-humor, benevolence,
and a contented mind.
There was something peculiarly
gentle and pleasing in
his mild, grey eye; and you
would have liked his face—
not for its comeliness, though
it was far from being ugly—
but for the kindliness and
goodness which beamed forth
in every expression. He was
the personation of vigorous
health, and his dark brown
hair showed not a single silver
mark of the years that had
rolled over his head. His
dress was plain, but neat, and
bespoke a man well-to-do in
the world, as also one devoid
of ostentation. This personage
was Horatio Warren, one of
the opulent proprietors of the
valley.
Of the others composing
the group, some four or five
in number, it is needless for
us to speak, as they have little
to do with our story. We
may state, however, that one
was the inn-keeper of the
White Deer, another the
post-master, and the remainder,
persons who, having idle
time on their hands, felt disposed
to enjoy it in a little
harmless gossip on the affairs
of the day. Standing somewhat
back from this group,
and leaning lazily against one
of the columns of the piazza,
but so as to get the full
warmth of the sun's rays, and
as little of the light breeze
stirring as possible, was a
sleek, fat negro, who was
amusing himself by making
grimaces at a child in the
street, who in return enjoyed
this species of fun vastly, as
it ever and anon gave proof
by a merry, exuberant laugh;
and this attracting the attention
of other urchins at a distance,
they dropped their occupations,
and hastened to
gather around this black Momus,
as bees collect around a
cup of honey. There were,
besides those mentioned, other
loungers here and there, two
of whom were on the bridge,
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one leaning over the railings,
looking down into the stream,
in a sort of dreamy reverie,
and the other sitting flat on
the planks, with his legs
hanging over the water, and
in his hand a fishing rod,
which he jerked up occasionally,
like a drowsy man's nod,
as if he thought it necessary
to demonstrate that he was
not actually asleep if the fish
were. In short, the picture
of a warm, lazy Spring day,
in a quiet, inland village, was
complete; and if we have not
done full justice to it, we feel
confident the reader's recollection,
or imagination will supply
the finishing touches.
“By-the-by, Mr. Nixon,”
said Warren, breaking off
somewhat abruptly from a political
discussion, which he
had been holding with a
young sprig of the law, and
which he had evidently been
drawn into against his will,
and addressing the inn-keeper—
“what time have you?”
“I am just seventeen minutes
past ten,” replied Nixon,
looking at his watch.
“And I nineteen,” said
Jones, the postmaster.
“And I eighteen,” put in
the young lawyer, whose name
was Collins.
“And I fourteen,” added a
fourth speaker.
“Well, gentlemen, you see
I am right,” returned Nixon,
jocularly, “because I have the
mean time.”
“Yes,” said Jones, with
that ready wit in punning
which is always appreciated
in a crowd, pointing to the
bull's-eye the landlord was
transferring to his fob—“yes,
Nixon, you may well say
mean time; you might have
said the meanest time.”
“Well, you all agree on
one point, I perceive,” said
Warren, “that it is past the
time for the stage.”
“It should be here by ten
at least,” replied the postmaster;
“but the rains to the
north'ard have gullied the
roads so as to render it slow
traveling. You are expecting
your son, I understand?”
“Yes, Arthur writes me,
that without some unforeseen
delay, I shall see him to-day.”
“Will he remain with you
now? or does he go away
again soon?”
“I hope he will remain—
but there is no telling what
fancies a young man may
take into his head now-a-days.
He has finished his collegiate
course, and if he sets up practice,
I hope it will be somewhere
in this region.”
“There is not much business
for a doctor in our little
village,” said Nixon.
“No, Dr. Potter says it is
distressingly healthy,” returned
Jones, “and that, with
present prospects, he will
have to move or starve.”
“It is a poor place for law
and physic,” said Collins.
“Because there is too much
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law and order,” rejoined the
postmaster. “No offence,
Mr. Collins; but doctors and
lawyers flourish best in a bad
community; for where men
most indulge in excesses, and
give most way to their passions,
there is always the most
for your professional gentlemen
to do.”
“I think it would be the
wisest plan to give doctors
and lawyers a regular salary
when they are not needed,
and stop it when they are,”
said Nixon.
“I differ with you,” replied
Warren. “I think it would
be better to live soberly, frugally,
uprightly, and dispense
with them altogether.”
“And yet you bring your
son up to one of these professions,”
rejoined the inn-keeper.
“Ay, sir, because the world
is not likely to take my advice;
and so long as such professions
are needed, so long
must they be supplied; besides-scientific
knowledge will
not injure a man, even if he
do not live by it.”
“And both doctors and lawyers
may be required when
you least think so,” said Collins,
laughing.
These words were prophetic,
though the speaker was
by no means a prophet.
“Ha! here comes your twin
brother, Mr. Warren,” said
Jones, pointing to Waldegrave,
who was now seen
crossing the bridge.
“Ah, you may well say
twin brother,” replied Warren;
“for had we both drawn
our sustenance from the same
breast, at the same time, we
could not have grown up with
warmer attachment for each
other. When it shall please
heaven to call either of us
hence, you may depend it
will be a sad day for the
other.”
He spoke with feeling; and
those who observed him closely,
saw that he was more affected
than he chose to have
appear.
We have elsewhere said
that Waldegrave and Warren
were both born in the same
year; but the former had a
much older look, and differed
materially from the latter in
his personal appearance, being
tall, of a slender make, with a
countenance intellectual, but a
complexion rather too sallow to
indicate a sound constitution
and a state of perfect health.
His features were regular,
soft, and pleasing, and had a
kindly, benevolent look, and
were rendered the more interesting,
perhaps, by the slightest
shade of melancholy,
equally perceptible when
wreathed with a smile or
remaining in grave repose.
His hair was quite grey, and
altogether he had the look of
a man who had seen more
than fifty winters. He dressed
in deep black, which became
his figure and person remarkably
well.
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Just as Waldegrave joined
the group, the stage was
espied coming down the winding
road of the valley; and a
few minutes after it rolled
heavily over the bridge, making
its strong timbers creak
and tremble, and drew up before
the inn, the horses panting
and covered with mud and
foam. The next moment the
door of the coach was thrown
open by the impatient father,
and the hand of a handsome
young man was grasped and
shaken with true paternal affection.
“Why, father, I am delighted
to see you looking so well,”
said Arthur, gaily, as he
sprang to the ground. “I
need not ask how you do, for
your cheerful, healthy countenance
speaks for itself. How
is mother? Ah, Mr. Waldegrave,
most happy to greet
you—how is your good lady
and Marian?”
“All your friends are well,
Arthur,” said his father; “and
Marian and her mother are at
our house, waiting to receive
you as becometh old
friends.”
“Bless her sweet little face—
Marian I mean: but I forget—
she is no longer little—
I was thinking of old times,”
returned Arthur, in the same
buoyant, lively strain. “But
here comes my friend,” added
Arthur, as another young
man, splendidly dressed,
alighted from the coach.
“This is my father, Ernest—
father, this is Mr. Clifford,
the friend mentioned in my
letter, whom I have prevailed
upon to spend a few days
with us in Walde-Warren.”
“Most happy to greet you,
sir, as the friend of Arthur,”
said the elder Warren, shaking
heartily the hand of Clifford.
“Welcome, sir—a true
old fashioned welcome to our
little valley—and may you be
long our guest.”
“Thank you, sir—thank
you kindly,” replied Clifford.
“Mr. Waldegrave, my father's
old friend, Ernest, of
whom you have so often
heard me speak,” said Arthur,
introducing the gentleman
named. “And now,”
he pursued, with a gay laugh,
“as you have the mortal head
and front of Walde-Warren
within your grasp, my dear
Ernest, you will excuse me a
few moments, till I speak to
my friends here.”
He then passed round
among the by-standers, whose
number had augmented since
his arrival, and greeted each
in that frank, easy, cheerful
manner, which never fails to
get a cordial response and win
the hearts of old and young,
more especially if the individual,
as in the case of Arthur
Warren, stands one grade
higher on the sliding scale of
society than those he addresses.
He had a few kindly
words for each, seasoned
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with playful humor, sometimes
a pleasant jest; and
when he had gone the entire
round, and spoken to all, there
was not a man but in his
heart wished long life and
happiness to the heir of
Walde-Warren.
Arthur now espied the negro—
who, no longer amusing
the children with his grimaces
was standing respectfully
back, watching every motion
of his young master, and anxious
for his turn to be noticed—
and approaching him with
a smile, the young man took
his hand, and said gaily:—
“Why, Pete, my oily
ebony, how fares the world
with you? Really, you look
as if your greatest exploits,
for the last six months, had
been eating and digesting!
How is Dinah, boy?”
“She well, massa, God
bress you!” replied Pete, doffing
his hat. “I's so glad
you come, massa, and you is
looking so well and so hansome,
massa! Why, massa,
all de niggers will be tickled
to deff to seed you got back
agin.”
“Thank you, Pete—I always
love to look upon cheerful
and happy faces, and it
takes nothing from my pleasure
to know they are made
so by my presence. You
have the carriage here,
Pete?”
“Yes, Massa Arthur, um
jus' round in de shed dar; I
couldn't go fetch um till I
spoke to you.”
“Well, you can go now,
Pete. Drive round the moment
the stage drives off, and
put on all that baggage you
see piled up yonder. Now
hasten, Pete, for I am impatient
to reach home.”
“Yes, massa, I do um quick
as chain lightning strike de
t'under clap;” and away
bounded the black, with a
light and happy heart.
And here we will take occasion
to say a few words of
Arthur and his friend. When
Peter called his young master
handsome, he applied no misnomer,
for in truth he was
very comely. Unlike his
father, he was of slender
build, of medium height,
straight as an arrow, and in
every respect symmetrical.
His features were fine, regular
and intelligent, and in expression,
frank, cheerful, vivacious.
There was nature's nobleness
in his high, broad,
smooth forehead, and dark
eloquent hazel eyes. You
could see he had temper, quick
and high, but coupled with a
disposition more forgiving
than vindictive. If quick to
take an affront, he was quick
to forgive one, provided forgiveness
became a virtue. In
short, he was a high-spirited,
noble young man, of the winning
and easy manners of a
true-bred gentleman. His
face was smooth, for he wore
no beard, and his short curly,
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[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
brown hair gave his head a
classic appearance.
In many essential points,
Arthur Warren differed from
Ernest Clifford. The latter
was taller, and not in every
respect so symmetrical. His
features were more elongated,
his cheeks more thin and hollow,
and his complexion had
a sallow hue. His eyes were
dark, almost black, and intense
and piercing in their expression.
There was something
about him you would like and
dislike at the same time.
There was intelligence in his
countenance, but it lacked the
open, cheerful candor of Arthur.
You felt he could be cool
and self-collected under any
circumstances, and that his
passions were so completely
under his control, that he
could dissemble almost without
an effort. He never laughed
loud and heartily as Arthur
sometimes would; but
if pleased, he smiled; and unlike
Arthur, too, he could
smile and be angry at the
same time. He was one of
those persons who never act
from impulse, but are wholly
governed by self-interest, or by
a deliberate resolve. He was
a man you would rather have
for a friend than an enemy—
but, at the same time, ten to
one, you would prefer he were
neither. His features were
regular, and many would term
them handsome; but to a keen
physiognomist, a sinister expression,
too often exhibited,
destroyed their beauty. His
nose was long and pointed,
and his lips were thin and
compressed: he wore a neatly
trimmed beard under his chin,
and his long and well oiled
hair dangled about his face
and neck. His manners were
easy and polished, yet a close
observer could detect they
were, to a great degree, artificial.
He was, on the whole,
and in brief, a man of the
world, and a man of circumstances.
We will say no more
for the present, for the reader
will soon have an opportunity
to see and judge both him and
Arthur for himself.
“Come, Ernest,” said Arthur,
as soon as the carriage
was ready, “get in, and I will
soon show you my valley
home. I will show you Marian,
too, but I warn you not
to fall in love with her.”
“I fear I shall, if all you
have said of her be true,”
smiled Ernest.
“He has been praising her
to you then?” said Warren,
exchanging glances with Waldegrave.
“Ah, sir, he has extolled
her beyond woman born—so I
shall look to find an angel,”
replied Ernest.
“She is a sweet, good girl,”
returned Warren, “and one
universally beloved for her
many virtues.”
“Come, come,” chimed in
Waldegrave, “she is my
daughter, and I am proud of
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[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
her; but praise to the face,
you know, Horatio—”
“Ay, ay, Archer,” laughed
the elder Warren; “I know:
but still, my friend, that modest
blush becomes you.”
“Well,” said Ernest, as the
carriage, with Pete as driver,
now rolled away over the
bridge, “I suppose one may
speak in praise of this valley,
without being considered an
open flatterer, even though
you, gentlemen, have a sort of
parental claim to its many
beauties. At all events, I
shall venture to say it is the
most delightful place it has
ever been my good fortune to
visit.”
“I am glad you like it,” replied
Warren, “and trust you
will have no reason for making
your first visit a short
one.”
A few minutes sufficed to
bring our friends to their destination;
and as the carriage
drew up at the door of his
home, Arthur, impatient to
greet his mother and friends,
begged Ernest to excuse him,
and darted into the house, the
others following more leisurely.
He found his mother and
Mrs. Waldegrave in the parlor;
and embracing the former,
and shaking hands with
the latter, with all the affection
and warm open-heartedness
of his nature, he said a
few hurried words, appropriate
to the occasion, and
then, glancing quickly around
the room, exclaimed:
“But is not little Marian
here to receive her old playmate?”
“In the next apartment,”
smiled his mother.
Arthur waited for no more,
but hastily opening the door,
bounded in. This apartment
was a kind of sitting-room and
library; and as he entered it,
he beheld the object of his
search seated near the win
dow, with a book in her hand,
the leaves of which she was
tumbling over in a manner
that, had he been less excited
himself, he must have perceived
indicated a good deal
of nervous agitation.
“Why, Marian, how is
this?” he cried, advancing
with a quick step to her side.
“I thought you would be the
first to welcome me, and yet
I find you—”
He stopped suddenly; for
by this time Marian had risen,
with true maidenly grace, and
turned her sweet face full upon
him, covered with blushes,
the import of which was not
to be mistaken. Arthur seemed
struck dumb by that look,
and, quick as lightning, the
truth flashed upon him, and
he in turn felt embarrassed
and confused. Had he ever
made the heart of woman his
study, and particularly that
of Marian Waldegrave, he
might have anticipated all
this; but somehow he had always
thought of her as a child,
his old playmate, his sweet
little friend, his pretty little
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Marian, and as such he had
loved her, as such he had expected
to meet her now. But
Marian was no longer a child—
no longer a romping little
girl; she had grown to woman's
estate; she had a woman's
feelings, a maiden's delicacy;
she loved, and the
object of her love stood before
her. All this Arthur now
knew and comprehended from
a single glance at her countenance;
and its effect, as aforesaid,
was to confuse and embarrass
him; the words that
were but now bounding from
his lips, seemed driven back
into his very throat, as if to
choke him; he tried to speak,
but could not; he tried to appear
at ease, but knew he was
conducting himself awkwardly,
and this embarrassed him
still more; he felt he was acting
like a simpleton; he was
glad there was no one to witness
it; and he would have
given half his fortune to be
himself for five minutes
When he first began to speak,
he had extended his hand; he
had not withdrawn it; Marian
now took it, and dropping
her eyes to the ground, said,
in a faltering tone:
“I hope you are well, Arthur.”
Her voice in a measure
seemed to break the spell that
bound him; he essayed to
speak again, and he succeeded?
but still his words did
not flow freely, and he knew
he still appeared constrained
and awkward. He replied that
he was well, very well, and
hoped she was also; to which
she nodded an affirmation, and
then another embarrassing
pause succeeded. Arthur
wanted to compliment her on
having arrived at the bloom
of maturity—on her looking
better and more beautiful than
he had ever before seen her;
but somehow he felt afraid to
venture so much; the gay,
sprightly, dashing young man
had suddenly become timid
and bashful.
“But come,” he said, at
last, rallying himself, and assuming
a tone of ease he was
far from feeling; “come, Miss
Waldegrave, I have a friend
here to whom I have promised
to introduce you the moment
we should arrive. I hear him
speaking in the other room.”
He called her Miss Waldegrave,—
she whom but now
he had termed Marian—she
who had been his playmate
and sweet little friend from
infancy—she on whom he had
never bestowed so formal a
title in all his life: he addressed
her as Miss Waldegrave!
She noticed it—he
noticed it. Why did he not
call her Marian still? Why,
simply, because he somehow
thought—he fancied—that—
that Marian was a too familiar
appellation just at that
time.
O, Cupid, thou art a mischievous
little god! Thou
dost play such strange, wild
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pranks with hearts of which
thou gettest possession, making
simpletons of the young,
and down right fools of the
old.
“You must excuse me, Arthur—
Mr. Warren, I mean,”
replied Marian. “I—I—that
is—I am not prepared to see
your friend just now—I will
presently;” and she hastened
out of the room.
Arthur followed her with
his eyes, till she had disappeared;
and for several minutes
after he seemed lost in
a deep reverie.
“It is strange!” he sighed,
at length—“it is very strange!”
and with slow steps, and in a
thoughtful mood, he re-entered
the parlor, and joined his
friends.
CHAPTER III. LOVE AND DOUBT
Marian Waldegrave truly
deserved the epithet of lovely,
as applied not only to her
material form, but to her mind.
She was one of those mild,
sweetly tempered, gentle beings,
that seem sent here as a
sort of connecting link between
earth and heaven—a
thing of earthly mould, earthly
substance, but devoid of
the passions which so often
mar what is otherwise nearly
perfect and most beautiful.
Her right, strictly speaking,
to the latter epithet, beautiful,
many would gainsay; but to
that of lovely, none. She was
about medium in stature, and
what might be termed wellformed,
but not in every respect
symmetrical. Her face
was one of those we ever love
to gaze upon—soft, fair,
radiant with intelligence, and
beaming with affection, and
all the nobler and holier attributes
of our nature. Her features
were fine, regular and
comely, and were pervaded by
an expression of great sweetness,
which even to the ugliest
countenance, always lends a
charm, but which, aided by
nature, as was the case with
her, proves irresistible in its
attraction, and becomes more
potent than beauty the most
perfect when not so adorned—
for beauty, after all, is a
matter of taste, and what one
sets up as a standard another
decries, while all unite in
praise of what is sweet and
lovely. The eyes of Marian
were gray, lustrous and mild
as those of a dove, and were
shaded somewhat, and softened
still more, by long drooping
lashes. Feeling they expressed,
deep and strong; but
it was that feeling of meekness,
of patient endurance, of
reliance on a holy faith, rather
than that which urges one on
to combat opposition, to surmount
a difficulty as it were
by storm. You looked there
in vain for any evidence of
that passion which raves and
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[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
rends like a madman, foams
and boils like an angry sea.
You could see through those
orbs of the soul a heart that
might sink under grief; but
one that would so sink, slowly,
calmly, gradually—not crushed
as by a sudden blow—not
uprooted by a whirlwind—but
one that might fade, wither
and die, like a gentle flower
from which the dew and sunlight
have been withdrawn.
Her complexion was light,
clear, and warm in tone; and
her hair was long and fine,
and of the flaxen hue ascribed
to the Saxons. Her nose was
almost Grecian; her mouth
beautiful, with pearly teeth;
and over her countenance generally,
like moonlight upon a
flower, lay the lightest tinge
of melancholy—something like
what we described of her father—
and this gave additional
interest to a face in every
other respect so attractive and
lovely. As she was in outward
semblance, so was she
in inner being. Her mind
was pure, gentle, affectionate
and confiding. In short, the
elder Warren had well
described her, in brief but
homely phrase, when he said
she was “a sweet, good girl,
and one universally beloved
for her many virtues.”
On quitting the presence
of Arthur, Marian hastened
up stairs to a little sleeping
chamber—which had always
been assigned her, when, as
had not unfrequently been
the case, she had spent the
night with the Warrens—and
closing and bolting the door,
she threw herself upon a seat,
and, covering her face, gave
vent to her mingled emotions
in a flood of tears. She wept
for joy at the return of Arthur,
whom she had long loved in
secret; and she wept, too, in
maidenly shame, that she had
betrayed that secret to him.
What would he think of her?
Would he not think her bold,
forward and scheming, and,
in consequence, despise her?
She would have given all she
possessed in the world, to have
met him as of old—to have
concealed in her breast that
she felt toward him other
than as a sister or a friend.
And he had called her Miss
Waldegrave instead of Marian!
Doubtless he was
offended, and had taken this
method to show her, that,
having overstepped the
bounds of true maidenly propriety,
he must henceforth
regard her in the formal light
of a mere acquaintance.
Perhaps he loved another—
in all probability he did, for
he had been years away, and
he was of too warm and
ardent a nature to live long
without some object of attachment.
And even were this
not the case, what could he
see in her to admire above all
others? particularly after having
conducted herself in a
manner so unbecoming? No
he must despise her—or, if
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
not despise, pity her, which
was equally as humiliating to
her sensitive nature. Yes, he
pitied her, for he was too
noble to despise, and for this
reason he had been so anxious
to introduce her to his friend.
Oh! what would she not have
given, to have known what
she knew now, previous to
that interview, that she might
have met him, not with different
feelings, but with those
feelings hid under a light and
cheerful mask! Yes, she
thought, were she to go
through the same part again,
she would so act, that the
secret of her heart should
never be known to him. She
would talk gaily, she would
laugh, she would be merry,
be frolicsome, no matter how
much it might cost her. But
it was now too late; she had
already exposed herself—had
rendered herself ridiculous to
the one, whom of all others,
she would have think well of
her. But though she might
not blot out the past, she reasoned,
she might in some
degree atone for her foolish,
unmaidenly conduct, by a different
course of action in
future. He should not pity
her,—no, no—he should not
pity her. She would meet
him as an equal, as a friend—
he should see she was a friend—
but nothing more. She
would school her feelings to
play a part in his presence;
and only when no human
eyes were upon her, should
nature have full sway. She
could not hope, she did not in
fact desire, to eradicate the
love she felt for him; but she
would evermore conceal it,
bury it deep in her heart,
even though it should feed on
that heart, like a living thing,
and consign her to an early
grave.
Thus thought, felt, and
resolved Marian Waldegrave,
as alone she wept in that little
chamber. Ah! could she at
that moment have seen the
heart of Arthur Warren, all
tears of regret would have
been banished from her eyes—
all her hard wrought
resolves would have “vanished
into thin air,”—all her
petty griefs would have disappeared
as shadows before
the sunshine. But such is
love—strange in its operations—
inconsistent with itself—
retarding its own advancement—
a thing of light and joy,
yet concealing itself in the
deepest recesses of the heart,
and feeding on melancholy—
shrinking from notice like a
sensitive plant from the touch,
and torturing its possessor
with a thousand alternato
hopes and fears—till haply, it
is discovered by circumstances,
dragged forth from
its hiding place, and made to
take its just position among
the higher and holier passions
of our nature.
It was perhaps an hour, ere
Marian found herself qualified
for the part she had so firmly
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
resolved to sustain in the presence
of Arthur Warren.
She dried her eyes, and
strove to obliterate all traces
of recent tears: she arranged
her hair with unusual care, in
the little mirror before her;
she stilled the painful throbbings
of her heart, by the
mere force of her will; and
lastly, she called upon her
countenance a look of smiling
contentment, such as nature
had implanted there, ere love
had come to banish it, and
cause it to be replaced by
sheer dissembling.
Thus prepared, she descended
to the parlor; but
the nearer she approached it,
the greater became the
mental struggle, till, having
reached the door, which
would admit her to the
dreaded presence, she was
obliged to pause some moments,
to subdue her agitation,
and force her will to
gain a mastery over her feelings.
At length she entered;
and a single glance assured
her, much to her relief, that
the object alike of her love and
dread was not there. In fact,
but two persons were present—
her mother and Arthur's
friend—and drawing a long
breath of relief, as she turned
somewhat abruptly to close
the door, she felt she was
truly herself once more.
“You are rather tardy in
making your appearance,
Marian,” childed her mother,
a mild, pleasant looking, mid
dle-aged lady. “My daughter,
Mr. Clifford,” she added,
turning to that gentleman.
“Most happy to make your
acquaintance, Miss Waldegrave,”
replied Clifford, rising,
bowing, and advancing to her
with polished ease. “Truly,”
he continued, taking her
hand, and looking earnestly
upon her sweet countenance,
“I feel as though we were
not meeting for the first time—
for I have heard Arthur
speak of you so often, that you
seem to me as an old and
valued friend.”
At the mention of the name
of Arthur, Marian crimsoned
to the very temples, and for a
moment or two appeared
much confused; but she
recovered herself, with an
effort, and answered:
“Yes, Arthur and I were
old playmates, and I am happy
to hear he has not forgotten
the days lang syne.”
“On the contrary, I fear
he has thought more of them
than his studies,” pursued
Clifford, keeping his eyes
fixed steadily upon Marian—
those black, piercing orbs, that
seemed to read her very soul.
“Truly,” he continued, smiling,
“I would have vouched
to his being in love with you,
only that I know love, as the
term is generally understood,
is a something timid and
shrinking, which nestles in
the heart and keeps its own
secret.”
Marian again crimsoned to
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
the temples, and then became
deadly pale. Had Clifford
known her very thoughts, and
been anxious to displace the
image of Arthur, he could not
have chosen a time and words
better calculated to effect his
object. We must do him the
justice to say, however, that
whatever might have been his
wish on this point, the words
he uttered were purely accidental,
as regarded their so
unfortunately chiming in with
her own sentiments and feelings.
Having noted for a moment
the effect of his language,
without knowing the secret
cause of its sinking so deeply
and all-powerfully into the
heart of her he addressed,
Ernest rallied and said,
gaily:
“Come, Miss Waldegrave,
a truce to this. I have not
known you the brief space of
three minutes, and already you
see, I have introduced the subject
of love, which, however
naturally brought about, is, I
perceive, inappropriate and ill-timed.
Besides, I have no
right to make use of the confidence
of my dear friend,
Arthur, whose communications,
I doubt not, were confidential,
though accompanied
with no stipulations. Pray,
let me hand you to a seat, and
change the subject. This is
a delightful valley, Miss Waldegrave,”
he added, placing
his own chair at a decorous
distance from hers.
“To me it is,” replied Marian,
greatly relieved of her
recent embarrassment, and determined
to make herself
cheerful and agreeable, if only
to mask her feelings; “but I
believe one is generally partial
to the place of one's nativity,
Mr. Clifford.”
“Yes, there is no place like
home,” returned the other,
with sentimental languor;
“for however bleak, and barren,
and disagreeable it may
appear to others, to us it must
ever be beautiful for being
home; and thus if I, a
stranger, can justly speak in
praise of this, your native
vale, you, in the same ratio,
may be pardoned for worshiping
it.”
“Nay, not quite that, Mr.
Clifford,” said Marian, with a
smile; “for,” she continued,
solemnly, and with great simplicity,
“we are permitted to
worship none but God.”
Ernest seemed struck with
her words and manner, and
quickly rejoined:
“Nay, you must not take
my language literally, Miss
Waldegrave. I spoke comparatively;
for I agree with you,
that God alone is entitled to
the heart's worship.”
“I like you, Mr. Clifford,
for that sentiment,” chimed
in Mrs. Waldegrave, who,
since introducing Marian to
him, had been busy at one of
the windows, disentangling a
skein of silk, and who, in
consequence, had only
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
overheard the latter portion of
their conversation, while resuming
her seat. “I love to
hear young persons speak
reverently of the Creator from
whom flow all our manifold
blessings; and setting
aside the sinfulness thereof,
there is nothing, in my opinion,
lower, and more degrading,
than profanity. Are you
a member of any church, Mr.
Clifford?”
“I am not,” replied Ernest,
coloring; “though, I trust in
God, I am not worse at heart
than many who are.”
“A public profession is a
good thing, if only for example,”
replied the matron, peering
at Ernest over her glasses;
“and as you seem religiously
inclined, I hope your influence
in this way, upon your associates
and community, will
not long be delayed.”
Now to suppose Ernest
Clifford religiously inclined,
was to suppose a man in love
with God and Mammon at
the same time; and those who
knew him best, would have
been the very last to accuse
him of such a thing; though
were hypocritical expressions
of piety necessary to advance
his interest, we regret to say
they were not likely to be long
wanting.
The topic of conversation
now became a religious one,
which for several minutes was
carried on between Clifford
and Mrs. Waldegrave, Marian
taking no part, and, judging
by her abstracted air, heeding
nothing that was said. At
length a pause ensued; and
Mrs. Waldegrave, asking to
be excused a few minutes,
quitted the room, leaving Ernest
and Marian tete a tete.
“You seem dejected, Miss
Waldegrave,” said Clifford,
turning to her with a respectful
air, and speaking in a low,
bland, and rather sympathetic
tone.
“Me? I dejected,” answered
Marian, starting and
coloring. “Oh, no, you must
be mistaken—why should I be
dejected?”
“Excuse me! perhaps I
was mistaken,” replied Clifford,
in the same low, bland tone
evidently intending to render
himself agreeable, “But I
noticed you were looking pale,
and methought I heard you
sigh. I wonder where our
mutual friend, Arthur, can
have gone?”
As he said this, he fixed his
eyes keenly upon Marian's
countenance, though without
appearing to do so, and, being
quick of penetration, he saw
enough to convince him of
what he had before suspected,
namely, that something had
passed between her and Arthur
which she wished to conceal.
Now Ernest was selfish,
and worldly; and though he
called Arthur his friend, yet
friendship in his view was
only a name, and should at all
times be sacrificed to interest,
in the event of the two
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
coming in collision. He saw that
Marian was lovely, if not
beautiful; and he knew she
was an heiress, which was
more important in his eyes
than either; and it now occurred
to him, that if by any
means he could win and carry
off the prize, it would be a
grand achievement. Perhaps
this selfish and treacherous
consideration did not now occur
to Ernest Clifford for the
first time; some such idea
might have entered his head before
he came to Walde-Warren;
but be that as it may, Ernest
was not the man to let any
opportunity for bettering his
worldly condition pass unimproved.
At college he and
Arthur had been very intimate;
and where Arthur Warren
was intimate, he bestowed
his confidence without reserve,
and laid bare the secret
recesses of his noble soul.
The world had always gone
pleasantly with him—of its
treachery and deceit he knew
little or nothing—and it would
have been almost as difficult
to convince him that one he
called his friend would betray
his confidence and prove his
most bitter enemy, without
other than a merely selfish
cause, as that his faith in Divine
Providence was misplaced.
Ernest had read his
open nature at a glance, and
had made him his friend,
merely because he had thought
he might be useful to him.
And he had used him more
than once—having at different
times borrowed sums of money,
to be paid at some future
day, which day had not yet
arrived. In their association,
Ernest had always been more
ready to listen to Arthur than
to talk himself; and, without
exhibiting any intentional reserve,
had so managed as to
get at all of Arthur's secrets
without revealing any of his
own. He had sometimes
spoken of his family, connections,
and prospects, it is true;
but always in such a way, that,
without making any positive
statement, the inference would
be drawn, that he was a much
more important personage in
the world, than modesty allowed
him to blazon forth.
The truth was, his father was
a man in moderate circumstances,
with a large family,
who had permitted him to acquire
a profession; but had
limited himself to means barely
sufficient to pay his board
and tuition; for the rest he
had managed by borrowing
of such kind friends as were
not likely to be troublesome
about a return, and in this respect
Arthur had proved to
him a perfect god-send.
Let the reader keep in view
these unworthy characteristics
of Ernest Clifford, his
desire for wealth, and the feeble
prospect he had of acquiring
it suddenly by other means
than marriage, together with
the slight incidents recorded
of his brief acquaintance with
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
Marian, and he will hardly be
surprised that such a personage
should begin to consider
on the possibility of his obtaining
the hand and fortune
of the latter, and, with this
consideration uppermost in his
mind, should begin to scheme
for its accomplishment.
“If,” he mentally soliloquised,
“Arthur does not love
her—and my random words
may have hit the mark—else
why her blushes and confusion?—
or if, again, he does
love her, and they had a
lover's quarrel, I may, by
playing my cards skillfully,
win the game. It is certainly
worth the trial; and if nothing
else come of it, it will serve
to amuse me while I remain
in this dreary country valley.
Should I succeed, it will be a
fortune, and fortunes are not
to be acquired without an effort.
Something has occurred
between her and Arthur, that
is certain; for since meeting
her, he is sober and abstracted,
and she blushes whenever I
mention his name. If he does
love her, I shall make him
jealous; and if they have
quarrelled, I will widen the
breach. I shall offend him
perhaps—but what of that?—
what is his friendship weighed
against her fortune?—a
straw against a bag of gold.
Perhaps she loves him! Well,
then, she is but woman, and I
must make her jealous—not
by any broad statement, but
by the most subtle inuendo.
I will praise Arthur to her,
and praise her to Arthur; and
yet if they love one another, I
will so manage as to estrange
them, and harass the souls
of both, but at the same time
steer clear myself of the shipwreck
I shall make; if they do
not love one another, then the
sea is open, and I shall have
fair sailing.”
All this floated through the
scheming brain of Ernest
Clifford, as it were in a moment
of time; and to Marian's
reply, that Arthur might have
stepped out to visit his father's
negroes, as was his custom
immediately on coming home,
and that doubtless he would
soon return, he rejoined:
“Speaking of Arthur, I
have been picturing to myself
the delight you must
have experienced in meeting
after so long a separation. It
is nearly five years, he tells
me, since you have been
much together; and for this
reason, doubtless, he always
seems to speak of you as a
child, his little playmate Marian,
his charming little
friend, rather than as one
grown to your estate. Ah,
Miss Waldegrave, you would
have laughed to have heard
the rapturous encomiums he
ever bestowed upon you;
really, he could not have
shown a warmer, more ardent
affection for you, had you
been his sister.”
Had these words of Clifford
been daggers, pressed
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
slowly home to some vital
part, the torturing anguish of
Marian had scarcely been
greater than it now was.
But she concealed her emotions
wonderfully, considering
she was such a novice in the
art of dissimulation; and one
less observing and penetrating
than Clifford, would never
have suspected how much she
mentally suffered; but those
dark, keen eyes of his were
upon her, and he saw with a
feeling of triumph, that already
he had planted a thorn
in her breast. She replied,
however, with a look of animation,
and in a cheerful
tone:
“So Arthur was in raptures
about his little Marian, as he
termed me, eh? Ah, Mr. Clifford,
could you have seen us
romping together while children,
you would not have
been surprised at it.”
“I am not surprised as it
is,” returned Ernest with a
meaning look; “for since I
have seen you, I must frankly
acknowledge he had more
reason for his transports than
I gave him credit for at the
time. But this is a changing
world, Miss Waldegrave,” he
continued, altering his tone to
one better suited to grave moralizing;
“a changing world;
and it always makes me sad
when I take a retrospective
view, and see how time pulls
down and destroys the airy
fabrics of youthful creation—
consigning to the grave all
those gay, buoyant spirits that
made childhood so delightful
and happy — or immersing
them in the business, the
cares, and anxieties, which
grow upon us with our growth,
and attend us ever after, till
death drops the curtain before
the scene of mortal strife. It
has often with me been a
matter of curious speculation,
too, that so few of those who
set out in life together, and
seem by nature peculiarly
adapted to each other, ever
unite their fortunes, both as
regards co-partnership and
marriage. The stranger to
the stranger is a rule that has
but few exceptions.”
“Alas! yes, it is too true,”
sighed Marian, completely
thrown off her guard.
At this moment the door
opened and Arthur Warren
entered. He seemed surprised
to find Ernest and Marian
tete-a-tete; but was more surprised
still, when the latter
spoke up quickly, in a gay
tone, smiling through the color
that mounted to her temples:
“So, truant, you have come
at last, have you? We were
just speaking of you—do
your ears burn?”
Arthur, remembering the
brief interview he had had
with Marian, her abashed and
confused manner, so entirely
different from the one she now
assumed, could scarcely credit
his senses; but he rallied himself,
and replied in the same
vein:
“Speaking of me, were
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
you? no good I'll be bound.
I wish you joy of your subject
though. But come! am
I to know what you have been
saying?”
“Aha! methought I could
raise your curiosity,” answered
Marian. “You gentlemen
always pretend to have
no curiosity, and ascribe that
failing to us of the weaker
sex, citing mother Eve as a
proof—but we catch you occasionally.
Shall I tell him
what was said, Mr. Clifford?”
“If you like, since it concerns
you as much as himself,
and is not calculated to make
him vain.”
“Nor to pull down his
pride either. But since, as
you say, it concerns me too,
why, I will leave you to be
informer, while I make my
exit;” and Marian rose and
turned to quit the apartment.
“Surely, you are not going
to make us miserable by so
abrupt a departure?” said
Ernest.
“O, no, not going to make
you miserable, but going to
make my exit nevertheless,”
replied Marian, with a laugh,
as she bounded gaily out of
the room. Arthur looked
after her, with an expression
in which doubt and astonishment
strangely blended.
“She is a lovely creature,
and I do not wonder you used
to be so in raptures about
her,” said Clifford. “By my
faith, Arthur, if you had not
warned me not to fall in love
with her, I fear I should by
this time have been your rival—
she is so pretty, so intelligent,
so agreeable, so entertaining.”
“Why, one would think
you were in love with her as
it is,” answered Arthur, turning
quickly upon his friend,
but forcing a laugh to conceal
the vexation he felt at the
other's language.
“And should I admit that
I am, I hope it will give no
offence, my dear Arthur,”
replied the other, half jestingly,
half earnestly.
“Offence!” repeated Arthur,
thrown into some confusion:
“Offence! O, no, of
course not.”
“I knew you were too
warm a friend, and of too
noble and manly a spirit, to
mind a matter so trifling.
Not that I wish you to understand,
my dear fellow, that I
am actually and bona fide
in love with her—O, no—
though I will say, frankly,
that I have never before seen
one of her sex that pleased
and interested me so much on
so short an acquaintance.
And even if I did love her,
my dear friend, and I knew
that she returned my attachment,
I would sooner cut off
my hand than stand in your
way—so I will try and forget
her.”
“Nay, you need not forget
her on my account; I have
no more claim on her than
you—perhaps not so much,”
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
replied Arthur, quickly and
tartly, nettled and vexed at
the language of the other.
“Say you so, my dear
Arthur?” cried Ernest, seizing
his hand, and appearing
not to notice there was any
thing wrong. “Ah, you are
a noble fellow!” “But then,”
he added, in an altered tone,
letting his countenance lose
its exultant animation, “you
have often said it was the
wish of your parents and hers,
that in you two both families
and fortunes should be united.”
“True, such is their wish
still,” answered Arthur, coldly;
“but I believe they would
sooner see us both in our
graves than united with
hearts estranged. One thing
is certain. I will never wed
one who loves another, though
I loved that one never so
well. If Marian likes you
better than me, as your words
seem to imply, why, marry
her, in heaven's name, and
peace go with you!”
As he said this, in a cold,
severe tone, Arthur wheeled
on his heel, with the intention
of quitting the room abruptly;
but Clifford, who was playing
a deep game, with the skill of
an adept, caught him by the
arm, and exclaimed, with well
feigned emotion:
“Stay, Arthur, my dear
friend, and let me explain!
Oh! I have offended you, I
see—offended my best friend—
and all unintentionally. But
you have mistaken me entirely;
I only spoke of my own
feelings; I did not even hint
at Marian's. She like me on
so short an acquaintance?
Poh! she neither likes nor
dislikes, I'll be bound. We
spoke of love, it is true—but
with reference to you, Arthur,
not to myself. Now do not be
offended, I pray you! I know
Marian likes you, dearly—she
said as much—and only say
the word, and you shall have
it all your own way—I will
not interfere.”
“Indeed you are very kind,”
said Arthur, with a proud curl
of his lip.
“There, I have offended
again. Forgive me! Pray
tell me what I shall do to get
once more into your favor!”
“I am wrong to get angry,”
replied Arthur, bethinking
himself. “There is my hand,
Ernest—forget all my hasty
words.”
“With all my heart,” returned
the other, seizing and
shaking the proffered hand
warmly, and with a show of
considerable emotion. “I see
now, my dear friend, you love
the girl, and I have made you
a little jealous with my ill-timed
remarks. But forget
them, my dear fellow—forget
them! I know Marian thinks
much of you, already—ay,
were you even her brother, she
could scarcely think more of
you. Nay, you need not start,
and look so astonished! I
pledge you my reputation for
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
discernment it is true; and
therefore you have only to
press your suit in that quarter,
to be successful.”
Ere Arthur, vexed, confused,
and half bewildered,
could frame a reply, Mr. Warren
entered the parlor, to bid
his guest and son to dinner.
Perhaps Arthur was not sorry
for this interruption; for turning
quickly away from Clifford,
he said:
“Father, I give Ernest into
your charge. Conduct him
to dinner, and I will join you
presently;” and without waiting
a reply, he opened the
door, and passed into the
room where he had first met
Marian.
“Bravely done!” said Clifford
to himself, as he accompanied
the elder Warren to
the dinner table—“bravely
done! The game opens beautifully;
and with the cards all
in my own hands, I am a fool
if I do not win!”
CHAPTER IV. THE STRANGER AND THE WARNING.
We will not here interrupt
the thread of our narrative, to
describe the clashing feelings
which agitated the heart of
Arthur Warren, on finding
himself alone in the library,
as we will term the apartment
he entered. Suffice it to say,
that for some ten minutes he
paced the room in no enviable
frame of mind, ever and anon
clenching his hands, and otherwise
giving evidence of the
action of the stronger passions.
At length a servant appeared
to again bid him to dinner:
and recollecting that the family
were at the noon-day meal,
and that further delay on his
part would occasion surprise
and inquiry, he calmed himself
as much as possible, and
crossing a narrow hall, or entry,
which ran through the
centre of the house, entered
the dining room. As he expected,
he found all his friends
seated at table, and busy with
the tempting viands before
them. To his surprise and
chagrin, however, he saw that
Ernest occupied a place next
to Marian, whom he was waiting
upon assiduously, and
that the only vacant seat was
directly opposite. This arrangement
might have been
accidental, it is true; but to
Arthur, in his peculiar frame
of mind, it looked very much
like design; and so vexed and
annoyed him, that he was half
inclined to make some excuse
and leave the room. Perhaps
he would have done so, but
for the words of his father, who
said:
“Come, come, Arthur, you
pay our guests a poor compliment
by your delay, and are
like to be punished for your
neglect by a cold dinner.”
Arthur muttered some
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
unintelligible reply, and then
took his seat in moody silence,
glancing only furtively at Ernest
and Marian, as he helped
himself from the nearest dish,
and began to eat almost voraciously.
“Upon my word,” said Marian,
speaking across the table,
and smiling good humoredly,
“It must have been something
important, Arthur, that detained
you so long away with
such an appetite.”
“It was,” replied Arthur,
darting upon her a meaning
look, that, in spite of herself,
brought the color to her temples.
“One would think he had
been amputating the limb of
his dearest friend, or taking
some of the medicine he is
now legalized to prescribe to
others,” said Ernest jestingly.
“Only a little of the excrescence
of the Quercus infectoria,
which a friend administered,”
rejoined Arthur,
rather tartly, looking sharply
at Clifford, who slightly
changed countenance, but
otherwise appeared to take no
notice of the cutting sarcasm.
Marian saw that Arthur was
offended, and her smiling
countenance instantly became
grave, which accorded better
with her feelings, for her
smiles, as the reader is aware,
were all assumed. The meal,
so far as the three most important
actors in our life-drama
were concerned, passed
off rather dully. Ernest was
very attentive to Marian, anticipating
her every wish at the
table, and made several very
unsuccessful attempts to draw
her into animated conversation.
When he waited upon
her, she thanked him politely—
and when he asked her a
question, answered him civilly—
but, beyond these, said little
or nothing. Ernest seemed
determined at first to rally her
into good humor, and even
ventured on a conundrum for
this purpose.
“Why are you like the
soaring eagle, Miss Waldegrave?”
he asked.
“I am sure I do not know,”
she replied, with great simplicity,
and without exhibiting
any further interest in the
matter.
“Shall I tell you?”
“If you please.”
“Because you are on the
wing,” he rejoined, alluding
to that portion of a fowl, from
which she was trying to disengage
the meat.
“Capital! capital!” cried
Warren, from the head of the
table, who chanced to overhear
the jest; and the others,
of the elder personages,
echoed “capital;” and laughed
at the joke; but Arthur and
Marian scarcely smiled; and
Ernest, who saw he had
failed in his design, as regarded
the latter, for once in
his life looked quite chagrined.
The elder Warren now noticed
there was something
wrong, and said:
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
“Why, what ails you young
folks all at once? one would
think, to look at your serious
faces, that your friends were
all dead. Arthur, how is it?
you seem to have lost your
light spirits all of a sudden.”
“I do not feel well,” was
the answer.
“I am very sorry to hear
it, my son; but, for a sick
man, you have a good appetite.”
“I thank you for the hint,
father,” was the rejoinder;
and he instantly rose from the
table, with a flushed face, and
quitted the room.
Mr. Warren looked surprised;
but Mrs. Warren suggested
that his long ride might
have fatigued him, and immediately
changed the subject.
She, with a woman's quick
penetration, already suspected
the cause of the peculiar humor
exhibited by both Arthur
and Marian—but for the present
wisely determined on
keeping her thoughts to herself.
As soon as dinner was
over, Marian retired to the
little chamber before mentioned,
nor did she again make
her appearance till called by
her mother to accompany her
home.
As for Arthur, on quitting
the dining room, he repaired
to the parlor; and after taking
a few hasty turns up and
down the room, in a very excited
state of mind, he stopped
suddenly, and exclaimed:
“I am a fool! Why do I
give rein to my feelings and
passions in this half-crazed
manner? What will Ernest
think of me? Doubtless he
meant nothing beyond common
civilities; and if he did,
is he not my guest? and am
I not bound by the rules of
hospitality and good breeding
to treat him like a gentleman—
to show him all proper
courtesy and respect? And
what did he do, or say, to
offend me? He was studiously
polite to Marian. Well,
would I have him otherwise,
would I have him act like a
boor? Should I be called
upon to bring a charge against
him, and should I state the
real truth, would not people
laugh at me? Pshaw! pshaw!
let me redeem my foolish
error, by behaving myself in
future.”
Arthur had got thus far in
his soliloquy, when the door
opened, and his father, accompanied
by Ernest and Mr.
Waldegrave, entered the apartment.
“What is the matter, my
son?” inquired Mr. Warren,
anxiously; “are you really
ill?”
“I feel better now, father,
much better,” replied Arthur,
in an animated tone. “I did
not feel exactly right when I
left the table; but give yourself
no further uneasiness
about the matter;” and then
advancing to Ernest, he drew
him aside, and continued, in
a low tone: “Forgive me, my
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
friend, for my rude conduct
just now! I do not know
what possessed me—I was
not myself.”
“There is my hand,” replied
Ernest, with assumed
frankness. “I never harbor
malice for trifling matters. I
saw you looked hurt and
offended; but for the life of
me I could not conjecture the
cause that put you out of humor,
and so concluded something
had gone wrong before
you came in to dinner. True,
I did once or twice think,
that perhaps what I had
said—”
“There, there, say no more
about it,” interrupted Arthur,
smiling. “We are not so far
removed from childhood, even
at one and twenty, but that
we do sometimes act with infantile
simpleness—at least I
speak for myself, and acknowledge
it with shame. But let
that pass. And now for the
day. Would you like a run
on the hills for the fowler's
game? or are you too much
fatigued with your journey?”
“The hills, by all means,”
replied Ernest; “I am passionately
fond of gunning.”
“So be it: remain here and
amuse yourself, till I get
every thing ready;” and saying
this, Arthur left the room,
with his usual light, elastic
step, his features glowing with
their wonted animation.
About an hour later, Arthur
and Ernest, having donned
the regular hunting gear, with
pouch and powder-horn slung
over their shoulders, and accompanied
by Pete, who carried
their fowling-pieces and
game-bag, set out for the
mountains, taking with them
a fine dog for rousing the
game. It is not our purpose
here to treat the reader to a
gunning excursion; for the
incidents which properly belong
to our story, are of a heavier
and more startling character;
and as our space is
limited, we must avoid all
digression; for which necessity,
you who follow the traces
of our pen, have, without
doubt, good reason for being
thankful. We will only say,
therefore, that our friends, for
so we must still continue to
term them, had a long ramble,
some sport, and, very much
fatigued, set their faces homeward,
just as the sinking sun
was streaming a golden light
over the beautiful vale and
village of Walde Warren,
which lay spread before them,
a living picture. Their course
had been eastward, high up
on a ridge, which, beyond the
limits of the valley, kept the
windings of the stream at its
base for a considerable distance.
Along the bank of
this stream, ran the road before
alluded to; and just
where the two entered the
valley, was a mountain gorge—
a deep, wild, romantic pass—
where the hill seemed to
overhang the road, and the
road the river, which dashed
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
over its rocky bed, with sullen
roar, some ten or fifteen feet
below the traveled route.
The hills which environed
the valley, as elsewhere mentioned,
here came together,
or were separated only by the
river, which, in early times,
to judge by its present appearance,
had cut its way through
them with the impetuosity of
a mountain torrent. Altogether
the locality in question
was singularly wild, and, in
colloquial phrase, pokerish;
and a really timid person
would never have trod the
ground alone, at twilight, or
at a later hour, without looking
fearfully around, and recalling
dire tales of murder
and hobgoblins.
The sun had left the valley,
and the dark shadows of advancing
night were beginning
to steal over the landscape,
and envelope it as with a pall,
when our friends, having descended
the mountain to the
road, and sent the negro on
before, reached the gloomy
place we have attempted to
describe.
“Ugh!” ejaculated Clifford,
with a shudder, looking
eagerly around him, as he
and Arthur walked along,
side by side, through the
pass.
“What is the matter, Ernest?”
inquired his companion,
turning to look at him.
“Nothing, nothing,” replied
the other, quickly;
“only somehow—Did you
ever have a presentiment,
Arthur?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Well, there is something
about this place—I know not
what nor why—that makes
my blood run cold.”
“You are not afraid, Ernest?”
“No, I never knew what
it was to fear—and yet I
shudder.”
“Cold, doubtless; for since
the sun has set, the air feels
quite chilly and damp.”
“Nay, it is not that—I
am warm enough—but—Ha?
what is that yonder?”
“Where? what do you
see?”
“There, beside the road—
that dark object; it looks like
a human being.”
“And a human being it is,”
replied Arthur, fixing his eyes
upon a dark mass a few paces
before him “Yes, some person
in distress, perhaps,” he
continued, quickening his
steps, till he came close up to
the object, which proved to
be a man, stretched at full
length upon the ground.
“Drunk,” said Ernest, giving
the prostrate individual a
rude push with his foot, just
as Arthur was bending down
to ascertain the cause of his
lying there.
The man raised himself
upon his elbow, as he felt the
foot of Clifford, with a start
almost spasmodic, and glared
upon the latter with an expression
of vindictive rage:
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
and then, with a half stifled
groan, lay down again. It
was too dark by this time,
and in this place, shaded as it
was by overhanging trees and
bushes, to see any thing very
distinctly; but, nevertheless,
Arthur was able to make out
that the man was about forty
years of age, poorly clad, with
a harsh, strangely marked
countenance, sun browned,
begrimed, and rendered still
darker and more repulsive by
a black, heavy beard, of a
week's growth.
“Who are you, my friend?”
inquired Arthur, kindly;
“and what do you here?”
“I am a man,” answered
the stranger sullenly; “and
if you have eyes, you can see
what I am doing here?”
“But the night sets in
chilly, and if you lie here
you will suffer.”
“Well, what of that, who
cares?” growled the other.
“I care,” returned Arthur.
“I would not see a fellow being
suffer, while I am blessed
with the power to relieve
him.”
“You wouldn't, eh?” rejoined
the stranger, in tones a
little softened, partly raising
himself, but, as it seemed with
considerable effort. “You
wouldn't see a fellow being
suffer while you have the
means to relieve him, eh?
Come, let me look at your
face—for a man like what you
profess to be, is a rare sight,
which I should like to see before
I die.”
“You speak with bitterness,
as if the world had not used
you well, my friend.”
“The world use me well?—
the world?—ha, ha, ha!”
returned the man, with a hollow,
mocking laugh.
“Come on, Arthur, the man
is drunk,” put in Clifford;
“and what is the use of spending
breath on a liquor cask!”
“There,” said the stranger,
getting into a sitting posture
with some difficulty—“do you
not hear? there speaks one of
the world—listen to him!”
“You are insolent, knave!”
returned Clifford, rather
sharply.
“Don't call names!” growled
the man, again glaring ferociously
upon Ernest—“or if
you do, just please to apply
some that don't belong to
yourself.”
“Silence, sirrah! or—”
“Or what?” said the man,
as the other hesitated; “apply
your foot to me again,
maybe?”
“Perhaps.”
“Just do it! I dare you
to do it again, you miserable
coward!” almost shouted the
stranger.
“Hold!” cried Arthur, as
he saw Clifford raise his foot;
“surely—”
He was interrupted by a
yell almost demoniac, as the
foot of Clifford again touched
the man—not heavily, but
contemptuously—and the latter
gathered himself upon his
feet, as one suffering from
weakness and pain; but
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
though his countenance expressed
the raging of the most
vindictive passions within his
dark soul, he appeared of a
sudden to recollect himself,
and made no attempt to advance
upon the other, as his
first notion seemed to imply
he intended to do.
“For shame, Ernest—for
shame—to treat the man
thus!” said Arthur sternly;
“he did you no harm.”
“It will teach him, perhaps,
to keep a civil tongue in his
head, when next he addresses
a gentleman,” was the reply.
“You see I am cool, Arthur—
and I should scorn myself,
did I let such a human beast
excite my passions — but,
nevertheless, no man shall
dare me and go unpunished.”
“Come, no more of this!”
“O, let him go on,” said
the stranger—“I like to listen
to him. His jests amuse me—
they do indeed. Heard
you not he called himself a
gentleman? He a gentleman!
ha, ha, ha!—was not that
a capital joke?” and again
he laughed contemptuously.
“Why, all the broadcloth
ever imported, and all the
wealth of the Indies, would
not make him a man, much
less a gentleman.”
“Now hold your saucy
tongue!” cried Clifford—“or
your taunts will make me
forget myself.”
“A happy oblivion if you
could,” rejoined the other,
sneeringly—“for it would
save you much vile reckoning
hereafter.”
Ernest clenched his hand,
and seemed about to strike
the stranger, when Arthur
stepped between the two, and
said, sternly:
“Peace, both! I'll have
no more quarrelling! Ernest,
if you love me, go forward—I
would speak with this man
alone.”
“Let him thank you, then,
that he escapes further chastisement,”
answered Clifford,
moving away down the road.
“And now, my good fellow,”
said Arthur to the man,
“let me first give you a piece
of good advice, which one of
your years should have learned
ere this; and that is, if
you would be well treated by
the world, put your passions
under proper restraint, and a
strong curb on that unruly
member, your tongue. Soft
words are a better armor than
shirt of mail.”
“With gentlemen like yourself,
I grant you,” answered
the other, civilly; “but not
with counterfeits, like yonder
villain: a stout arm, and vantage
ground, is the best defence
against such.”
“Now peace, I pray you;
for I would serve you if I can—
but yonder gentleman is
my friend.”
“Then tear his friendship
from your heart, and banish
him your presence, lest he do
you harm—wrong you most
foully!—this is my advice,
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
young man, and I give it in
exchange for your's. I
should be twice your age,
young sir, and have seen more
of the world, and of mankind,
than you will ever see—for I
have studied them in every
form, from the ill-shaped
dwarf to the fairy-like belle—
in every degree, from the
beggar in rags to the prince
in velvet—and I say it without
boasting, I can read a
human face as the scholar
doth his book; and with all
this knowledge of humanity,
I warn you to beware of that
man, as you would a crawling
viper! for if he can, he'll
sting thee in thy dearest interest.
I tell you this, because
in your young face I read inexperience—
a kind, benevolent,
trusting heart—and you
have made me fancy you,
almost against my will—
otherwise, I should have
laughed to see you made miserable
by your friend—for I
hate mankind, with a bitter,
bitter hate, and delight to see
them war upon each other.”
“By your speech, you
should be other than you
seem,” said Arthur, feeling
a strange interest in the
stranger.
“I was,” replied the man,
with emphasis; “but what I
was, and what I am, are matters
that concern you not.
Ask me no questions, but go
your way in peace. Yet
stay,” he added, hesitatingly,
averting his face: “I never
yet did stoop to beg; and
when I laid me here, a half-hour
since, it was in hope
that I should die to-night, and
so end a life of misery and
wretchedness; but now, now,”
he pursued, with much vehemence,
“I wish to live a little
longer; and if you would—
O, the words stick in my
throat—in short, sir, I have
not tasted food for eight-and-forty
hours.”
“Merciful heaven!” cried
Arthur—“why did you not
tell me so at first? Dying
for want of food! Come,
come with me, my friend,
and you shall be provided
for.”
“No, no—I will go my
own way—not with you,”
replied the other. “If you
would assist me, give me
money—there, the words are
out.”
“Certainly, money you
shall have, if that will answer;
but money is not food, there
is no house nearer than my
own, and you seem too weak
and faint to be left thus.”
“Give me money — that
will do—I will not further
trouble you. Is there an inn
in yonder village?”
“Yes, a good one.”
“I may perhaps go there.”
“Well, here is my purse,”
pursued Arthur, drawing it
from his pocket; “it is not
so heavy as it might be, but
it is all I have with me.
Take it—it will serve your
immediate wants—and when
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
it is gone, have no scruples
about calling on Arthur Warren.
You need not mention
that I gave it you.”
“May God bless you, Mr.
Warren!” said the other, with
emotion, as he took the purse.—
“Your's is the charity of a
noble heart, that does not
vaunt its deeds with brazen
tongue. Heaven prosper you
and your's!”
“But I do not like to leave
you thus,” hesitated Arthur.
“Come, will you not go with
me?”
“No, I would be alone.
Fear not—I shall do well
enough now. I have a purpose
to live for, that will give
me strength beyond my present
seeming. By-the-by,
how is your friend called?”
“Ernest Clifford.”
“Does he reside in yonder
village?”
“No, in Alabama; he is
spending a few days with me
on a visit. But why do you
ask?”
“O, nothing, nothing—
only remember my warning!
When goes he hence?”
“I know not.”
“That is all—good night.”
“Shall I see you again?”
“It is uncertain.”
“Well, good night, my
friend, since you will not let
me do any thing more for
you;” and Arthur hastened
down the road to overtake
Ernest Clifford.
The stranger watched him
but of sight; and then, as he
turned to depart, his foot
struck against something,
which he stooped to pick up.
“Ha! the very thing!” he
muttered—“the very thing!”
and a terrible expression
swept over his countenance.
CHAPTER V. THE BREACH WIDENS.
A week passed away, and
found Ernest Clifford still a
guest of the Warrens; but
between him and Arthur had
grown up a certain degree of
coldness, consequent upon the
prosecution of his base purpose,
which purpose has already
been made known to
the reader. There had as yet
been no open rupture, no public
quarrel, between Arthur
and his guest, though matters
were gradually tending to
such an event. The storm
was brewing and advancing
none the less surely, that its
pent up lightnings had not yet
been sent on their fiery mission—
that its crashing thunders
had not yet shook the
heavens.
Arthur had never forgotten
the warning of the stranger;
and the more closely he studied
Ernest, the more reason had
he for thinking the man was
right. The selfishness which
formed a prominent characteristic
of Clifford, he could
not now perceive, because it
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
suited the purpose of the latter
to lift the mask a little at
times, though too much an
adept to throw it off altogether,
and stand revealed in all his
native blackness.
But Arthur had not seen
this change in one heretofore
considered his dearest friend,
without deep regret,—without
experiencing all those soul
harrowing feelings which attend
upon the dawning conviction
that the world and
mankind are not as we in the
simplicity and singleness of
our mind have believed. The
awakening from the dream of
innocence, to the bitter realities
of an evil world, is always
attended with the keenest anguish
of soul—with melancholy—
with a sad depression
of spirits; it is, in fact, the
quitting of all the delights and
beauties of Paradise, to wander
in a cold, sterile, unknown region.
And against this awakening
conviction did Arthur
struggle, and struggle manfully;
he would fain have
shut his eyes and dreamed on
still; but, alas! the rosy sleep
of early life was over, perchance
to return no more; the
silver veil had fallen from the
Mokanna of his heart's worship;
the doom of Scotland's
bloody king seemed ringing in
his ear,
“Sleep no more to all the house.”
But still Arthur performed
the duties of the host, if not
with the same pleasure he had
anticipated, at least, so far,
without insult to his guest.
He had taken Ernest around
the village, and introduced
him to his friends as his friend;
they had hunted, fished, and
rode together; and such had
been their outward seeming,
that no one suspected their
lips and hearts spoke not in
unison.
All might have gone well
still, had the scheming Clifford
so willed it; but it was
his deliberate intention to
break with Arthur when it
should best suit his design;
and he prepared himself, and
arranged matters accordingly.
His first step, as shown in a
preceding chapter, had been
to try and estrange Arthur
and Marian; and a week had
enabled him to succeed just so
much as he wished to succeed
in a week. It was no part of
his scheme to separate them
abruptly, by a hot quarrel—
for then they might as abruptly
come together again, and
mar all his projects. No, he
wished to separate them gradually—
to cause a feeling of
restraint and coldness to grow
up between them; to make the
pride of one wound the pride
of the other; to make both so
far jealous as to be cynical and
sarcastic, and each think the
other indifferent and heartless.
This Ernest never could have
accomplished in any degree,
had he not been aided by
Marian's first great error in
regard to Arthur; and even
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
as it was, it was an undertaking
in which any one less
cunning and smooth tongued
than he would have failed.
But he worked with the skill
of a master, and so played
upon the feelings of each, as to
make them play upon each
other to his advantage.
During the week in question,
he had several times
called upon Marian in company
with Arthur—but had
so managed as to engross the
conversation of the former,
and leave the latter to the unpleasant
reflection that he
played a second part. He had
contrived, too, to see Marian
more than once alone; and
then he had spoken of Arthur
in the highest terms, and said
how happy must be the woman
of his choice; but had
adroitly hinted, at the same
time, that that choice was
made; which so chimed in
with Marian's belief or fear,
considered with Arthur's
manner toward her, that the
lying insinuation swelled in
her mind to a mighty truth.
So matters stood, when Arthur,
Ernest, and Marian received
an invitation to a party
at the house of Mr. Lynch,
the merchant, who lived in
the village, on the opposite
side of the bridge. Notwithstanding
a certain degree of
coldness had grown up between
him and Marian, Arthur
now resolved to forget
all, and ask her to accompany
him—intending, also, to learn,
if possible, why she had so
changed toward him of late;
for since their first meeting, on
the day of his return, he had
never seen her, to converse
with her alone—having, whenever
he visited her, taken Ernest
along, at the particular
request of the latter.
On the evening of the day
on which he received the invitation,
therefore, he managed
to get Ernest and his father
engaged in a friendly discussion,
and slip away without
being perceived. He repaired
to Waldegrave's, and, as
chance would have it, found
Marian entirely alone, in the
parlor, her father and mother
having gone out to spend the
evening. She greeted him in
a polite and friendly manner,
but seemed not a little embarrassed,
and her features wore a
heightened color.
“Where is your friend, Mr.
Clifford?” was her first question,
when the usual common
places of meeting had passed
between them.
Arthur felt his own face
crimson, as he replied with
some severity:
“Am I only welcome, Miss
Waldegrave, when I bring
another to usurp the conversation?
If so, say the word,
and I will instantly go and
bring my friend—or, perhaps,
I should rather, say yours.”
“Arthur—or Mr. Warren,
rather, since you see proper
to deal in formalities—this is
cruel, unkind of you,”
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
answered Marian, only by a
great effort restraining herself
from bursting into tears. “I
inquired after Mr. Clifford, as
was natural I should, seeing
you have not thought proper
of late to honor my poor
presence without him.”
“For the very reason that
I deemed his presence necessary
to make mine acceptable.”
“Oh, Arthur!” exclaimed
Marian; and no longer able
to hold in check her emotions,
she hid her face in her handkerchief
and wept.
“Oh, Marian, I have
wounded your feelings—forgive
me!” cried Arthur, forgetting
every thing but that
he had spoken harshly to the
weeping girl before him, and
thinking only how he might
repair his error. “Forgive
me, Marian, for speaking so
rudely, so unkindly!—and to
you, my old friend and playmate,—
forgive me, or I will
never forgive myself!”
But Marian only wept the
more. The founts of her
soul had burst through their
bright gates, and the torrent
would not be stayed.
“Oh, Marian, Marian,”
pursued Arthur, “you make
me wretched, for my unguarded
words—how could I
have been so heartless, so unfeeling
as to utter them?
Come, Marian, come—(taking
her hand, and gently drawing
her to him—) look up, my
sweet friend, and forget that
I have spoken! Oh, say that
you forgive me!”
“I do, I do, with all my
heart,” murmured the other;
and carried away by her feelings,
she for the moment
leaned her head upon his
manly breast, and wept anew.
“There, now, we are friends
again, sweet Marian—friends
as of old—are we not, Marian?—
are we not?”
“Yes, Arthur—yes—as of
old—at least I hope so,” replied
the other, starting up
rather hurriedly, wiping her
eyes hastily, and appearing a
good deal confused and agitated.
“There has been coldness
between us of late,” continued
Arthur, still retaining her
hand, which she now seemed
inclined to withdraw—“but
why, I know not—unless,”
he added, seemingly struck
with a new idea—“unless my
friend, or some one else, has
abused me to you.”
“Oh, wrong not your
friend with such a suspicion!”
returned Marian, quickly—
“for he is honor's self, and
always speaks of you in the
highest terms.”
“Then tell me whence this
coldness?”
“I know no more than
you, Arthur.”
“Then you really have no
ill-feeling toward me, Marian?”
“Toward you, Arthur?
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
illfeeling toward you?” cried
Marian. “Oh, how can you
ask the question?”
“Bless you, fair girl! there
speaks the friend of old. Ah!
did you know how miserable
I have been, thinking you
were offended, Marian!”
“And I, Arthur, for the
same cause.”
“Why, then we have both
been unhappy without a
cause! Well, thank heaven!
we understand each other
now, and I trust there may be
no misunderstanding hereafter.”
“Heaven send it!”
“But of Ernest —does he
indeed speak of me in such
high terms?”
“He does, Arthur, and
seems never weary of the subject;
he is the truest of true
friends.”
“Then have I wronged him
most shamefully.”
“How, Arthur?” inquired
Marian, in surprise.
“In thought. Do you
know, Marian, I have been
jealous of his attentions to
you, and often fancied he was
playing me false—that he was
seeking, by sly means and
base, to estrange us.”
“Oh, then, Arthur, you
have indeed wronged him—
for never heard I friend extol
friend, as Ernest Clifford
extols Arthur Warren. Oh,
I sometimes felt I could love
him for the words he uttered.”
“Love him, Marian?” repeated
Arthur, a little coldly,
forgetting that the cause of
that love was praise of him
self, and that consequently he
must be the foremost object in
the heart of her he addressed.
“Did you say love
him, Marian?”
“I used the term, but perhaps
wrongly,” replied Marian,
blushing: “esteem, it may
be, had been the better word.”
“Esteem, in such cases,
easily ripens into love,” returned
Arthur; “better to use
the expressive verb at once.”
“You mistake me, Arthur,”
cried Marian, hastily, with
considerable confusion.
“Well, no matter—let it
pass—we will not quarrel on
mere terms.”
“We will not quarrel on
any terms, Arthur,” rejoined
Marian, quickly.
“Ay, true—so be it with
all my heart. So you feel
much esteem for Ernest, eh?”
“As your friend, Arthur,
yes.”
“Nay, put not the responsibility
on my shoulders!—do
you not esteem him for himself?
since you prefer that
word to love.”
“Arthur, Arthur, what
mean these questions, asked
in such a way, and in such a
tone?” exclaimed Marian uneasily.
“O, you do not wish to
answer them, I suppose—no
matter.”
“Now Arthur, you grow
unkind again—as if I would
refuse to answer whatever you
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
may ask. Yes, I do esteem
Mr. Clifford, for himself—I
look upon him as a kind, benevolent,
high-minded, noble-hearted
gentleman.”
“Rare qualities—but I hope
he has them, and that you
may never be deceived.”
“What mean you, Arthur?”
“O, nothing—nothing.”
“Nay, Arthur, there is a
hidden meaning in your
words.”
“Is there, faith?—then if
you are sure of so much, perhaps
you know what it is. I
wish you joy beforehand.”
“Wish me joy of what?”
“Of every thing you wish.”
“I do not understand you.”
“No? Well then let it
pass, till the time comes you
do.”
“Do you refer to Mr. Cllfford?”
“Ha! you take my meaning
wonderfully well, for one
that does not take at all.”
“Arthur how strange you
talk!” cried Marian, becoming
a good deal agitated.
“And yet talk what will
not be strange ere long. Ernest,
I believe, is rich.”
“Well?”
“And you are an heiress.”
“Well?”
“That is all—I only spoke
to show equality.”
“I understand you now,”
said Marian, who would have
wept in vexation of spirit, but
that pride came to her aid.
“O, I knew you would
understand me with a little
reflection,” returned the other,
drily. “One easily understands
in such cases, when
one feels inclined.”
But Marian did not understand
Arthur aright—that is
to say, if she guessed at his
allusions, she put a wrong
construction upon them; for
believing him engaged to
another—or at least in love
with another, as Clifford had
vaguely hinted he was—she
fancied he spoke thus to show
her there was no hope he
would ever be other to her
than now; and with this idea
uppermost in her mind, she
rejoined, in a tone a little
tremulous with emotion:
“Well, let what will happen,
Arthur, I trust we shall
ever be friends!”
“O, certainly, friends! O,
yes, certainly!” he answered,
affecting to laugh indifferently.
“Now, by your manner,
you mean not what you say.”
“Now, by my faith, I do.”
“You seem offended already.”
“Pshaw! you mistake me.
Come, I will convince you of
my sincerity. Here is a plain
gold ring, (producing one from
his pocket (which was made
to fit your finger. If you
look inside, you will see engraved,
`From A. W. to M.
W.;' will you accept this as a
friendship token?”
“Yes! yes!” cried Marian,
eagerly.
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
“And wear it as such?”
“Yes—it shall never leave
my finger.”
“Let me place it on. Why,
how your hand trembles!
There, now, so long as I see
that ring there, I will call you
by the sweet title of friend—
since it seems decreed I may
never call you by a dearer
term;” and in spite of himself
the voice of Arthur faltered,
and he turned aside his
face to conceal his emotion,
while Marian actually wept.
O, how blind is love
at times—wilfully, jealously
blind! Here were two persons
now, formed for each
other, mutually loving, but
contriving through the very
excess of that love to establish
something like formal friendship.
Had Arthur but spoken
the dearest wish of his soul,
the heart of Marian would
have responded, and these two
beings, now so miserable,
would both have been happy.
When Arthur first met Marian
after his return, he was
struck with the conviction
that she loved him; but her
subsequent manner had led
him to doubt, and finally to
think himself mistaken; and
this very interview, instead
of setting both parties right,
only tended to make matters
still worse, as will be seen by
what immediately follows.
“Now that I have accomplished
one object of my visit
to-night,” said Arthur, at
length—“that is to say,
brought you and I, Marian, to
a friendly understanding—I
may as well make known the
second. I suppose you intend
going to the party at Mr.
Lynch's?”
“I had thought of doing
so,” replied Marian, coloring.
“Well, shall I do myself
the pleasure to call for you?”
At this question Marian
seemed not a little embarrassed,
and answered hesitatingly,
in a tremulous tone, as
if afraid of giving offence:
“Why, Arthur—I—had I
known—I—but—”
“Well, speak out, Marian!”
“Why — I — am —already
engaged, Arthur.”
“Indeed!” rejoined the
other, starting and flushing.
“May I know to whom?”
“Mr. Clifford.”
“I might have known as
much,” returned Arthur, rising
with a cold, offended air.
“I understand it all now. So,
so—well, well;” and he began
to hum a tune, and button his
coat, preparatory to taking
his leave.
“Surely, you are not going,
Arthur!” cried Marian, looking
greatly troubled.
“Yes, they may be inquiring
for me at home, for I stole
away unknown to any.”
“But say you are not offended!”
“O, no, Marian—no—I
wish you well—indeed I do!
But now I think of it, may I
inquire when you made your
engagement with Ernest? for
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
it was only to-day I received
my invitation.”
“He called this afternoon.”
“Ha! yes—I see:” and
again Arthur thought of the
words of the stranger—“If
he can, he'll sting thee in thy
dearest interest;” for he remembered
Ernest had made
some trifling excuse for separating
from him, for an hour or
so—and now he could see
why, and where he had been.
This reflection did not tend
to put him in any better humor;
and when Marian timidly
inquired if he would not
come with Mr. Clifford, he
answered “No,” so sharply,
that she turned pale and
trembled.
“I am sorry I made the engagement,”
she rejoined.
“Look to it, that you make
no other you will regret
more!” he said, chillingly.
“Meantime, allow me to wish
you a very good night;” and
he strode to the door.
“But stay, Arthur—one
moment—do not go thus!”
cried Marian.
“Well?” he said, almost
savagely, turning full upon
her, with the air of one who
did not wish to be detained.
He saw that she was pale
and trembling; but if the sight
in the least touched or softened
his feelings, he did not
show it; his look was stern
and cold.
“I thought we were to part
friends,” faltered Marian.
“And do we not?” was the
response.
“I hope so—I pray so,
Arthur!”
“Any further commands?”
“No,” answered Marian,
faintly.
“Then good night!” and
Arthur almost rushed out of
the house.
He did not go home for an
hour, but strolled about in no
enviable mood. He was ill-at-ease
with himself, and felt
bitterly toward all mankind,
and particularly toward Ernest.
Had the two met then,
there would in all probability
have been a quarrel.
That night was a very
restless and unhappy one
to Arthur, and Marian wept
herself to a troubled sleep
CHAPTER VI. THRILLING INCIDENTS.
The party at Mr. Lynch's
was fixed for the third night
from that on which Arthur
had a private interview with
Marian. The day following
this interview was stormy;
so was the next; the rain
poured down in torrents, and
Arthur and Ernest did not stir
from the house. This made
it somewhat unpleasant to
both; for Arthur, in endeavouring
to act the agreeable
host, did it with a certain
coldness and formality, that
told his guest he was no longer
a welcome visitor, and that a
sense of duty and propriety
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
had taken the place of pleasure.
But this troubled Ernest
less than it would have
done, had he not deliberately
brought it about, and in a measure
prepared himself for it.
He resolved to let matters
take their own course for the
present, however, and should
a rupture result therefrom, he
could in that event take up
his quarters at the inn—for to
quit the place ere he had fully
ingratiated himself with Marian,
was no part of his design.
The third day, the day on
which the party was to come
off in the evening, rose clear
and beautiful; and the crystal
drops that, on leaf, and
blade, and flower, sparkled in
the morning light, were soon
dispelled by the warm rays
of a cloudless sun. At an
early hour Arthur mounted
his favorite riding horse, and
without saying a word to Ernest,
but merely telling his
father he should be absent
most of the day, rode swiftly
away toward the village. As
he crossed the bridge, he observed
that the stream was
very much swollen and turbid,
and that its waters were still
rising fast, occasioned by the
recent rains on the mountains.
The idea struck him, too,
that he had rarely seen the
stream so high, and that if it
continued to rise any considerable
time, it must sweep
away the bridge; but this he
thought it would not do, sim
ply because such an event
had never occurred; and beyond
this he thought nothing
about it.
We shall not follow Arthur
in his day's wanderings—for
wanderings is, perhaps, not an
inappropriate term—since his
object in riding forth was
merely to escape from himself,
by finding a new channel for
his thoughts, and also to have
an excuse for not attending
the party, which he felt would
yield him no pleasure, now
that Marian would be escorted
thither by another.
It was his intention to return
by nine o'clock in the
evening; but having ridden
to the county seat, and got
in company with a few choice
friends, he did not get away
from there till near that hour;
and then the roads were so
washed and gullied, that the
night being dark, his progress
homeward was slow, and he
only reached the lower pass
to the valley, the opposite one
to that heretofore described,
about midnight. This, like
the other, was wild and
gloomy; and as he walked
his horse along the road,
around the base of the hills,
the roar of the angry waters
below sounded portentously
in his ear, and a solemn dread,
as of some awful calamity,
seized upon his soul, and he
felt a strange, undefinable
thrill pervade his frame. Occasionally,
too, a flash of the
turbulent waters showed him
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
that the stream had overleaped
the usual bounds even
of a flood; and as the bridge
naturally recurred to his
mind, he felt additional uneasiness,
lest that had gone,
and with it his only chance
of reaching home that
night.
As he rode on through the
valley, half wrapped in a
gloomy reverie, while his eye
scanned closely each object
presented to it, Arthur felt he
would willingly give no trifling
sum to be assured that
all was well. As he drew
near the village, he perceived
lights like torches moving to
and fro in several places; and
apprehensive from his own
feelings, that something terrible
had happened, he buried
his spurs in the flanks of his
high-mettled beast, and dashed
forward on the run. Just
before entering the village, he
perceived a group of three or
four persons carrying a torch,
and moving slowly down the
bank of the stream, apparently
in search of some object.
Riding up to them, Arthur
demanded, in a tone of considerable
uneasiness, what had
happened.
“Ah! sir,” said the one
who carried the torch, as he
threw its ruddy gleams upon
the pale face of Arthur, “we
have terrible news for you,
Mr. Warren.”
“Speak, Mr. Nixon!” gasped
Arthur, “do not keep me in
suspense!”
“Prepare yourself for something
dreadful! Your friend
Mr. Clifford, and Miss Waldegrave,
we fear are drowned!”
“Drowned!” shrieked Arthur,
half springing, half tumbling,
from his horse.
“Yes,” pursued the other,
“we fear it is all over with
them. Oh! it is an awful
event, the like of which was
never known in Walde-Warren.
They were returning
together from the party at Mr.
Lynch's, and just as they
were crossing the bridge, the
flood swept it away, carrying
them with it. We heard Miss
Waldegrave shriek, and Mr.
Clifford cry for help, and then
all became still. Quick, here,
some one assist Mr. Warren!”
he cried, as Arthur sank to
the ground, too weak to support
himself, on hearing this
dreadful news.
“And I parted from her in
anger!” Arthur muttered, inaudibly,
as a couple of the
party assisted him to his feet.
“Oh! that Clifford's place had
been mine! Is there no hope
that she may be saved?” he
cried, wildly. “Oh! tell me
not that she is lost forever!”
“We fear the worst,” answered
Nixon. “But try and
calm yourself, Mr. Warren;
we will do all that can be done.
Perchance they may escape;
but the stream is very high
and turbulent, and, as I said
before, we have little hope. It
is barely possible they may
drift to the shore, and we will
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
follow the stream down as far
as the most sanguine may
think necessary.”
“Oh! merciful heaven!
how terrible! how terrible!”
groaned Arthur, wringing his
hands. “And to think I
parted from her in anger!” he
repeated to himself. “I will
go with you, Mr. Nixon,” he
continued, addressing the inn-keeper.
“Let us hasten on
as fast as we can, and at the
same time examine closely
as we go. Do her parents
know of this heart-rending
calamity?”
“Probably not; for the
bridge being carried away,
there is now no way of communicating
with persons on the
other side of the river.”
“Oh! what a crushing blow
for them! it will break their
hearts!” said Arthur.
“The whole village will
mourn,” replied Nixon, sadly;
“for poor Marian was beloved
by all, young and old. Alas!
this is a woful day for Walde-Warren.”
Arthur said no more; but he
felt a pressure on his brain, as
if it would burst. He would
have given a world, had it
been his, to have recalled that
last meeting, and parted from
his sweet, gentle, lovely playmate,
as a true friend should
have parted. Alas! he could
not now unsay his cruel words,
and he felt that his life must
henceforth be one of regret
and misery. He had parted
in anger from the only being
he truly loved on earth; and
without the chance of reparation,
without an opportunity
to ask forgiveness, she had
suddenly been snatched from
time to eternity. Oh! pen
cannot portray, even in a
feeble degree, the intense,
overwhelming anguish he suffered.
His brain seemed at
times on fire; and often did he
wish Clifford's fate had been
his—that he had been with
her on the fatal bridge, and, if
death were decreed, that he
had died in a noble effort to
save a life dearer than his
own.
For hours did the citizens
of Walde-Warren search the
banks of the stream for the
bodies of Ernest Clifford and
Marian Waldegrave. Far
down below the western pass
did they go with their torches—
examining every projection,
curve, and drift—in fact, every
inch of ground, for the whole
distance. But they sought in
vain. The muddy, turbulent
waters went hissing, whirling,
roaring, and flashing onward,
but were silent concerning the
awful deed they had performed.
Not a trace of the unfortunate
victims was found, and
it was finally decided that no
more could be done till daylight.
Slowly, sadly, and with
heavy gloom on each countenance,
did the searchers retrace
their steps to the village;
where they were met by a
hundred eager inquiries, from
their wives and daughters,
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
who had remained behind in
torturing suspense; and many
were the exclamations of horror,
pity, and grief, when the
latter found their worst fears
confirmed by the report.
Arthur, who had returned
with the others, now became
an object of universal attention
and commisseration—as, his
features, pale as marble, and
expressive of the keenest anguish—
his eyes red from
weeping—his head bowed upon
his breast—he walked slowly
past groups of anxious
citizens, who, out of respect
to his heavier sorrows intruded
upon him no empty words
of condolence, but, on the contrary,
hushed all conversation
as he went by.
It was the wish of Arthur,
as expressed to Mr. Nixon,
that some kind of a raft should
be constructed, by which he
could reach the opposite side
of the swollen stream, relieve
his parents of all anxiety concerning
himself, and report
the dire event of the night.
Several persons accordingly
set to work, and by daylight
a rough water-conveyance was
finished and placed upon the
stream. Upon this Arthur and
one other ventured with long
poles; and after one or two
narrow escapes, owing to the
power and velocity of the current,
reached the opposite
shore in safety, about a quarter
of a mile below the point
of embarkation.
Arthur now made the best
of his way home, fearing to
trust himself to communicate
the awful intelligence to the
parents of poor Marian. His
own father and mother were
rejoiced to see him; for although
they knew nothing of
the washing away of the
bridge, they had been concerned
at his long absence;
but when he came to relate
the loss of Marian and Ernest,
they were appalled and overwhelmed
with sorrow, for they
loved Marian as a daughter.
“Oh! woful tidings! woful
tidings! and wo is me, that I
must be the first to break this
dreadful news to Archer!”
said the elder Warren, when
Arthur had finished his heart-rending
tale. “But it must
be done, and delay can ease
no pang;” and with these
words he set off on his soul
trying mission.
We pass over the reception
of the intelligence of the loss
of their beloved daughter, by
the parents of Marian. No
pen, though wielded with the
combined power of all the
great masters that ever had a
being, can portray one tithe
of the anguish which is felt
on similar occasions; and therefore
we leave the reader to
imagine—or, it may be, recall—
their feelings; for doubtless
we are addressing some who
have felt a like visitation of
Providence. Oh! it is hard,
very hard, to lose a near and
dear friend by the hand of
death, and know that his or
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
her welcome voice will sound
no more in our ear while we
tread the shores of time; but
when we have seen such a
one pass gradually down to
the vale of shadows, heard his
or her parting words, and felt
the last pressure of his or her
hands—how light is our affliction
compared to that of having
one snatched from us in
the bloom of health, without
a moment's warning! In the
latter case the shock is terrible;
and there are many constitutions
that sink under the
blow, or withstand it only with
a final or temporary loss of
reason.
The latter was not the case
with the parents of Marian,
however; they survived the
news of her loss, without the
derangement of their mental
faculties; but over what they
suffered for a few hours we
will draw a veil.
As for Arthur, having repaired
to his own private
chamber, he locked himself
in, and then gave unrestrained
way to his grief. And it was
fearful; fearful. Now he would
throw himself upon the bed,
and roll from side to side, as
if undergoing the agonies of
mortal convulsions; now he
would start up suddenly, and
pace the floor with rapid
strides, wringing his hands,
or swinging them wildly to
and fro; and now he would
sink himself heavily upon a
seat, and, leaning his head
upon his breast, clasp his
temples, ever and anon exclaiming,
with a groan:
“Poor dear Marian! and I
parted from thee in anger!”
How many, whose eyes fall
upon the traces of our pen,
will recall some dear friend
from whom they parted in
anger, or coldness, which parting
death unexpectedly made
a final one.
It is not well to part from a
friend in anger.
The sun was more than half
way to the meridian, when
Mr. Warren rapped at Arthur's
door, and cried:
“Joyful news, my son—
joyful news! Marian and Mr.
Clifford are saved.”
With one bound Arthur
reached the door, and the next
moment stood confronting his
father, pale, haggard, trembling,
and with an expression
of hope and fear blended
on his countenance.
“Did I hear aright?” he
gasped.
“Yes, Arthur—yes—thank
God, they are saved!”
“Thank God, indeed!” returned
Arthur, solemnly; and
sinking down upon his knees,
he offered a silent tribute of
thanksgiving to the Most
High. “Now tell me, father,
the particulars,” he said, as he
rose to his feet.
“Why, I hardly know the
particulars myself, Arthur,”
answered the other; “but it
appears, from what I could
gather from the messenger
sent over to apprise Marian's
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
parents of her safety, that Mr.
Clifford, with wonderful presence
of mind, on finding the
bridge giving way, clasped
Marian around the waist with
one arm, and the railing with
the other; and so they were
borne down the stream some
three or four miles—she barely
kept from drowning by his
unremitting and almost superhuman
efforts—when, Providentially,
they lodged against
some bushes, and he succeeded
in getting ashore and dragging
her after him, in an unconscious
state; from which, though
nearly exhausted himself, he
finally recovered her, by constant
rubbing and other attentions.
As both were too weak
to walk, they remained on the
bank of the stream through the
night, and were found this
morning, in a rather precarious
condition, by a party of the
villagers who had gone down
te search for their dead bodies.
They were immediately taken
to a farm-house in the vicinity,
proper restoratives applied,
and subsequently conveyed to
the village in a carriage, where
they now are, at the house of
Mr. Lynch. All Walde-Warren
is in a state of rejoicing,
and young and old are loud in
the praise of the noble, heroic
conduct of Ernest Clifford.”
A pang shot through the
heart of Arthur at this recital—
a selfish pang we dare not
deny. He rejoiced that Marian
had been saved from an
awful death; but he could not
avoid the regret that she owed
her life to Clifford. Though
living, he now felt she must
henceforth be dead to him;
for though never so much opposed
to the advances of Clifford—
and he had yet to learn
that she was opposed to them—
how could she conscientiously
resist the impassioned
suit of her preserver? This
idea now became one of torture
to Arthur; and if the
truth must be told, he scarcely
felt more happy than before
he heard what to every one
else was joyful news. His
father saw that he was greatly
agitated—but he attributed it
to a very different cause than
the real one—and merely adding,
that the parents of Marian
had gone back with the messenger
to see her, and thank
her preserver, he retired, leaving
Arthur to himself.
Once more alone, Arthur
threw himself upon the bed,
and fairly wept in bitterness
of spirit. Not naturally of an
envious disposition—not naturally
of a jealous one—he was
now both envious and jealous
of one he had so lately called
his friend, but whom he felt
he could call his friend no
more. Yes, he felt, truly felt,
he had nursed a viper to sting
him to the heart. He had
crawled between Marian and
himself; and though so feeble
at first that an iron heel might
have crushed him, yet now circumstances
had given him
a power that made him more
than his equal in combat.
“Oh! that it had been my
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
fortune to have saved that life
dearer than my own, even at
the sacrifice of my own!”
groaned Arthur; “but, alas!
it was not so ordered; and
henceforth I must be miserable
in knowing that she lives for
another, and that other unworthy
so rich a prize.”
As we claim to speak the
truth of Arthur, even when it
tells against him, we must not
omit to mention here, that with
all his selfishness—and who
can truly love and not be
selfish?—the keenest pang of
his heart was the reflection,
that Ernest Clifford was totally
unworthy so sweet, so gentle,
so innocent, so pure, so confiding,
so unsuspecting, so angelic
a being as Marian Waldegrave.
Had he been what
Arthur first believed him to
be—a generous, upright, honorable
man—he could have
said—not perhaps without a
pang of regret—but still he
could have said: “You have
saved her life—it belongs to
you—take her and make her
happy.” But he could not say
it now, though his voice, he
fancied, had no longer power
to make or mar.
At length Arthur started up
quickly, with the sudden resolve
that he would see Marian
without delay. In his peculiar
frame of mind, and with
his fiery, passionate energies,
to resolve was to execute. He
hurried from the house toward
the village; and finding
no other means of crossing
the still roaring flood, he
plunged in, regardless of the
danger he incurred, and succeeded
in gaining the other
bank in an exhausted condition.
Resting himself for a
few minutes, and feeling his
strength in some degree restored,
Arthur, all dripping
with water, unmindful of his
appearance, set off for Mr.
Lynch's. He found a group
of some dozen persons in front
of the merchant's dwelling,
discussing the late exciting
events; and just as he came
up, he heard the name of Clifford
mentioned in terms of the
highest encomium.
“Why, Mr. Warren,” said
the same speaker, glancing at
Arthur's dripping garments,
“it seems you have been
taking a bath also.”
“But I have saved nobody's
life,” replied Arthur, almost
bitterly, as he passed on into
the house, which he found
very much crowded, mostly
by ladies, many of whom
were still dressed as at the
party, having remained up all
night, under too much excitement
to think of their personal
appearance.
On inquiring for Marian,
Arthur was informed that she
was now asleep, and that the
physician had given strict orders
not to have her disturbed.
“But your friend, Mr.
Clifford, is in a condition to
see you,” said Mr. Lynch,
coming up to Arthur.
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
Arthur would have declined
seeing him, only that he
feared such a proceeding
would be too pointed, and elicit
inquiry as to the cause—
for as yet it was not known
that Ernest and himself were
not on the same friendly
terms they had ever been.
So he was shown to Mr. Clifford's
room by Mr. Lynch, who
immediately retired, leaving
the young men to themselves.
Arthur found Clifford enveloped
in a dressing gown of
the host's, sitting on the side
of the bed, from which he had
just risen, and sipping a glass
of port wine negus. Advancing
to him, with a rather embarrassed
air, Arthur held out
his hand; but Ernest was
busy sipping his wine, and
appeared not to see it.
“I have called to congratulate
you on your Providential
escape from a horrible death,”
Arthur said, hardly able to
suppress the indignation
which the cool, deliberate insult
of the other aroused.
“Ah, yes, we had a very
narrow escape of it,” replied
Clifford, with perfect nonchalance,
taking another sip at
the wine glass.
“Perhaps I intrude!” said
Arthur, biting his nether lip
with vexation.
“O, no, not at all,” replied
the other, in a tone of cutting
indifference. “No, my physician
has not forbidden me to
see any one—though I believe
Marian is not so fortu
nate. Poor Marian! only for
her sufferings, it had been a
happy night to me. Do you
not wish me joy, Mr. Warren?”
“No,” said Arthur, “I do
not. I will be frank, and
not let my tongue lie to my
heart. Mr. Clifford, I once
called you my friend—I can
do so no longer.”
“O, as you please,” answered
the other, with perfect
composure—“it is a matter of
no importance to me. I will
send for my luggage—I suppose
you do not intend to keep
that?”
Arthur flushed to the very
roots of his hair, his hands
clenched, his brows contracted,
his eyes flashed,
and for a moment or two
it seemed as if he would
have struck his insulter to
his feet. But he choked down
his choler, so as to speak distinctly,
in a low but tremulous
tone:
“Mr. Clifford, I see it is
your intention to insult me
beyond forgiveness—nay, you
have already done so—but I
do not wish to have any open
quarrel with you, and therefore
I curb my temper and
my passions; but beware you
do not go too far!”
“Thank you, for your timely
caution. By-the-by, if you
will make out my bill, I will
settle it, and change my
quarters.”
“Well, then,” replied Arthur,
“the first item is two
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
hundred dollars, borrowed
money.”
“Ah! yes—I remember;
have you my note?”
“Your note? no! am I a
paltry usurer?”
“Well, I never pay any
thing but notes?”
“Swindling scoundrels seldom
do!” rejoined Arthur,
with a look of contempt and
scorn.
“Ha! that language to me,
sir?” cried Clifford, beginning
to grow excited for the first
time.
“If the coat fits, wear it!”
said Arthur.
“You are bold, knowing
me an invalid.”
“Were you not one, you
would find me bolder. But I
did not come here to quarrel—
so I will take my leave.”
“Good morning,” rejoined
Ernest carelessly. “I am
sorry I have put you to so
much inconvenience; but the
fact is, you see, we had no idea
the bridge would be carried
away when we attempted to
cross on it; for dear Marian
and I were in such earnest
conversation, we never once
looked at the water till too
late. She was regretting you
should be so much offended,
because she happened to prefer
my company to yours; and
to say the truth, I regretted
you were so unfortunate.”
“That's a lie!” returned
Arthur, setting his teeth hard.
“Sir,” replied Clifford,
slightly coloring, “there is
but one way to atone for that
expression. I trust you will
give me honorable satisfaction.”
“If you have reference to
a duel, I say no,” was the answer;
“duelling is against
my principles.”
“All cowards say the
same,” was the cutting rejoinder.
“I am no coward, Mr.
Clifford, as you may find to
your cost, if you push your
insults too far.”
“Then select your friend,
without more urging.”
“No, I will not.”
“Then you must apologise
for what you have said, and
that too in the presence of
others.”
“So far from that, I throw
it back in your teeth, that you
are false, treacherous, a common
swindler, and no gentleman.”
Ernest sprang from the
bed, with the evident intention
of striking Arthur; but
at this moment the door opened,
and Mr. Lynch entered,
with a couple of young gentlemen,
who had called to see
Clifford. The latter greeted
the new comers with a cordial
smile and shake of the
hand; and Arthur, taking advantage
of the interruption,
went out—Ernest calling after
him, in a very pleasant tone:
“Another time will do,
Arthur!”
Almost beside himself with
rage, Arthur made the best
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
of his way home; and, returning
again to his own
apartment, threw himself upon
the bed. When, an hour
or two later, his mother entered
his room, she found him
laboring under a vioient attack
of fever, and wildly delirious.
CHAPTER VII. A BLOW AND WHAT FOLLOWED.
For more than a week the
life of Arthur Warren was
despaired of; and it was a
couple of weeks after this, ere
he was able to quit the house,
for a short walk.
Meantime Ernest had removed
to the hotel, and continued
to call daily upon Marian
at her father's house,
where he had managed to become
quite a favorite with the
parents of her he sought as a
bride. His heroic conduct,
as it was termed, in saving
the life of Marian, had given
him a strong claim to their favor,
and he was not the person
to let such an opportunity
pass unimproved. And Marian
herself, looking upon
him as the preserver of her
life, and believing that Arthur
cared nothing for her, had
come to regard him in some
sort as a suitor; and though
she might not love him, in the
true sense of the term, she
frankly acknowledged he
stood high in her esteem.
We must premise here that
the true character of Ernest
Clifford was known only to
Arthur Warren; and during
the sickness of the latter, he
had so ingratiated himself
with the villagers, young and
old, that it would have been
no easy matter to convince
them he was other than he
seemed. He had made no
mention of his quarrel with
Arthur; but had given as a
reason for changing his quarters,
that he did not wish to
intrude upon the hospitality
of the Warrens, while his
dear friend lay so ill. This
looked reasonable, and was
believed.
On the second day of his
leaving the house, Arthur rode
down to the village. The
flood had long since subsided,
and a temporary bridge now
spanned the stream. A group
of several persons, among them
Ernest Clifford, stood on the
piazza, of the White Deer as
he drove up. All came forward
to congratulate him on
his recovery, and among the
foremost was Ernest himself.
As the latter held out his
hand to him, Arthur turned
to him, with flashing eyes,
and said, in a severe tone:
“Sir, we must henceforth
be strangers.”
Ernest appeared to be
shocked at this rudeness, and
the by-standers really were.
“Mr. Warren,” said Clifford,
with offended dignity,
“I must ask an explanation
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
of this singular conduct on
your part!”
“You have it already in
your hypocritical heart,” replied
Arthur, sharply. Then
addressing the others, “This
man,” he said, “whom I once
called friend, I here publicly
denounce as a wolf in sheep's
clothing—as a base and unprincipled
villain, who will
sacrifice friendship to self, and
stoop to any meanness that
will accomplish his purpose.”
Clifford, on hearing this,
appeared to be seized with
violent rage; and springing
to Arthur, ere any one could
interfere, struck him a smart
blow, exclaiming:
“There if you are not a
coward, resent that!”
The by-standers now
rushed between the parties
and prevented any further
collision—otherwise, there is
no telling what might have
been the consequence—for
Arthur was excited to a point
of madness, and, weak as he
was, it took two strong men to
hold him.
“A blow!” he shouted—
“a blow!—the stigma of a
blow can only be effaced by
blood! O, he shall pay dearly
for this!”
It was at least an hour ere
Arthur in any degree became
tranquillized; and his last
words to those who had interfered
between him and Ernest,
as he was on the point
of being driven home, were:
“Gentlemen, you have suc
ceeded in preventing me chastising
a villain now; but we
shall meet again, and then let
him beware!”
On arriving at his father's
house, he immediately repaired
to his own apartment,
and did not leave it again that
day, notwithstanding the earnest
entreaties of his parents
that he would spend an hour
or two with them in the parlor.
He refused to eat, also,
and went to bed fasting—but
not once did his eyes close
in sleep. No! he lay and
thought, struggled with himself,
wrestled manfully with
the demon that had entered
his soul, and prayed earnestly
to be delivered from evil.
Feverish and haggard, he
arose the next morning, before
any one else was astir, and
went out, directing his steps
towards the village. As he
was passing the dwelling of
the Waldegraves, he looked
up, and, as chance or fate
would have it, saw the face
of Marian at one of the upper
windows. She bowed a recognition,
and beckoned to
him at the same time. He
returned her salute, coldly
and haughtily, and seemed
about to pass on; but stopped,
hesitated a moment, and then
turned his steps towards the
mansion. Marian met him
at the door, and seemed much
agitated.
“I have much wished to
see you of late, Arthur,” she
said, in a tremulous tone:
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
“but for some reason you
appear to avoid me. I have
never had one moment's conversation
with you, except in
the presence of others, since
the night you called here, before
the accident of the
bridge: why is this?”
“I did not know you wished
to see me alone,” he replied,
with an air of reserve; “and
you are aware that I have
been much confined to my
bed since then by sickness.”
“Oh, yes, you have been
very, very ill, Arthur; but,
thank God! you are still in
the land of the living. But
you look pale and ill now,
Arthur; I fear you are far
from well; come in and rest
you awhile, and let us talk as
of old.”
“No, Marian, that cannot
be,” returned Arthur, sadly,
allowing himself to be conducted
into the parlor, where
he chose a seat beside a window,
which he opened to catch
the refreshing breath of the
morning.
“And why can it not be,
Arthur?” inquired Marian.
“Oh! if you could but know
what I have suffered, in thinking
you angry with me, methinks
you would not continue
so cruel.”
“I am not angry with you,
Marian,” replied Arthur; “I
am not cruel; but we are
changed; we are no longer
what we were; and therefore,
we cannot meet as in the
days that are past.”
“And why are we changed,
Arthur? it is of that I wish to
speak. I feel toward you the
warm, sincere friendship of a
sister, and I would have you
regard me as such, since—”
She paused, and the color
mounted to her face, for she
felt she was on the point of
venturing an expression that
might be misconstrued.
“Since you are engaged to
another,” said Arthur, a little
tartly, completing the sentence
in a very different manner
than Marian had intended.
“No, Arthur,” she replied,
“that is not true—I am not
engaged to another.”
“Well, about to be, then—
it is all the same.”
“Nay, nor about to be,
Arthur. I suppose you allude
to Mr. Clifford; but—”
“Mention not his name in
my presence,” cried Arthur,
flushing with indignation;
“and let me charge you to beware
of him, Marian! for he
is a dissembling villain, and I
have denounced him as such.”
“Yes, I have heard.”
“Who told you?” demanded
Arthur, quickly.
“Why,” replied Marian,
with some hesitation, and
coloring as she spoke—“he
was here himself last night,
and is very sorry that—”
“No more!” said Arthur,
rising, “I will take my leave:
you cannot entertain him at
night and me in the morning.”
“But stay—one moment—
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
and let us come to an understanding.
Tell me why you
feel so bitterly toward Mr.
Clifford?—he says he knows
no reason for it, and most
deeply regrets that your intemperate
language led him
to lift his hand against you;
but being blinded by passion,
he knew not at the time what
he was doing.”
“Saving your presence, Marian,”
returned Arthur, frowning
darkly, and setting his
teeth hard, “Ernest Clifford
is a liar, and a villain of the
most unmitigated stamp! He
hates me, now, with all the
malignancy of a fiend; but
he puts on a show of friendship
in the presence of others,
that I may appear the aggressor.
Oh! I could tell you—
but no! why should I?
Enough that if you heed not
my warning, you will live to
repent it! As you have become
so deeply interested in
his fortunes, however, one
thing I will say, and that is,
he already looks upon you as
his.”
“Indeed, Arthur! how
know you this?”
“He as good as told me so.”
“When?”
“The morning after your
escape from drowning, at the
house of Mr. Lynch. Did he
ever mention our interview
there?”
“Yes, and said you parted
from him in the most friendly
manner.”
“And you believed him?”
“I had no reason to doubt
his word.”
“Have you any for doubting
mine?”
“No, Arthur—what a singular
question!” said Marian,
in surprise.
“Were I to flatly deny
what he has said, which
would you believe?”
“You, Arthur—for I never
heard you utter an untruth.”
“Well, then, I take heaven
to witness, that he grossly
insulted me at that interview—
we quarrelled—he challenged
me—I refused to meet
him, but told him to his teeth
that he was a villain—and we
were about to come to blows,
when we were interrupted.”
“You amaze me, Arthur?”
“You do not know him,
Marian, or this would not
amaze you in the least.”
“Were it not that he is my
preserver, that I owe my life
to his heroic conduct—I would
never see him more,” rejoined
Marian; “but—”
“O, I understand,” interrupted
Arthur: “you need
be at no further pains to find
a reason for the impropriety
of bidding him stay away.
But I hear others stirring;
and as I am not in a mood for
meeting either of your parents,
I will take my leave.”
“But, Arthur, we are to be
friends!” said Marian, in a
tremulous tone, holding out
her soft, white hand.
“Certainly, Marian—certainly—
I will not again part
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from you in anger,” replied
Arthur, clasping her hand
cordially. “God bless you,
Marian, and guard you ever!”
he pursued, with deep feeling.
“I shall ever remember you;
and whatever may be my
fate, know that to the last
you have a warm, unselfish
friend in me.”
Marian was much affected,
and tears came to her eyes.
“You speak,” she said, “as
if you were going away.”
“I am, Marian; this is no
longer a place for me; I have
been publicly disgraced; and
as soon as I have settled this
affair with Mr. Clifford, I
shall bid adieu to Walde-Warren.”
“Oh! this is sorrowful
news,” sighed Marian, still
weeping.
“I am happy to know you
will regret my absence.”
“Could you doubt it, Arthur?”
“When a man's most cherished
companion—his bosom
friend — his confidant — suddenly
becomes an open, bitter
enemy, one is led to doubt
almost any thing,” replied the
other.
Marian scarcely knew what
to say, and her tears still
flowed freely.
“I shall see you again ere
you leave?” she murmured,
in a faltering tone.
“Perhaps so; I will not
promise, as I may leave suddenly.”
“Oh, yes, Arthur, I must
see you again! this is surely
not a final parting! And oh!
if Mr. Clifford is the man you
represent him, I pray you
avoid him!”
“No, he would misconstrue
my motive; he would publicly
proclaim me a coward.”
“Well, see him, but do not
quarrel with him!”
“I will promise nothing,
but that I shall see him as
early to-day as possible. I am
now on my way to the inn
for this purpose.”
“Arthur, do not see him!”
cried Marian, suddenly, with
unusual energy.
“Why not?”
“Because I somehow fear
the result of this meeting. I
have a presentiment of something
dreadful!”
“I regret you take so deep
an interest in him, Marian—
but see him I must!” said
Arthur in a decided tone.
“Now, for my sake, Arthur!”
“Nay, Marian, it is useless
to plead—I am resolved—and
so farewell. Whatever may
happen, I trust that you will
always regard me as a brother;
and in remembrance of the
past, forever wear the ring I
gave you as a sacred pledge
of friendship.”
On hearing these words,
Marian turned as pale as
death, and then flushed to a
deep crimson.
“What means this emotion?”
inquired Arthur, not a
little surprised. And then,
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a sudden thought flashiug
across his mind: “Let me
see your hand!” he exclaimed.
“Nay, the other one! Ha!
the ring is not there—how is
this, Miss Waldegrave? That
ring, by your own solemn
promise, was never to leave
your hand: how is this?”
“Hear me!” gasped, rather
than said, Marian, sinking
upon a seat, greatly agitated.
“Well, speak!” cried Arthur,
sternly.
“Why—There, now, do
not be angry, Arthur! Oh
say you will not be angry?”
“Speak!” reiterated Arthur,
even more sternly than
before, compressing his lips.
“Why, the truth is—that—
I—I should say—that—Mr.
Clifford—”
“Ha! I see!” cried Arthur,
interrupting her. “No more!—
there is no excuse, no palliation
for this! Miss Waldegrave,
farewell;” and without
waiting to hear another word,
he rushed from the house, in
a state of mind bordering on
frenzy, and bent his course
for the White Deer Inn.
CHAPTER VIII. THE AWFUL DEED.
The reader, who has closely
followed us in our story of
life, cannot have failed to perceive
the marked change
which has taken place in Ar
thur Warren, since his return
from abroad with one he believed
to be his friend; and
the causes of this change are
likewise known to him
Then, he was buoyant, spirited,
and happy—looking
upon life as a bright reality,
unshadowed by clouds; but
now we find him dejected,
dispirited, and gloomy, a prey
to bitter feelings and fancies,
and viewing the world as a
theatre of contention, disappointment,
and vexation,
where he was forced to play
a part ill-suited to a noble confiding
nature. The severest
misanthropes are probably
those who, at one time, have
felt the greatest general love
for mankind; and who, regarding
all men like themselves—
honest, honorable, and
generous to a fault—have
trusted implicitly, with a
whole heart, and been deceived
to an extent they could
not have believed possible;
and which, when convinced
of its reality, has shattered
their whole moral system, by
one tremendous blow, leaving
them a mere wreck of what
they were, with all faith in
humanity destroyed. It is a
fact well known, that the
swiftest running stream, if
suddenly obstructed, will
send its waters backward
with the greatest velocity;
and, as in this case, so in
every other; one extreme, if
suddenly checked, gives us
another directly its opposite.
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
The angel, fallen from a high
estate of grace, holiness, and
beatitude, becomes a demon
of the worst type; and she,
the most lovely, pure minded,
and virtuous among women,
when once degraded, becomes
the vilest of the vile; and if
she is ever reclaimed, it may
be set down as one of God's
miracles—as an event beyond
the regular order of nature.
In some degree these remarks
will apply to Arthur
Warren; for in just so much
as he had believed mankind
perfect, and fit to be trusted,
he now regarded it as base
and unworthy of confidence;
but as in the former case,
there ever had been with him
considerable qualification, so
he was still prepared to acknowledge
there might he
some good in the world,
though so mixed up with
cunning hypocrisy, as to be received
only with great caution.
after a careful examination
and proper test. There might
be such a thing as pure, disinterested
friendship, he
thought; but the cases of the
reality were at the same time
so rare, that they might be
said to serve as the proper exceptions
to an opposite rule
of action, and by said rule
he resolved henceforth to
abide, and regard friendship
only as a name. He fancied
he had good cause for this uncharitable
resolution; for the
man he had called his dearest
friend, had proved his worst
enemy; and she who had occupied
no trifling place in his
youthful dreams, he now began
to regard as false, and unworthy
of his esteem; but in
this latter he was mistaken;
for his own hasty acts had
compelled appearances against
Marian, when she was really
innocent.
In this gloomy, bitter, morbid
state of mind, Arthur
hurried forward to the inn, to
confront Clifford, ere the village
was much astir. It was
a clear, beautiful morning,
and as he crossed the bridge,
he saw by the golden glory
sent before the sun in the
east, that he was about to
make himself visible. A
lovely, picturesque landscape
lay before him, with diamond
dew drops sparkling on leaf,
and blade, and flower; birds
were singing melodiously
their morning songs, and the
stream murmured sweetly
over its rocky bed; but this
fine combination of sight and
sound harmonized not with
his feelings, and he experienced
no enjoyment from the
scene.
On arriving at the inn, Arthur
found a son of the landlord,
a lad of sixteen, standing
on the piazza, cleaning a gun;
and of him he inquired if
Mr. Clifford was yet stirring.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply;
“he came down about fifteen
minutes ago, and went up
your way. If you came direct
from home, it's a wonder
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
yeu didn't meet him. I
reckon he's in sight yet, Mr.
Warren;” and the lad
stepped off the portico, and
looked up the valley. “Yes,
there he goes now,” he continued,
“just beyond your
house. I shouldn't wonder if
he were going up the mountain,
for lately he seems very
fond of a morning ramble.”
“Thank you,” replied Arthur;
and as he turned away,
he muttered to himself, “Now
then shall I be able to meet
him alone, and we will see
who is the coward.”
The traveled road which
ran through the village, as we
have previously said, crossed
the bridge, and continued up
the right bank of the stream,
past the mills and the residence
of Waldegrave and
Warren, when it again crossed
the stream, and took the left
bank through the eastern
pass, and around the base of
a steep mountain. By going
through a field, and over a
steep hill, you could reach
this pass from the inn by
a nearer but less pleasant way
than following the road, and
this nearer course was the one
taken by Arthur.
He had been gone about fifteen
minutes, when Mr. Nixon
appeared on the piazza, and
inquired of his son with whom
he had been speaking.
“Arthur Warren,” was the
reply.
“What did he want?”
“He was asking for Mr.
Clifford, and I told him he'd
gone up the valley, and he
immediately started off after
him.”
“George, you should not
have done this,” said his father,
reprovingly; “for if they
meet, there will surely be a
quarrel.”
“Well, if they want to fight,
I reckon it's best to let 'em,”
said the lad.
“Well, sirrah! I reckon it
isn't,” replied the father sternly.
“I should be sorry to have
the village disgraced by a fight
and besides, if these young
men meet, something more
serious than an ordinary fight
may result from it; and as I
have a regard for both, I am
determined to interfere, though
I may not be thanked for my
pains. Who knows but this
may end in a secret duel? I
will after them; stay you here
till I return.”
Saying this, Mr. Nixon set
off in the direction taken by
Arthur, at a hasty pace. On
reaching the summit of a steep
eminence, about half way between
the village and the upper
pass, he espied Arthur
some half a mile distant, and
a little further on, Ernest Clifford,
both walking very fast.
He shouted to Arthur; but
probably he did not hear, for
he kept straight on, neither
turning his head to the right
nor left. Nixon descended the
hill on a run, and did not
slacken his pace to a walk till
near the pass so often alluded
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
to, though he failed to overtake
Arthur, of whom and Ernest,
for the last few minutes,
he had lost sight.
In a former chapter, we
gave a brief description of the
wild and gloomy appearance
of the spot where the road left
the valley, winding round the
base of a steep, and overhanging
the stream; and how the
branches of the trees, interlocking,
formed a leafy canopy,
that almost excluded the rays
of the noon-day sun, and at
all times rendered the place
sombre with shadow. It was
now an early hour in the morning—
the sun had not sufficiently
risen above the hill to
throw his rays here at all—
and consequently at the moment
Nixon passed beneath
the trees, the light here was
rather like the approach of
night than that which belongs
to sun-rise. At first, therefore,
he saw nothing distinctly; but
after having advanced some
half a dozen paces, he fancied
he beheld Arthur, about twice
that distance ahead of him,
bending over a dark object,
that lay upon the ground, on
one side of the road. Fearful
of, he scarcely knew what, he
quickened his pace; and as he
drew near, he found that his
conjecture as to Arthur was
correct, and that the object
under inspection was a man,
stretched at full length upon
the earth. Arthur was on his
knees, with his back toward
Nixon, and so disposed that
the latter could only see the
extremities of the person beneath
him—but from what he
did see, he doubted not it
was Clifford.
“What are you doing, Mr.
Warren?” inquired Nixon, in
a tone of slight alarm.
Arthur started up quickly,
for he had not heard the other's
approach, and turning to Nix
on, exhibited a face ghastly
and horrified.
“All merciful heaven!” he
cried—“look here!”
Nixon took a step or two
forward, and uttered an exclamation
of horror. At his feet
lay the bloody corpse of Ernest
Clifford.
“Oh! I feared this,” he
said, turning to Arthur, who
stood as one bewildered, his
fingers convulsively working
with the handle of a large
clasp-knife, whose sanguine
blade too clearly proclaimed it
the instrument with which the
awful deed had been performed.
“Oh, heaven! I feared
this, Arthur Warren,” he repeated:
“and I hastened after
you; but alas! I have come
too late.”
“Then you knew something
of it?” said Arthur, in a quick,
eager, excited tone.
“As I said before, I feared
it, Mr. Warren.”
“Then you have suspicion
of who has done it?” cried
Arthur.
“More than suspicion,” replied
Nixon, pointedly.
“Speak! quick! who is he?
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
name him!” and Arthur, in his
excitement, would have laid
his bloody hand on Nixon's
arm, but the latter drew quickly
back, with a shudder.
“I have no need to name
him, while he carries such
damning evidence of his
crime,” replied Nixon, pointing
to the other's hands.
Arthur looked down, with
an air of surprise, as if he
did not understand what
was meant; but the moment
his eyes rested on his hands
and the knife, both bloody, an
expression of the most appalling
horror swept over his
handsome countenance; and
letting the knife fall to the
ground, he fairly shrieked:
“Oh! what have I done! I
am lost! I am lost! ruined!
forever ruined! Oh, my father!
oh, my mother! this,
this will be a death-blow to
you both!” and he leaned
against a tree near-by for support.
But suddenly he started
up again, exclaiming with energy:
“No! no! why should
I think so? they cannot, they
will not, they dare not accuse
me! Sir,” he continued, addressing
Nixon, “appearances
are against me; but as God is
my judge, and as I hope for
mercy in another world, I am
not guilty of this deed!”
“I would I could believe
you, Arthur Warren,” returned
the other, with a sorrowful
shake of the head.
“And do you not? can you
believe me capable of so foul
a crime?” cried Arthur, with
passionate energy.
“When one is blinded by
rage, and a desire for revenge,
I believe one may be led to do
a deed, which, in his cooler
moments, he would shrink
from with terror,” was the reply.
“You say, Arthur Warren,
that appearances are
against you; and you say
truly; and whether I believe
you guilty or innocent, can in
no manner affect the past.
The man is dead, that is certain—
killed—stabbed in several
places—and I find you
here, bending over him, your
hands bloody, and a bloody
knife in your hands. What
must I infer? more especially,
when it is well known you and
the deceased quarrelled yesterday,
that you sought him this
morning, and that, on hearing
you had followed him, I followed
you both, lest, without
the interference of a third party,
something like this should
happen.”
“I see! I see!” groaned
Arthur, wringing his hands;
“circumstances have made me
a murderer. Oh, fate! thy
work is done, and I am lost!
But God, who sits above the
tribunals of man, and readeth
the heart, knoweth my innocence.
I did follow Clifford,
to chastise him for the blow
he gave me yesterday—that
is true—but I never contemplated
a deed like this. I
found him as you see him,
with the knife buried in his
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
heart. I was shocked, bewildered,
horrified; and scarcely
knowing what I did, I stooped
down to see if life were extinct.
My eye falling upon the knife,
I was struck with its resemblance
to one I had recently
lost; and instinctively, as it
were, without a thought of
the consequence, I drew it
forth, and, to my utter astonishment,
found it indeed was
my own. In this manner my
hands became bloody; and I
was examining it as you came
up and surprised me. This,
Mr. Nixon, is the real truth;
but I comprehend sufficiently
the position in which a chain
of circumstances has placed
me, to deem it useless to repeat
my tale.”
“You are right, Mr. Warren,”
was the rejoinder; “it
would be little better than useless
to repeat your story, for I
fear your best friends would
not believe it. Oh, heaven!
this is a sad business; and I
regret that I have any thing
to do with it; but I must back
to the village and report what
I have seen. An inquest must
be held upon this body before
it can be removed. But, Arthur,”
he continued, “I feel
for you deeply, and for your
family; it will be a terrible
blow for them; and whether
innocent or guilty, I for one
would not like to see you arraigned
before the bar of justice;
do you understand me?”
“I know not that I do.”
“Then in plain language, I
would advise you to fly while
opportunity presents; in all
probability, if you go now,
you will escape; I will not
lift a hand to detain you.”
“You mistake me,” said
Arthur, proudly; “though my
very life depended on taking
your counsel, I would not stir
a single step. No, I will abide
my fate, whatever it may be;
none but cowards and the
guilty flee. Come, let us away
at once; you shall tell your
tale, and I will confirm it.
There is a God above us all;
and if it be his decree that I
shall wrongly suffer, so be it;
I can die like a man, strong in
mine own innocence.”
“But think of your friends,
Arthur?”
“No more, Mr. Nixon,”
said Arthur, with stern resolution.
“I know you mean
me well, but you give bad
counsel. Come, there is no
time for delay.”
“You are a noble fellow,”
rejoined Nixon, “and it grieves
me to think of the trouble that
has come upon you. Come,
since you are resolved, let us
go.”
The two accordingly set off
toward the village, following
the road. Both were busy
with their thoughts, but
neither gave voice to them.
When he came opposite his
father's house, Arthur spoke
for the first time since quitting
the presence of the dead.
“By your leave, Mr. Nixon,”
he said, “I will be the one to
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
break this terrible news to my
parents. Go forward, and tell
your story; but do not reflect
upon me more than is necessary.
Say that I am here, and
voluntarily yield myself up to
the law.”
“I will do as you desire,”
was the answer, and the two
separated.
On reaching the house, Arthur
met his father at the door.
“Ah, I am glad you have
returned Arthur,” said the latter,
“for I was beginning to
grow uneasy at your absence.
It is only within a few minutes
I had learned you had left the
house, which, being unusual
with you at this hour, occasioned
me some surprise.
Whither have you been, my
son? you look pale and agitated.”
“Where is mother?” was
Arthur's only reply.
“In the kitchen, superintending
the breakfast.”
“Pray call her into the parlor!
I have sad news for you
both.”
“Ha! what has happened,
Arthur?”
“I must tell you both at
once. Go, father, hasten, and
call her! for this delay is torture
to me as well as you;”
and as his father departed, Arthur
repaired to the parlor,
and threw himself heavily
upon a seat.
When Mr. and Mrs. Warren
entered the room, they
found Arthur pale as death, his
eyes fixed on the ceiling, with
an abstracted gaze, and apparently
unconscious of every
thing around him. His father
spoke to him, but he did not
heed him; and advancing to
him, Mr. Warren took hold
of his arm, saying, in a tone
of some alarm:
“Arthur! Arthur! why do
you not speak to me?”
The latter turned upon his
father, with a kind of a spasmodic
start, and seemed at
first a little bewildered, as one
suddenly aroused from sleep:
then glancing to the pale face
of his mother, who stood in
anxious expectation, he uttered
a deep groan, and motioned
them to be seated.
“I have shocking news for
you,” he said; “prepare yourselves
for the worst!”
“Go on!” almost gasped his
father, while his mother sank
upon a seat, and fairly held her
breath.
“Ernest Clifford is dead!”
said Arthur, in an agitated
tone.
“Dead!” echoed both his
hearers in the same breath.
“Ay, my dear parents, he
has been murdered.”
“Murdered!” exclaimed
both, with a convulsive gasp of
horror.
“Yes, father—yes, mother—
murdered; and though innocent
as either of you, a chain
of circumstances fixes the horrible
crime upon me.”
“Upon you, Arthur?”
shrieked Mr. Warren, while
Mrs. Warren sank back in her
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[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
chair, with a fond mother's
cry of anguish. “Oh, God!
support us in this trying moment!”
pursued the agonised
father. “Oh! this is indeed
terrible news!—but if you are
innocent, Arthur, you can
prove yourself so—surely you
can prove yourself so!”
“Alas!” groaned Arthur—
“buoy yourself up with no
such hope, for it is better that
you be not deceived.”
“Speak! speak, my dear
boy! tell me all! give me all
the particulars, and then I can
judge for myself.”
“But my dear mother—I
fear she will not be able to
bear so much ill news at
once,” said Arthur with wild
emotion. “See! she faints!”
“No, no,” murmured Mrs.
Warren, faintly; “go on, Arthur;
I would know all; I
cannot bear suspense.”
Arthur then proceeded to relate,
in a hurried, excited tone,
much that is known to the
reader; but when he came to
speak of how he had been discovered
by Mr. Nixon beside
the corpse, with his own knife
in his hands, and his hands
red with the blood of the victim,
as they still were, Mrs.
Warren, unable to endure
more, uttered a deep groan,
and fell senseless to the floor.
“See! it has already killed
my dear mother!” he cried,
springing to her side.
Servants were called, and
Mrs. Warren was borne in a
state of unconsciousness to her
own room, and laid upon the
bed, where the usual restoratives
in such cases were applied,
but for a long time
without avail. Pete was sent
in all haste for the village
physician; but ere the latter
arrived, Mrs. Warren had recovered
from her swoom, only,
as it were, to show her afflicted
friends that another heavy
calamity had befallen them—
for, alas! her reason was
gone.
God, in his mercy, has provided
different ways for us to
bear up under the inflictions
he in his wisdom sends; and
one among the rest, is a kind
of stupefaction, which not unfrequently
succeeds to great
and overwhelming griefs. This
was the case with Arthur and
his father. To have judged
merely from their appearance,
as they moved listlessly about
the chamber of the invalid,
one would have pronounced
them indifferent spectators, or
persons under the somniferous
influence of opiates.
On the arrival of Dr. Potter,
who reported the village in
a state of the greatest excitement,
Arthur, in a quiet tone,
said:
“I can no longer be of any
use to my dear mother—therefore
I will retire to my own
room. Save you, father, I
will see no one till the officer
comes to arrest me. I know
my doom, and shall try to
meet it with fortitude, relying
solely upon mine own
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
innocence and the mercy of
God.”
Arthur had scarcely gained
his own apartment and locked
himself in, when Mr. Waldegrave,
his wife, and Marian
arrived at the house of affliction,
to condole with the now
truly miserable occupants.
“Alas! we know not what
an hour may bring forth,”
were the solemn and impressive
words of Mr. Warren,
as he seized the hand of his
more than brother. “One
hour since, Archer, I was a
happy husband and father.
Now look! the partner of my
bosom lies there, a maniac;
and he, the offspring of my
sunny days—our prop—our
hope—is doomed to worse
than death. Pity me, Archer!
I am wretched.”
“I do, Horatio—I do from
my heart. But cheer up!
all may not be so bad as it
seems. Surely, you did not
think Arthur guilty?”
“I trust in God not; but
the evidence against him will
convict him—of that I feel
certain.”
“Oh! no! no! say not
that!” cried Marian, who
stood by and heard the words;
“say not that! He must, he
shall be saved!”
“Blood for blood! that's
the Mosaic law, and Moses
was a great law giver,”
shrieked the maniac-mother,
starting up in bed.
An icy shudder pervaded
the frame of every one who
heard that awful and seemingly
prophetic denunciation.
“Oh, God! support me!”
groaned Warren.
“I must caution you to be
exceedingly careful of what
is said in the presence of the
patient,” admonished the
Doctor.
Waldegrave, Warren, and
Marian, now quitted the room
together, leaving Mrs. Warren
in the charge of the physician,
Mrs. Waldegrave, and one or
two servants. Mr. Warren
now repeated Arthur's tale to
his friend, and both agreed
that there was little hope of
his being cleared by an intelligent
jury. Marian took
exceptions.
“I know he is innocent,”
she said: “Oh, I would stake
my life on his being innocent!
Would I could see him! oh,
I must see him, if only for a
few minutes.”
A message was accordingly
dispatched to Arthur, to this
effect; but he returned for
answer, that he would see no
one but his father.
“Ah! he is cruel,” said
Marian; and she retired to
give vent to her emotions in
private.
We must now pass briefly
over the events of the day.
A coroner was sent for, and
an inquest held on the body
of the murdered Clifford.
Nixon gave in his testimony,
and the verdict of the jury
was rendered in accordance
with the facts—“That the
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
deceased came to his death
by means of wounds, inflicted
by a knife, supposed to be in
the hands of Arthur Warren.”
A warrant for the apprehension
of the latter was
accordingly issued; and a
little before night, the sheriff
of the county himself appeared
with it at the house
of Mr. Warren. To some it
may seem a little singular,
that Arthur was not sooner
taken into custody; but the
truth is, he was so universally
known and beloved, his father
stood so high in the esteem
of the community, that no
one cared to act in the matter
with more haste than the law
actually compelled; and had
Arthur taken the advice of
Nixon, and fled, he would
have escaped without difficulty.
The dread officer of the
law was shown to the room
of Arthur by the afflicted
father, and on entering, he
said:
“I have come on an unwelcome
errand, Mr. Warren.”
“You must do your duty—
I have been long expecting
you,” was Arthur's reply.
“I have only one request to
make—that you will hurry
me through the village in a
close carriage—for at present
I am not prepared to see even
my friends.”
“I have anticipated your
desire,” rejoined the sheriff,
“and a covered vehicle is at
the door.”
Arthur now embraced his
agonised father, bade him
remain with his mother, and
giving the sheriff his arm,
hurried down to the carriage.
Quite a crowd was collected
to see him as he appeared;
and Marian stood by the door
through which he passed,
hoping at least he would
speak to her, if only to say
farewell. But she was disappointed;
he did not even
seem to see her; with his
eyes on the ground, looking
neither to the right nor left,
he pressed forward to the
vehicle, which, immediately
on his entering it, was put in
rapid motion.
“And thus the friend of
my youth, my old playmate,
is borne away a prisoner, accused
of a horrible crime!”
cried Marian, with a burst of
grief she could not control.
It was a mournful day in
Walde-Warren—a day long
to be remembered.
CHAPTER IX. THE PRISONER.
On the following day, Arthur
Warren had an examination
before a magistrate, in
what suits our purpose to call
the town of Bertram, the seat
of the county in which the
fatal deed had been
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
committed. This examination
was conducted as privately as
possible; but the news of the
murder had spread far and
wide, and as the Warrens
were well known for miles
around, the sensation throughout
the country was immense,
and quite a mob gathered
about the office of the magistrate,
all eager to get a sight
of the prisoner. There were
several persons from Walde-Warren
present, and among
the rest the father of Arthur,
Mr. Waldegrave, and Nixon.
Arthur was pale and dejected,
though composed; but his
father was greatly bowed by
grief, and appeared ten years
older than when we saw him
last. To Arthur's eager inquiries
concerning his mother,
Mr. Warren shook his head,
and replied there had been no
change for the better. For a
few moments Arthur was
deeply affected at this sad
intelligence; but soon regained
his composure, and
taking his father's hand, said:
“Perhaps it is better thus,
for she is unconscious of her
misery. This event will kill
you both, father, and that is
my keenest pang. Were it
not so, I should care little
what becomes of me, for I am
sick of life.”
“Nay, my son, it grieves
me to hear you speak in this
manner,” replied Warren.
“What has come over you of
late to work this change?”
“I have learned that man
kind are false and hollow-hearted,”
answered Arthur,
bitterly; “for where I trusted
most, I have been most deceived—
where I hoped most,
I have been most disappointed.”
“If you refer to Marian in
these remarks,” said Mr. Waldegrave,
who stood by, “let
me assure you, Arthur, you
deeply wrong her, for she has
told me all.”
“I mentioned no names,”
rejoined Arthur, coldly, and
the subject dropped.
The examination of Arthur
elicited no new facts. The
principal testimony, of
course, was that of Nixon;
and that was proof convincing
to all minds that Arthur did
the deed. Even his warmest
friends, not excepting his own
father, believed him guilty of
killing Clifford; and the only
palliation of the crime they
could advance was, that he
did in a moment of temporary
insanity, and on the return
of reason, found himself
beside his gory victim. This
was improbable, it is true;
but they reasoned it was possible;
and his father clung to
it as his only stay against the
conviction that his son was a
homicide. Others thought the
two might have met, and
quarreled, and that Arthur
killed him in the heat of passion—
it might be in self-defence—
and were surprised he
should persist in denying it,
as an open acknowledgment
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
would do him less harm. Of
all that heard the details of
the case, not a single soul,
with the exception of poor
Marian, believed Arthur Warren
guiltless of the death of
Ernest Clifford; and she,
fondly loving, took counsel
of her heart rather than her
head.
For the question immediately
arose, if Arthur killed
not Clifford, who did? and for
what purpose. The day before
they had quarreled—
Ernest had struck Arthur—
Arthur had said the stigma
could only be effaced by blood—
had sought Ernest that
morning—had followed him—
had been followed by one
who naturally feared such a
catastrophe—had been found,
stained with the murdered
man's blood, beside the body,
with the knife that had done
the deed—his own knife, too,
as he himself admitted, in his
hands. Besides all this, Ernest
had only been dead a few
minutes at the farthest—for
both had been seen by Nixon
from the hill, at no great distance
apart—and the deceased's
watch, money, and
several valuable articles, had
been found untouched on his
person—showing that no robbery
had been committed—
the only motive it was supposed
any one else would
have in perpetrating the deed.
Added to all this, it was an
early hour in the morning,
when but few people were
stirring, and the very last
time to think of any one being
abroad for the purpose of
plunder. Could there be a
stronger case of circumstantial
evidence? Reader, you
to whom the heart of Arthur
Warren has in a degree been
exposed, have you a doubt
that his hand struck the blow
that deprived Ernest Clifford
of life?
And yet sweet Marian
Waldegrave believed him
innocent. Such is love.
Notwithstanding this formidable
array of circumstances
against him, it was
decided to admit Arthur to
bail—but the amount was
fixed at ten thousand dollars.
His father, rejoiced at the idea
of having him at liberty, at
once offered the necessary
securities; but to the surprise
of all, Arthur refused to be
set free.
“No,” he said, “give me
the solitude of the prison—I
care not if it be a dungeon—
where no eye but that of God,
who knoweth the heart, can
behold me. I thank you,
friends—deeply thank you—
thank you from my heart, for
your sympathy; but I can
read in the eyes of all—ay,
even of you, father—the conviction
that my hand slew
Clifford—and I will not go
forth branded even with the
suspicion of being a homicide.
I wish to be tried, impartially
tried, by a jury of my countrymen;
and if they
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
pronounce me guilty, I will meet
my fate like a man. I can
die but once, and I prefer
even death to a life of disgrace.”
These few remarks made
a deep impression on those
who heard them, and did
more to convince his hearers,
that, if guilty of the death of
Ernest, he was innocent of
murder, than the strongest
reasoning which could have
been brought to bear upon
these subjects. In vain his
father urged, and plead, that
he would suffer himself to be
released from confinement;
he steadily refused; and finally,
to end the matter, declared,
in the most positive terms,
that if bailed, he would leave
the country; and turning to
the magistrate, concluded
thus:
“Sir, after what I have said,
you dare not accept securities
for my appearance.”
He was therefore remanded
to prison; and his father returned
to Walde-Warren, with
his friends, nearly heart-broken.
The case of Arthur being
laid before the grand jury, a
true bill for murder in the
first degree was found against
him, and his trial fixed for
the fall term of the circuit
court.
For several days Arthur
gave himself up to gloomy
meditations, refusing to see
any one but his father, his
counsel, and the jailor. He
became morose, misanthropic,
and what he said was tinged
with a certain bitterness that
was not always pleasant to
hear. After a time he began
to grow peevish, restless, and
his eyes assumed a peculiar
glare, that seemed to betoken
a gradual approach of insanity.
His father, who visited him
almost daily—though the distance
between Bertram and
Walde-Warren was some ten
miles, which he not unfrequently
rode in the night, for
he took such times as he could
best be spared from his afflicted
wife—became alarmed
lest the son should eventually
be like the mother; and called
in a very eminent physician,
who, after an hour's conversation
with Arthur, gave it as
his opinion, that the terrible
malady was advancing upon
him, caused by great disappointment,
and the continual
brooding upon one subject;
and said that unless his mind
could be diverted into another
channel, the loss of reason
must certainly follow.
In the prison Arthur enjoyed
unusual privileges; his cell
was the pleasantest, and best
ventilated; was carpeted, and
furnished with every comfort—
a good bed, table, and chairs—
and the walls were adorned
with pictures of a quiet and
cheerful nature; the best of
viands tempted his appetite,
and he was informed that he
could leave his cell and walk
in the prison yard at certain
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
hours of the day; but notwithstanding
all this, the change
we have spoken of had begun
to take place, and the physician
advised his father to try
him with books, as the only
remedy he could suggest. This
was a happy idea, Mr. Warren
thought, for Arthur had
always been fond of books;
and the next day a fine library
of poetry, romance, history,
and scientific works was
placed before him. Arthur
seemed surprised; and though
he said little, his father was
rejoiced to see his eye brighten
with something of its wonted
look.
From this time there was a
perceptible alteration for the
better; the gloom of his countenance
gradually lightened;
his moroseness gradually forsook
him; his language grew
more cheerful and less bitter;
and ere a month had rolled
away, Arthur seemed more
like himself than at any time
since the first week of Clifford's
arrival in Walde-Warren.
Still he retained much
of his misanthropical feelings,
and refused all visitors, save
such as came on business.
“Urge me not to see any
one,” he would say to his father,
“for my best company
is solitude and these books;
and should I be pronounced
innocent on my trial, of which
I have no hope, I think I shall
forsake the world and turn
anchorite. I have been grossly
deceived in mankind; and
though I still believe the
world contains good and honest
hearts, yet they are far
too few, and I would not
search a field of stubble for a
grain of wheat. These books,
my dear father, deceive me
not, for I expect no more from
them than I get. Besides,
they suit all my varying humors,
and their name is legion.
If poetically inclined, here
can I sit and converse with
the great masters of song; if
I want to increase my knowledge,
what better than these
works of science?—would I
dive into the shadowy past,
behold these chronicles of ancient
times; would I have life
pictured with its lights and
shades, see here is reality under
the title of fiction; and
last, though not least, when I
would turn my thoughts to a
better state of existence,
where none deceive nor are
deceived—where all see as
they are seen, and know as
they are known—behold the
Bible, God's blessed word of
truth, wherein is taught meekness,
patience, forbearance,
forgiveness, charity, benevolence,
long-suffering, and all
the nobler and holier attributes.
What need I more,
father?”
One day Mr. Warren appeared
before his son, with a
more cheerful countenance
than he had exhibited since
the tragic event.
“Good news, Arthur!” he
said,—“good news! Your
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
mother is much better; and
Dr. Potter tells me, with
careful nursing, and the avoidance
of all exciting topics, her
reason may soon be restored;
there is a glimmering, as of
the dawning of intellect.”
“Well, for your sake, father,”
returned Arthur, “I
am rejoiced at this; though,
as I said before, I feel it is
better for her to be unconscious
of her misery.”
Arthur now, to the surprise
of his father, inquired
what was the general feeling
toward him in the village—a
question he had never asked
during his confinement—and
what is more, had strictly forbidden
the mention of a single
event, beyond what concerned
his mother, of the
world without.
“Why, my son,” answered
the other, “the feeling is all
in your favor; and thanks to
sweet Marian—heaven's blessing
on her!—there are many
who begin to think you may
be innocent after all.”
“Marian?” said Arthur,
with a touch of feeling,
and a quickening of the
blood: “does she then think
me innocent?”
“Yes, and has positively
declared it from the first.”
“Why have I not known
this?” said Arthur, with increased
emotion.
“Because you would not.
Did you not forbid the mention
of her name in your presence?
and when I bore her
earnest entreaty that you
would see her, did you not refuse
in terms of scorn and indignation?”
“I did, I did,” replied Arthur,
“for I believed her
false.”
“Oh! Arthur, cried his father—
“how have you wronged
that girl!—and oh! how
much has she suffered, in silence,
without a murmur!
Daily does she come to ask
after you—to know if you
once mentioned her name—
and daily goes she back weeping,
and almost broken-hearted.
Arthur, why have you
treated her thus?—how could
you think her false? You
must have been blind—wilfully
blind—not to have seen,
not to have known, not to
have felt, that her heart is
yours, wholly yours, and has
ever been! I am glad that
you have introduced the subject,
my son, that I may speak
freely. Oh! you know not
the anguish I have suffered on
her account, when to her daily
calls, I have had no kind message
to bear from you to her,
to revive her drooping spirits.
Arthur, do not be offended, if I
say I think you have been cruel—
very, very cruel—and if you
persist in the course begun,
she will not long be here to
trouble you—for I can see
her fading away, day by
day.”
“Oh, I am a wretch!” cried
Arthur, with a burst of emotion
he no longer tried to
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
control. “I am a wretch! I see
it all;” and he covered his
face and groaned. “If she
is true,” he continued—“if
she loves me, I have indeed
deceived myself; and the
fruit of my base, unmanly
suspicions and conduct, is all
the misery that has been
brought upon us. If she is
true, then is the world not so
bad as I have thought it.
Poor Marian! if I have
so wronged her, I shall never
forgive myself—but heavily
have I been punished already.
Ah! what strange mortals we
are! and how much of our
happiness or misery dates
with ourselves—finds its fountain
head in our hearts! Do
you think she will forgive me,
father?”
“You shall ask her that
question yourself, Arthur; and
after what has passed, it is no
more than right you should.”
“Father, I would see her
alone; will she come to me,
think you?”
“Do you then doubt her
still?”
“But I have so wronged
her.”
“She grieves, Arthur, but
harbors no unkind thought;
she would give her life for
your's, I am certain.”
“Say no more, father! say
no more! I cannot bear more.
Oh, bid her come to me to-morrow!
and I will make all
the reparation in my power:
alas! that is but little.”
“This will be the happiest
night she has known for many
a troubled week,” replied Mr.
Warren; “and I will hasten
home to glad her aching
heart.”
“Fly! father—fly! oh,
lose not a moment! Can it
be that the night of my adversity
is already breaking
into morn? Yes, it must be
so—else why does the bright
star of hope which I fain
would think precedes the
dawn of prosperity, shed its
mild and cheering rays upon
my heart? Fly! father—fly!
and say what you will—but
make happy the heart of dear
Marian!”
For more than an hour after
his father left him, Arthur
paced the floor of his cell in
great agitation; and then
throwing himself upon the
bed, gave vent to his feelings
in a flood of tears—the first
he had shed within the walls
of his prison.
Oh, tears! blessed tears!
happy are they who can weep;
for mighty griefs too oft make
dry the founts of the soul —
and burning thought, unquenched,
consumes the heart.
CHAPTER X. LOVE AND GRIEF.
It was a warm, clear, beautiful
summer morning, and
Arthur Warren sat by the
window of his cell, looking
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
forth, through the iron grate,
upon a pleasant landscape.
The view was toward the
east, and a few dwellings of
the town of Bertram was visible,
and beyond them green
and flowery fields, shaded
here and there by trees, in
the branches of which
birds of different plumage
were singing merrily, and
over all the rising sun was
streaming with golden glory.
It was a delightful scene to
any who was free to range
at will; and as Arthur
sat and gazed upon it, in a
meditative mood, his mind
instinctively recurred to the
past; and memory became
busy with the happy hours of
his youth, when hand in hand,
with his gentle playmate Marian,
he had wandered over
the charming valley of Walde-Warren,
culling the brightest
flowers, to weave into a
garland for the fair brow of
his heart's queen; and he
remembered how, when tired
of their ramble, they had
partially ascended some one
of the many surrounding
hills, and there seated on
some smooth rock, that overlooked
their rural homes, he
had taken no note of time, as
he wreathed together his floral
gatherings, and entwined
them with her sunny curls.
Did he doubt her heart then?
Did he think those mild, soft,
grey eyes—whose every expression
was gentleness,
sweetness, frankness—which
seemed formed expressly to
beam with the holy light of
pure affection and love—did
he believe them the gates of
a soul that harbored one
thought of deceit? Did he
deem those rosy lips, which
his own in childish innocence
and admiration so often pressed,
could utter an untruth?
No! he would as soon have
doubted the warmth and
light of the sun, as doubted
the purity, the guilelessness,
of his fond, sweet little playmate,
his pretty little Marian.
And he had lived to think
that same fair being false,
deceitful, and leagued with
another more false and treacherous
still! Oh! how much
we lose, in losing the innocence
of childhood! It is the
lifting of the silver veil which
hangs before the Mokanna of
the future, and we shudder
at what we behold! It is the
tasting of the forbidden tree,
by which we know good from
evil; but alas, all we gain in
knowledge illy compensates
us for the moral death we
suffer, in being driven from
our Eden of happiness.
“Wretch am I, that I could
so wrong her! and wretched
am I, that I have so wronged
her!” said Arthur; and tears
of regret rolled slowly down
his pale cheeks. “Oh, that
she were come! that I might
ask her forgiveness!”
As he spoke, he had a
glimpse of a carriage, passing
along the road below him.
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
His cell was so situated, that
he could only see the upper
portion of it, and he only saw
it for a moment; but he recognised
it as his father's or
Waldegrave's—he knew not
which—and his heart beat
fast, for he believed it contained
Marian. He arose in
no little agitation, and paced
the floor hurriedly, ever and
anon stopping to listen, with
his breath suspended. Presently
he heard the rattling
of bolts and bars, the opening
and shutting of ponderous
doors, and knew that some
one had entered the prison.
The noise drew nearer, and
he involuntarily placed his
hand upon his heart, to still
its beatings. Nearer it came,
stopped at his door, and as he
heard the key applied to the
lock, he grasped a chair to
support himself, for he felt
weak and faint. The next
moment the door was thrown
open, something was said by
the jailor, a female figure
glided into the cell, a half
suppressed shriek followed,
and Arthur Warren held the
lovely Marian Waldegrave
in his embrace, with her head
pillowed upon his bosom,
while the closing of the iron
door, with a bang, told him
they were alone.
For some moments Arthur
was too deeply affected to
speak, and Marian lay heavily
upon his support, without
moving. At length, in a
voice tremulous with emotion,
he murmured her name. Still
she stirred not, spoke not; and
gently altering her position,
so that the light streamed full
upon her lovely countenance,
he saw that she had fainted.
Oh! how his heart smote
him, as he gazed upon that
pale, sweet, sad face, and
traced in its fading lineaments,
lines of grief and suffering.
And this was the gentle being
he had rashly torn from his
heart, as unworthy of his love,
and deemed mankind selfish
and base, because of her falsity!
Ah! good reason had
he for thinking the world all
hollow-hearted, if she were
not true—for when angels sin,
where shall we look for goodness?—
but the great error
of Arthur, was in first mistaking
her; and the moment
his faith drew her from the
foundation of the false fabric
his mind had reared, the unsupported
structure came
tumbling to the ground.
There was water in the
room, and still sustaining his
gentle burthen, Arthur sprinkled
some on her face. Soon
she showed signs of returning
animation; and carefully seating
her in a chair, he removed
her hood, kneeling beside her,
and taking one of her soft
white hands in his, reverently
placed it to his lips, and bedewed
it with tears. That
was a moment of happiness,
such as he had not known
for a long, long time; and
contrasted with his recent
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
misery, seemed to exceed all
he had ever known.
Gradually consciousness returned;
and as the warm
blood slightly tinged the pale
cheeks of Marian, her mild,
dove-like eyes unclosed, and
beamed softly upon him who
had been the cause of so much
sorrow to her. At first she
seemed only to comprehend
in part her situation; but
the soul, regaining its empire,
made her face radiant with
joy and sadness commingled;
and while a sweet, melancholy
smile played around her lips,
her eyes filled with tears.
“Arthur!” she murmured;
“Oh! Arthur.”
“Marian! dear, dear Marian!”
he replied; and starting
to his feet, he clasped
her to his heart.
Both now wept, and wept
freely, for the hearts of both
were too full to yet find vent
in words. At length, growing
more composed, they seated
themselves beside the window,
with a ray of sunlight streaming
in between them—as
if nature would unite them
in brightness—and gently
taking her hand again, Arthur
said:
“Can you forgive me, dear
Marian?”
“Oh, Arthur, it is I who
should ask that question of
you.”
“Nay, no more of that!”
cried Arthur, with energy—
“no more of that, Marian!
I could bear your scorn better
than such words now. I
would I had something to forgive—
for then there might be
a slight excuse for my own
conduct—but now there is
none. My father tells me,
Marian that you believe me
innocent of the crime of which
I stand accused.'
“I do, Arthur—O, I do!”
“Bless you for this! bless
you! And now tell me why
you think so, dear Marian?
for you, of all my friends,
have best cause for thinking
otherwise—as I left you in
a bitter mood to seek Ernest,
notwithstanding your prayer
to the contrary. O, tell me
why you think me guiltless
of his death?”
“Because, dear Arthur,
you told your father you did
not do it—and my heart
tells me you would not utter
an untruth to save your
life.”
“Heaven bless you, dear
Marian, for this unwavering
confidence in my integrity!—
but in return, I must stand
condemned before you—for
I could doubt your truth, and
think you false.”
“You wronged me in that
thought, Arthur—but perhaps
you had a cause.”
“No, no cause that would
justify it, I now feel assured;
and all I can plead in extenuation
is a certain degree of
jealousy, arising from excess
of love. Oh, Marian, you
could not have known how
much I loved you, I am now
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
certain, or you would not
have made me miserable by
encouraging the advances of
one who was seeking to supplant
me!”
“Love!” almost gasped
Marian, turning pale as death:
“did you then love me, Arthur?”
“Ay, Marian, too well for
my own good; and not till
convinced you only felt toward
me a kind of worldly
friendship, did I seek to tear
that love from my heart.”
“Oh, what a fatal mistake!”
cried Marian. “I did
not know this, Arthur; I
never dreamed it; I thought—
(her voice faltered, and her
eyes sought the ground) I
thought you loved another.”
“Ha! methinks I see
through all this!” exclaimed
Arthur: “were you not told
so Marian?”
“Not in so many words;
but I was given to understand
so, by some casual remarks
of Mr. Clifford.”
“Yes! yes! I see! Oh,
the—. But he has gone
to his account, and I will say
nothing harsh. And yet,
Marian, you said he always
spoke of me in the highest
terms?”
“And so he did, Arthur,
else should I not have listened
to him. He extolled you
most highly, and as your
friend won my esteem; though
once I remember, in speaking
of this, you unfortunately
misunderstood me.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.
And he led you to think I
loved another?”
“Yes, Arthur; and that belief
caused my manner to bear
a certain restraint in your presence;
and I encouraged the
attention of Mr. Clifford, in
order that you might not feel
compelled through courtesy to
wait upon me. I fancied you
knew the secret of my heart—
that I had too palpably made
known its love for you—and
that if you did not actually despise
me, you wished it otherwise.
I was told you esteemed
me, regarded me as a friend,
looked upon me as a sister—
and maidenly delicacy would
permit me to show no other
feeling toward you, if I could
avoid it. You confirmed me
in this belief—for you spoke
to me of friendship, and hinted
there could be no nearer tie
between us.”
“And that was because I
fancied you cared more for
another than myself—for I too
had been told, by the same designing
individual, that you
looked upon me as a brother.
Oh! Marian, you said right,
when you termed this a fatal
mistake; for had we understood
each other, I should not
have quarrelled with Clifford,
and therefore should not be
here now.”
“But you had no hand in
his death, Arthur?”
“What! do you begin to
doubt now?”
Oh, no, no, no, Arthur—do
-- 082 --
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not let us misunderstand one
another again; but you said
if you had not quarrelled you
would not be here now.”
“By which I mean, if I had
not gone to seek him in an angry
mood, I should never have
placed myself in a position to
be suspected of his death.”
“I understand you now.
Ah! how guarded we should
be in all our actions, since there
may be a fate in the most trifling
thing we do.”
“True,” replied Arthur musingly—
“true, Marian, true.
The ways of God are intricate;
and not the more easily to be
understood, that he works by
the simplest means. Trifles
make up the sum of human
existence; and though we are
occasionally startled by great
events, which come upon us
suddenly, yet each event, if
traced to its cause, will not
only be found to have had its
beginning in trifles, but to be
entirely composed of trifles,
which, having been brought
together, like so many kernels
of powder, have at length exploded,
causing destruction
and consternation. Take
every marked circumstance,
that ever happened in the life
of an individual, and if he will
run his mental eye back along
the vista of the past, he will
find some trifling point where
the whole consequence had a
beginning; and he will freely
acknowledge, that had this
point been changed in the
smallest possible degree, the
result must have been entirely
different—as a stream turned
never so little from its channel,
near its source, may perhaps
water another country. Yes,
Marian, yes—we cannot be too
guarded, even in our most trifling
actions. Oh, had I taken
your advice, and not gone in
pursuit of Clifford, this had
not been; and I might perhaps
have done so—I do not say I
should, but that I might—had
not the missing of that ring rearoused
all my most vindictive
feelings.”
“Alas, dear Arthur, you
must not blame me too severely
that the ring was not where
you placed it.”
“The time for blaming you,
sweet Marian, has gone by,
thank heaven!” said Arthur,
with sad earnestness. “I no
longer doubt your friendship,
or your love; and whether you
explain the cause of its absence
or not, my feelings will
remain unaltered.”
“A word then will suffice,”
rejoined Marian, “and this explanation
is due to you. The
day after that awful night,
when we were borne down the
angry torrent, I missed the
ring from my finger, and next
saw it in the possession of
Mr. Clifford, who persisted in
retaining it, in spite of all my
entreaties. You may judge
of my anxiety on the subject,
regarding it as I did the sacred
pledge of your friendship. But
what could I do? I could not
compel its return, and he was
-- 083 --
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the preserver of my life, and,
as I then believed, your
friend.”
“Well,” replied Arthur sadly,
“it matters not now—every
thing was so to be, it seems—
and we must bear in mind
that a Power above us had the
ordering of all.” Then, after
a thoughtful pause: “Marian,”
he said, “dear Marian, you
must not think me inconsistent,
cruel, or unkind, that even
now, at the very moment of
our reconciliation—with that
knowledge of your love which,
under other circumstances,
would make me the happiest
of mortals—I frankly confess,
I almost regret you are not
what I believed you to be, ere
we came to an understanding.”
“Why so, Arthur?” demanded
Marian, with a start,
her pale features deeply flushing.
“Because, dear Marian,”
he replied, taking her hand,
and speaking in a sad, dejected
tone; “because, Marian, dissatisfied
with the world, I was
ready and willing to quit it
for a better; and were you
what I then thought, my death
would have caused you no
pang; but now, since I know
how deeply you love me—
now that I have earthly happiness,
as it were, within my
very grasp—it will be very,
very hard for us to part.”
“Part,” echoed Marian, in
a tone of alarm, her sweet
features now becoming deadly
pale; “part, Arthur? must
we then part?”
“You see me here, Marian,
accused of a horrible crime,”
said Arthur, in a voice of
deep emotion.
“Well, but you are innocent,
Arthur?”
“What matters that, with
such a chain of circumstances
against me, Marian? You
think me innocent—but you
are not my judge and jury—
will they pronounce me guiltless,
think you?”
“Oh, yes, they must,—they
must; you will say you did
not kill Clifford, and surely
they will believe you.”
Arthur shook his head sorrowfully.
“I know the world but indifferently
well,” he rejoined;
“but I know it better than
you, it seems, dear Marian. I
shall be tried—impartially, I
doubt not—but the evidence
against me will be overwhelming,
and I dare not hope for
an acquittal.”
“Oh! you terrify me, Arthur?”
cried Marian.
“Better that you should
prepare yourself for what is
about to take place.”
“Can an innocent man be
condemned, dear Arthur?”
cried Marian, greatly excited.
“Many have been ere now,
dearest.”
“And executed, Arthur?”
“Ay, and executed.”
“Will heaven look on and
permit it?”
“Heaven sometimes does,
-- 084 --
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my sweet friend; for God has
his own wise purposes to perform,
and it is sometimes his
will that the innocent should
suffer for the guilty.”
“Oh! Arthur, this idea will
drive me mad.”
“It must not, Marian; you
must struggle against it; you
must pray to be supported under
this deep affliction; and I
must pray for new strength
also.”
“Alas! Arthur—dear, dear
Arthur—I could not survive
you!” groaned Marian.
“We know not how much
we can bear and live, till we
are tried. Had any one told
me, three months since, that
I should pass through what I
have, and retain my reason, I
would have unhesitatingly
pronounced it an impossibility—
but you behold me here, a
living proof that I knew not
myself.”
“But have you no hope of
an acquittal, Arthur?
“None that I dare rely on,
Marian.”
“Oh, I dreamed not of
this,” cried the other, with a
burst of grief; “it is terrible,
terrible,” and covering her
face, the poor girl sobbed convulsively.
Suddenly she stopped,
and fixing her tearful
eyes upon him she loved, with
a ray of hope animating her
sorrowful countenance, exclaimed:
“But if convicted,
Arthur, you may be pardoned—
the law is not always carried
into effect.”
“If convicted, I would hardly
accept my life from the
Governor,” returned the other,
gloomily.
“But for my sake you would,
Arthur?” pursued Marian,
eagerly.
“For your sake,” he rejoined,
sadly: “Ah! Marian, I fear
you do not fully comprehend
your own idea; it would be
snatching me from a speedy
death, to condemn me to a
life of misery.”
“How so, Arthur?” asked
Marian, in surprise.
“Because the stigma of a
pardoned criminal would ever
attach to me; and I could
never stand up again like a
man, with the proud consciousness
there was no stain
upon my honor; and to live
degraded and disgraced I could
not.”
“But you could go where
you are not known?” persisted
Marian.
“Well, and should I be happy
among strangers? should I
not feel that every one had a
right to shun me? and how,
with this feeling uppermost,
could I ever mingle in society
again?”
“But could we not live in
retirement and be happy, Arthur?”
said Marian, blushing
at her own ingenuous words.
“We?” repeated Arthur, emphatically,
with a peculiar expression:
“we? Could you
then consent to link your fate
to a pardoned criminal, Marian?”
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
“I would link my fate to
yours, Arthur, be it what it
might,” she replied, with the
straightforward simplicity of
pure affection—of unwavering
love.
Arthur gazed upon her, with
an expression of rapture
mingled with grief.
“O, blessed is woman!” he
exclaimed; “for she makes
even this cold earth a Paradise.
May heaven forgive me, Marian,
for ever having doubted
you!—but alas! what you
propose would be impossible.”
“How impossible?” cried
the other.
“Because I would not be
so base as to unite you with
one dishonored.”
“But you would not be dishonored
in my eyes, dear Arthur.”
“Ah! think it not, Marian,”
he rejoined, with deep
feeling; “hope it not; it could
never be. No, if I am condemned,
whether pardoned or
not, we can never be more to
each other than we are now.”
“Alas! you give me no
hope to sustain my sinking
spirits, Arthur!” she cried,
again bursting into tears.
“I would I could give you
hope, dearest Marian,” he replied,
in a voice scarcely audible;
“but I would not deceive
you.”
After some further conversation,
all tending to the same
point, Marian, with tearful
eyes, bade Arthur adieu, and
returned home, more depress
ed in spirit than when she
came hither; while Arthur,
no longer finding relief to his
burdened mind in his books,
paced the floor of his cell, hour
after hour, with his eyes bent
upon the ground, and a dark
cloud of gloom resting upon
his manly, noble countenance.
CHAPTER XI. THE TRIAL.
We must now pass briefly
over the minor events of our
story, and come to those which
decided the fate of our hero.
Marian, in company with her
father or Mr. Warren, visited
Arthur some two or three
times a week; and though
they could give him little
hope of a full acquittal by
jury, yet they did much to
lighten the tedium of the
heavy hours. Arthur was no
longer misanthropical, but melancholy;
and now that he
had every desire to live, the
thought of what might be his
doom, preyed heavily upon
his spirits. While he believed
mankind false, he cared little
what they thought of him,
and the future gave him no
uneasiness—for he fancied he
had reached the ultima thule
of misery, and even death itself
was stripped of all terrors;
but since his first interview
with Marian—since he had
discovered how greatly he had
deceived himself—since he
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
had learned how truly he was
beloved for himself alone—
the case was entirely changed;
and he looked forward to that
point of time, which must
make certain an uncertainty,
with eagerness and fear, scarcely
with hope, for he dared not
hope. The long suspense now
became deeply trying; and no
longer able to find relief in
books, he grew dejected, and
gloomy, and thin, and haggard,
and fears were entertained by
his friends that his physical
powers would not sustain him
through the trial. Every thing
calculated to cheer, was told
him; and every thing likely
to produce an opposite effect,
carefully withheld. Daily he
made inquiries concerning his
mother, and daily was he informed
that her case was no
worse, and sometimes that it
was thought to be better,
though she had not yet fully
recovered her reason
The truth was, Arthur was
continually in the mind of
Mrs. Warren; she was ever
asking for him; and the physician
gave it as his opinion,
that if he could be restored to
her, freed from danger, she
would speedily recover—but
otherwise, he feared the worst.
Oh! what must have been the
feelings of the husband and
father! and with what painful
anxiety must he have looked
forward to the period that
would decide the fate of those
so dear to him! Should Arthur
be acquitted, all might
yet be well; happiness, like
the wandering dove, might
once more return to his ark;
but should Arthur be condemned,
then—oh! then—
alas! he dared not think what
might be then. He, like Arthur,
wasted away, grew thin
and haggard, spoke little,
grieved in silence and solitude,
and passed most of his nights
in prayer, and restless agony,
and the feverish sleep which
gives startling dreams. Already
his dark hair, which
time had left untouched, had
become quite gray with sorrow;
and it was believed by
his friends that he would not
long survive his family, but
sink into the grave, a broken-hearted
man.
Great was the sensation,
therefore, throughout the
country, where all these facts
were known, as the day appointed
for the trial of Arthur
Warren drew near. It came
at last, and Bertram was filled
with strangers, drawn hither
by business and curiosity, but
all eager to be present at the
trial. The court-house was a
two story wooden building, of
small dimensions, with a cupola,
and stood upon a slight
eminence, near the central
part of the village, surrounded
by a pleasant yard, enclosed
by a hewn post and rail fence.
This yard, at an early hour,
was crowded by anxious spectators;
and the entrance to the
court-house was so densely
blocked up by human beings,
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
that the sheriff and constables
had no little difficulty in forcing
a way for the court, and
those connected with the trial.
The court-room itself, being
small, was instantly crammed
almost to suffocation, more
than one person was injured
by the rush, and hundreds
without either went away disappointed,
or lingered around
the door, vainly hoping that
by some fortunate chance they
would yet gain admittance.
To avoid another scene of excitement,
the prisoner and his
friends were smuggled in by
a rear entrance—so that very
few of those without, who still
hung around the court-house,
for the purpose of getting a
sight of him, had their curiosity
gratified.
Arthur Warren entered the
court-room, accompanied by
his father, his counsel and the
sheriff, and taking his seat
within the bar, ran his eye
rapidly over the assemblage.
Those who had known him
previous to his confinement,
were struck with the alteration
in his appearance; and
some could hardly credit the
fact, that that thin, pale, haggard,
melancholy face, belonged
to the once gay,
sprightly, noble-hearted Arthur
Warren.
Ere the sensation caused
by the prisoner's entrance
had fairly subsided, it was renewed,
in degree, by the appearance
of Mr. Waldegrave,
accompanied by his wife and
Marian. The last mentioned
person leaned on her father's
arm, and advanced with a
tremulous step to a seat reserved
for her; but a double
veil concealed her features
from the most prying eyes,
and put curiosity at fault.
A buzz of speculation, however,
ran among the spectators,
which was finally
checked by the crier calling
out, in a loud voice:
“Silence in the court!”
The bench was composed
of three judges—the president
being a man advanced in
years, with gray hair, and a
dignified and benevolent countenance.
As he was known
to be a personal friend of the
proprietors of Walde-Warren,
some argued that he would
lean strongly to the side of
the prisoner; but they underrated
his character; for he
was a man of stern integrity,
and regarded not friendship
in the official discharge of
his duty.
Silence being restored, he
announced, in a calm, quiet
tone, that the court was now
ready to proceed with the
case of Arthur Warren, indicted
for the murder of one
Ernest Clifford; and he trusted
the spectators, whether
friends or otherwise of the
accused, would preserve strict
order and decorum, and not
seek, by any public manifestation,
to influence the
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
minds of those whose duty it
was to give the prisoner an
impartial trial.
The next thing in order,
was the empaneling of the
jury; and this, owing to a
great portion of those summoned
having expressed an
opinion on the subject, and
had therefore to be set aside,
occupied some two or three
hours; and on the last man
being sworn in, the court took
a recess of half an hour.
On the re-assembling of
the court, the indictment was
read, charging Arthur Warren
with having on a certain day,
between such and such hours,
at such a place, with malice
aforethought, and by means
of a certain sharp-pointed instrument
or instruments, feloniously
taken the life of
Ernest Clifford, et cetera, et
cetera. When the clerk had
finished reading this technical
paper:
“Arthur Warren,” said
Judge Whitmore, in a tone
of deep solemnity, amid a
breathless silence, that had in
it something awful, “you are
now put upon a trial for your
life; you have heard the accusation;
do you plead guilty
or not guilty?”
There was a moment of intense,
breathless suspense,
during which the accused,
who had risen to his feet,
seemed struggling with his
feelings; and then the words,
“Not guilty,” rang out clear,
distinct, and almost startling;
and the prisoner resumed his
seat amid a deep sensation.
“Let the trial proceed!”
said the Judge; and the prosecuting
attorney opened the
case, by a brief statement to the
jury of the facts he expected
to prove; but these facts,
being already known to the
reader, it is unnecessary for
us to recapitulate in detail.
The first witness called was
Mr. Nixon, who, being duly
sworn, proceeded to state that
he knew the deceased; that
he had first seen him in April
last, in company with the accused—
both having arrived
in Walde-Warren by the
stage at the same time; and
so forth, and so on. He was
upon the stand nearly an hour,
before he gave in the direct
evidence, which bore most
strongly upon the guilt of the
prisoner. When he came to
speak of how he had followed
Arthur; how he had seen
him and the deceased some
half a mile in advance of him,
and not far apart; how he had
quickened his pace, till he
came to the spot where the
fatal deed had been committed,
and in what position he had
found the accused; and in
short all that had been said
and done by either party,
together with a sickening
detail of the appearance of the
deceased: when he came to
speak of all this, we say, the
sensation in the court-room—
among the bench, jury, bar,
and spectators—was, to use
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
an expressive term, tremendous;
and it was thought by
many there was no possibility
of the prisoner being acquitted.
The knife being
produced, with which the
fatal deed had been committed,
it was identified by the witness
as the one he had seen
in the hand of the accused.
“And this knife, may it
please the court,” said the
attorney for the prosecution,
“we can, if necessary, prove
to be the property of the accused.”
“We shall not require you
to do so,” replied the counsel
for the prisoner, “since the
accused, openly through me,
acknowledges the fact, coupled
with the statement, that
the knife had not been in his
possession for more than a
month prior to the deed of
which he stands charged.”
The direct and cross examination
of Mr. Nixon occupied
the greater portion of
the afternoon session.
The next testimony called
was the coroner, who briefly,
but clearly stated in what
position and condition he had
found the deceased—described
his wounds, of which there
were three—and named the
articles that were on his person.
“Do you think the wounds
were all made with that
knife?” inquired the counsel
for defence, pointing to the
fatal weapon.
“I do.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because they were precisely
such wounds as such
an instrument make.”
“Do you speak knowingly
on the subject?
“I am, by profession, a
surgeon.”
“Could not the deceased
have inflicted them upon
himself?”
“I should judge not.”
“And why not?”
“Because he could not
have made the wound in the
abdomen, after stabbing himself
to the heart; and he
would hardly have had
strength to press the knife
through the heart, after stabbing
himself in the abdomen—
to say nothing of the third
wound on the thorax, which
he would not have been likely
to have made at all.”
“Was there any evidence
of there having been resistance
on the part of the deceased?”
“There was a slight fleshcut,
leading from the stab on
the thorax, as if the deceased
had turned quickly on being
struck there.”
The next witness called
was George Nixon, the son of
the inn-keeper, who repeated
what had passed between Arthur
Warren and himself on
the fatal morning.
“Did the prisoner seem excited
and angry?” inquired
the prosecution.
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
“Yes, sir—I thought he
was very angry from his
looks.”
On the conclusion of young
Nixon's testimony, the court
adjourned.
At an early hour on the following
morning, the courtyard
was again crowded by
hundreds of eager persons,
and the scene presented on the
opening of the Court was so
much like that of the preceding
day, that one description
will answer for both. The
appearance of Arthur was, if
any thing, more haggard and
downcast, than the day before.
No wonder, poor fellow!
for he had slept none
during the night.
The first witness called on
the second day, was one of
those who had been preseet
when the deceased struck
the accused. He briefly described
the event as it occurred,
repeated the words
that had passed between the
parties, and said he was
one of several present who
had interfered to separate
them.
“Did you observe the prisoner
closely,” inquired the
prosecution, “after he was
struck?”
“I did, for I had hold of
him.”
“How did he conduct himself?”
“Like a man insane with
passion.”
“You say he made use of
threatening language—will
you repeat his words?”
“`A blow!” he cried; `a
blow! the stigma of a blow can
only be effaced by blood! Oh,
he shall pay dearly for this!' ”
and the witness continued to
repeat much more that was
said of a like nature—with
which, however, we do not
think necessary to trouble the
reader—concluding with Arthur's
last words, as he drove
away: “ `Gentlemen, you
have succeeded in preventing
me chastising a villain now;
but we shall meet again, and
then let him beware!' ”
Several other witnesses
were now called in succession,
whose testimony was merely
corroborative of that just recorded.
“Much of this last evidence,
we might, perhaps,
have omitted,” said the prosecution;
“but we wished to
convince the jury of premeditation
on the part of the accused.
Much more testimony
of a like nature—all tending
to the same thing—all going
to prove—ay, gentlemen of
the jury, and proving, too, beyond
a cavil, malice aforethought,
we could produce,
and would produce, but that
we know our case requires it
not, and we do not wish to
trespass needlessly on your
valuable time. We will,
therefore, call only one witness
more; and, apropos—here
she comes.”
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
As this was said, all eyes
were turned to the door; and
quite a sensation was created,
by perceiving Marian
Waldegrave, deeply veiled,
as on the preceding day, leaning
heavily on her father's
arm, and advancing with a
tremulous step. On being conducted
to the stand, she appeared
greatly agitated, and
showed signs of fainting; and
it was not till she had drank
part of a glass of water which
was handed her, that she became
sufficiently collected to
go through the simple ceremony
of taking the oath.
Her veil was now partly
drawn aside; and the eagerness
of the spectators to get
a glimpse of her face, caused
an unusual commotion in the
court-room; and the words,
“Silence,” and “Order,” had
to be several times repeated,
ere the tumult subsided.
Those who did see the countenance
of Marian, were
struck by its loveliness, pallor,
and the anguish of its expression.
“Miss Waldegrave,” said
the attorney for the State,
when silence was again restored,
“we are informed that
the accused was with you at
an early hour—say before sun-rise—
on the morning of the
day on which the deceased
came to a violent death.”
“He was,” replied Marian,
in a tone scarcely audible.
“We shall spare you a
repetition of much that was
said at that interview—but
we wish you to state all that
was spoken concerning the
deceased.”
After a short pause, during
which Marian seemed to be
collecting her thoughts, and
nerving herself for the task,
she proceeded in a barely audible
tone, to repeat that portion
of the conversation between
Arthur and herself relative
to Ernest Clifford. As the
reader can refer to it himself,
in case it is forgotten, we
shall not record it here.
“You say,” pursued the
attorney, in the course of the
examination, “you urged the
accused not to see the deceased—
why?—had you any
fear of what subsequently
happened?”
“Not as it did happen,”
replied Marian; “my fear
was that the opposite party
would be the victim—for I
believed Arthur Warren incapable
of such a crime.”
This was spoken in a
louder and firmer tone than
any of the previous answers,
and being distinctly
heard, caused quite a sensation
among the audience.
“Are you of the same opinion
still, Miss Waldegrave?”
inquired the attorney, with a
slight curl of the lip, which
seemed to say, “It is perfectly
immaterial whether you
are or not.”
“We are here to listen to
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
facts, and not to the opinions
of witnesses,” interposed
Judge Whitmore.
“Nevertheless,” said Marian,
with unusual energy of
tone—roused to this by the
insidious sneer of the attorney,
which she had not failed
to perceive—while a bright
glow spread over lovely features,
making them radiant as
with a lofty purpose: “Nevertheless,
so may it please the
court, I will answer the question:
I am of the same opinion
still; and I here publicly pronounce
Arthur Warren innocent
of the murder of Ernest
Clifford.”
There was no tremor in the
voice of Marian as she said
this—her bearing had in it
all the majesty of a queen—
and the words rang out clear,
earnest and thrilling. A momentary
silence followed her
speech, during which you
might have heard the fall of
a pin; a feeling approaching
awe seemed to pervade the
entire assemblage; and bench,
bar, jury, and spectators, were
alike dumb with surprise.
Then a low murmur began
to run around the room, but
was quickly checked by the
sharp, angry voice of the attorney,
who said:
“You take a great responsibility
upon yourself madam;
may we know on what grounds
you so positively assert the innocence
of the prisoner?”
“Because he says he did
not do it,” answered Marian,
in a firm, quiet tone, still supported
by the lofty purpose
she had in view, that of defending
the character of him
she loved; “and I appeal to
all present—(here she took a
sweeping glance of the entire
auditory) ay, and to all
who know Arthur Warren—
I appeal to any, and to all,
to say they ever heard him
utter an untruth?”
“No, no! never—never!”
cried at least fifty voices,
amid great noise and confusion;
and it was some five
minutes, so intense was the
excitement, before order and
silence could again be restored.
On hearing the appeal of
her he loved, and the quick,
eager, simultaneous replies of
the spectators, amounting to a
regular shout, poor Arthur,
unable to control his emotions,
covered his face with a handkerchief,
and wept like a child.
As for Marian, the moment
she began to consider what
she had said, and the construction
that might be put upon
her singular proceeding and
language, she hastily drew her
veil over her face, overwhelmed
with shame and confusion,
and sunk half fainting upon
a seat, which a gentleman of
the bar kindly handed her.
“We must have no more
of this!” said Judge Whitmore,
in a severe tone, as soon
as he could make his voice
heard. “All persons, of whichever
sex, must henceforth
-- 093 --
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confine themselves within the
limits of propriety, or suffer
the penalty for contempt of
court.”
But few more questions were
asked Marian; and on the conclusion
of her testimony, the
prosecution said:
“We rest our case here.”
It being now somewhat late
in the afternoon, the court adjourned.
CHAPTER XII. THE DEFENCE.
Most of the third day was
occupied by the defence, in
proving the previous good
character of the accused; and
no man was ever arraigned
before a legal tribunal, that
ever had better, stronger and
warmer testimony in his favor.
The prosecuting attorney
began his summing up of the
case about three o'clock in the
evening, and closed in a couple
of hours. He went over the
evidence in a brief and pointed
manner, remarking it was
too direct and positive although
circumstantial, to admit
of any doubt as to the
actual commission of the awful
deed by the prisoner, and
therefore it would only be a
waste of time for him to dwell
upon the subject. There had
been a quarrel, he said;
threats had been used by the
prisoner; he had risen at an
early hour to seek the deceased,
evidently with a vindictive
purpose; had followed
him; the two had been seen
alive only a few minutes previous
to the finding of the
accused over the murdered
remains of the other, with his
own knife, the knife which
had done the deed, bloody in
his hands. What could be
inferred, but that he had killed
him? and if stronger evidence
than this were necessary to
convict a man, he thought that
justice might as well be set
aside as a capital farce. For
his part, notwithstanding one
witness had made herself ridiculous,
by boldly proclaiming
his innocence, for the simple
reason that the accused had
said he did not do it—as if a
man who had slain another,
would stop at a mere falsehood
to hide his crime—notwithstanding
all this, he said,
and the pain it must cost his
friends, he would state it as
his conscientious belief, that
the accused was guilty of premeditated
murder, and he felt,
he believed—in fact he knew—
that the jury, as honest
men, must agree with him.
The counsel for defence was
one of the most eminent lawyers
in the State, and it was
well known he would put
forth all his great eloquence
in behalf of the prisoner;
though what he would find to
say touching the case, was a
matter of general wonder to
every body; for that Arthur
-- 094 --
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was guilty, all were forced to
believe; and there seemed not
a single point to hang a doubt
upon.
The eagerness of the spectators,
therefore, to be present
on the fourth day, was, if any
thing, even greater than at
any time previous; and it required
the whole police force
to preserve the bar from being
encroached on during the rush.
The appearance of Arthur was
much as on the preceding
days—pale, haggard and dispirited.
It was a terrible trial
to him—for on the decision of
the jury hung more than life.
His father was present, as was
also Mr. Waldegrave and his
family, Marian still deeply
veiled as before.
The counsel for the prisoner—
a fine, noble looking man—
opened the defence, in the
cool, calm, unimpassioned tone
of one who knew his own
power, and felt confidence in
his own mental resources. He
began by saying that the case
before the court was one of
marked peculiarity—more
marked, more peculiar, than
any it had ever been his fortune
to be engaged in, and he
had been a member of the bar
for upwards of twenty years.
“And that which makes
it so strangely peculiar,” he
went on to say, “is the fact
of such a chain of damning
circumstances being
drawn around an innocent
man; for that that individual
who sits there before you, pale
and wasted with care and sorrow,
is innocent of the crime
with which he stands charged,
I as sincerely believe, gentlemen
of the Jury, as I do that
there is a just God in heaven.”
He then went over the evidence
carefully, dwelling particularly
upon that which had
been adduced to prove the
character of the prisoner—a
character, he said, for honor,
honesty, high-mindedness, nobleness
of soul, excelling any
thing he had ever heard or
read of being proved in a court
of justice; and he alluded
triumphantly to the fact, that
upon this one great and essential
point, the witnesses had
all agreed, without a single
exception.
“And now,” he proceeded,
“I will show you, gentlemen
of the Jury, what bearing this
testimony has upon the case,
which you must keep in mind
is one of presumptive, not positive,
evidence. In the first
place, there has not been a
particle of evidence brought
forward, to prove that the
accused struck the deceased;
but on the contrary, it has
been proved that the deceased
struck the accused, and that
in the most insulting manner—
a manner that could not fail
to bring disgrace upon him,
unless he resented it, as every
gentleman should. Now, gentlemen
of the Jury, had he
retaliated at the time—had he
even slain on the spot the man
who struck him—which of
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you present would cry him
guilty of murder?—which of
you present, with the proud
feelings of a true man, might
not have done the same thing
under the same circumstances?
And yet, as the case
stands, you have not ever this
foundation to build upon; but
should you find him guilty,
must base your verdict wholly
upon position and supposition.
In other words, from the position
in which the accused was
found by Mr. Nixon you must
suppose he murdered the deceased;
and, merely from supposing
it, deliberately, before
God and man, declare he did.
“Now, as we are supposing,
let us suppose a little further.
Suppose the prisoner, when
found, had declared he had
overtaken the deceased, they
had again quarrelled, and in
the heat of excitement, he had
killed him—which of you,
gentlemen, would doubt this
story, knowing as you do his
unblemished character for
truth and veracity? Not one;
for each would say to himself,
`It is reasonable—it is natural—
and as the man never told
a falsehood in his life, as far as
we can learn, we are bound to
believe him—and believing
him, can not, of course, convict
him of wilful murder.'
Again, let us suppose the
prisoner did kill him in the
manner I have stated, and
there were witnesses to the
fact: what then? There is
not a man within the sound
of my voice, but could tell you
there is no law under heaven
that could convict him of wilful
murder; and the very extent
to which the crime could
be stretched, would be manslaughter,
and that, perhaps,
in a qualifying degree. Thus,
you see, gentlemen of the Jury,
that should you dare to bring
him in guilty on the evidence
before you; I say dare, for it
is an awful sin to doom a
fellow creature to death, as in
this case, without positive
knowledge of his guilt; and
God, who sits in high heaven
above, before whom you are
sworn, will hold you responsible
for your verdict; I say
should you dare to bring him
in guilty, as the case stands,
you would do what you
could not do were there witnesses
to the deed; and therefore
you would be actually
giving more weight to circumstantial,
than to positive evidence.
“But let us go further,
gentlemen of the Jury, and
suppose the accused did not
kill the deceased; and you
cannot say he did; there is
not a man among you can say
he did; because you do not
know he did; and you would
be charging him with direct
falsehood at the same time,
which, by every witness called
to that stand, it has been
proved he never uttered. Were
he himself called upon to testify
in any other case, you would
be bound to believe him; then
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
why not generously extend
the same faith to his declaration
on the present occasion?—
more especially, when I solemnly
repeat, you do not know
to the contrary.
“But perhaps you will
think, or be told, that should
juries take the word of those
they are called upon to try,
there would be no conviction—
which, even if true, has
nothing to do with the case
before us; and, gentlemen of
the Jury, I repeat, this is a
very marked and peculiar
case; and unless looked into
very closely, and one part
considered with another, is
very likely to be misjudged.
Now if you convict the prisoner,
you must reconcile yourselves
with several inconsistencies;
and yet every man is
so far consistent with himself,
that, by knowing his character,
we can form a very correct
idea of what he would do under
known circumstances.
“Gentlemen of the Jury, I
charge you bear this in mind,
and mark what follows!
“It has been proved on trial,
that the accused is a generous,
noble, upright man, who never
uttered a falsehood. Now
mark! He is found with the
murdered man—solemnly protests
his innocency of the deed—
at the same time admitting
that the knife is his own. Is
it through fear of conviction
for murder that he does this?
No! for in that case, with such
evidence against him, he would
have owned up to the deed—
but pleaded that he did it in
the heat of a quarrel—whether
he did or not—and this, you
must admit, would have placed
his case in much better light
than it now stands. Again, if
he were guilty, and stood in
fear of the law—and this,
mark you still! is the only
reason you can have for doubting
the truth of his denial;
would he not have fled when
urged to do so by Nixon,
knowing that he could escape?
Would he, if guilty, have
gone home, and been the first
to break the news to his parents—
upsetting the reason of
his mother with the shocking
intelligence—and there quietly
have waited for the sheriff
to come and take him? Is this
the conduct of a man base
enough to do a murder? and
a premeditated murder at that.
And, at his examination, would
he have refused, if guilty, to
take bail, and be at liberty to
make his escape, instead of
insisting on a trial, like an
honorable man? These are
facts, gentlemen of the Jury,
and strong facts, that must be
duly weighed and considered.
You cannot say it is a case of
conscience—for if so, he would
have acknowledged to the
deed; and yet he denies it;
but denies it in such a way,
mark you! as to make it tell
most against him. How then
are you to reconcile these
facts with his guilt? You
cannot do it.
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
“But now, gentlemen of the
Jury, I will place the case before
you in such a way that
you can find no inconsistencies.
Let us suppose the accused
innocent of the crime;
and we have as good a right
to suppose that, as the contrary.
Well he comes to the
road, following the deceased,
who was far enough in advance
of him to give another,
if lying in wait, time to do the
deed and escape—so that there
is nothing impossible in this
surmise:—Well, he comes up,
and finds him stretched on the
ground, weltering in his own
blood. He is horrified and bewildered;
and acting on the
impulse of the moment, without
a thought of any serious
consequences, he bends down
to examine him, and finds him
dead—and what is more, his
own knife sticking in the heart
of the deceased—at least he
thinks it is his own knife—
one he had lost—and he naturally
draws it forth to see;
and while examining it, and
wondering how it got there,
he is surprised by Mr. Nixon.
Does not this supposition reconcile
you to the exclamation,
`O, merciful heaven, look here?'
words expressive of astonishment
and horror, but not of
fear nor guilt, nor such as a
guilty man would utter? And
then when Nixon said he
feared such a catastrophe, the
accused, without once thinking
of himself, which he would
have done had he been guilty,
naturally rejoined, `Then you
knew something of it?' and
when the other finally points
to his hands, and the accused,
looking down in wonder, sees
the blood upon them—sees
from that he is himself suspected—
and foresees at the
same time what must follow;
is it not perfectly in keeping
with his innocence, that he
should let the knife fall in
horror, and shriek forth, `Merciful
God! what have I done?'
and declare himself ruined?
Which of us, placed under
the same circumstances, would
not have acted in a manner
similar? He could not say he
killed the deceased in the heat
of passion, because he had not
killed him at all, and it would
be speaking falsely, and he
would not deny the ownership
of the knife, because it
was his own, and this would
be an untruth also. You see,
gentlemen of the Jury, this
supposition—I may say this
reality—destroys all inconsistencies
in the conduct of the
accused, and places him before
you, not only an innocent
but a most high-minded, and
honorable man.
“And now, gentlemen of
the Jury,” proceeded the
learned counsel, “having
shown you the improbabitity
of the fatal deed having been
committed by the accused—
and believing as I do that the
deceased was murdered—I
will state an event that may
tend to fix suspicion in
-- 098 --
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another quarter, and finally, under
God, lead to a clearing up
of the mystery.”
He then clearly, and in detail,
narrated the circumstance
of Arthur and Ernest finding
a man in the wood where the
murder had been done; what
had passed between them;
how Ernest had abused the
man, and Arthur given him
money; how the stranger had
warned the accused against
his friend; in fact, laid the
whole scene before the jury,
as we have previously done
before the reader.
What had become of this
man, he said, was not known;
but he, at least, with the sole
motive of revenge, might have
laid in wait, day after day;
and finding at last the long
wished-for opportunity, might
have killed the deceased, and,
on hearing some one approach,
might have fled in time to
secrete himself. As to the
knife, he said, he would note
it as a singular coincidence,
that the accused lost it on the
day he saw the stranger, and
saw it not afterwards till he
found it in the heart of the
murdered man; and it was
reasonable to suppose, that
when the accused drew forth
his purse, the knife came out
with it, and, falling on the
ground, had subsequently been
picked up by the stranger.
This he said had not been
proved on the trial, because
there was no one witness to
the fact; but it was a fact,
nevertheless, and as such he
wished the jury to consider it.
He then proceeded to warn
the jury that they could not
be too cautious in receiving
presumptive evidence; and
cited several instances of innocent
persons having been
condemned by this means,
two of whom had actually
been executed for murder, and
afterwards the real authors had
been discovered and brought
to justice.
Having now brought the
minds of the jury and spectators
to the point desired, he
put forth all his energetic and
powerful talent in a strain of
pathetic eloquence never surpassed.
He drew a truthful
picture of the quiet valley of
Walde-Warren, and the happy
home of the accused, ere this
cruel blow, as unexpected as
a thunderbolt from a cloudless
sky, fell upon them, crushing
them to the dust. He drew a
truthful, pathetic, and painful
contrast between the past and
the present; and portrayed the
condition of the family of the
accused—the maniac mother,
the broken-hearted father—in
a manner so affecting, that
there was scarcely a dry eye
in the house.
“And now, gentlemen of
the Jury,” he said in conclusion,
“I am about to close—
about to leave in your hands
the life of a noble young man,
whom, before high heaven, I
believe guiltless of the deed
with which he stands charged
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
Did I say his life? I should
have said many lives; for on
your decision regarding him,
hangs the fate of many more.
Bear this in mind, I charge
you! and forget not the awful
responsibility you take upon
your souls, if you pronounce
against him! As ye judge, so
shall ye be judged, and if ye
wrongly judge, ye may cry
for mercy and find it not.
Should you be tempted to find
against him, remember the
desolation and wo that will
follow! Think of the maniac
mother, shrieking in anguish
for her first born, and, like
Rachel of old, will not be
comforted, because he is not!
Think upon that kind father,
now sitting there; pale, haggard,
and grown old with sorrow;
his hair made gray by
affliction, not by time; and
behold him sinking under his
new woe to the cold, dreary
grave of the broken-hearted!
Think of that young, innocent,
and lovely maiden—whom,
may heaven bless, for her confiding
trust in him to whom
her heart is given; and remember,
if ye doom the accused,
ye doom her also to a woful
death, and perhaps with her
another fond father and mother!
Think of all these
things, I solemnly charge you!
and remember that ere long,
each and all of you must severally
stand arraigned before the
awful bar of the great Jehovah,
there to be tried and judged
for the deeds done in the body;
and may ye so act in the eventful
present, that you will have
nothing to regret, when the
Recording Angel of God's
High Court shall unroll to your
spiritual view the hand and
heart record of your mortal existence!
May the angel of mercy
be with you in your deliberations,
and heaven aid you to
the right!”
The close of this speech was
greeted with a storm of applause
that shook the building;
and hundreds who, the day
previous, had regarded the
prisoner as guilty, now looked
upon him as a man by far
“more sinned against than sinning.”
The prosecuting attorney
now made a brief reply, telling
the jury not to let the fine,
moving eloquence of his talented
opponent cause them to lose
sight of the facts of the case,
which facts he recapitulated.
This reply concluded, the
Judge proceeded to deliver his
charge to the jury, remarking
with the learned counsel for
defence, that it was a peculiar
case, one involving great consequences,
and one therefore
that should not be hastily decided
upon. He would say
nothing to influence the decision—
it was not his province;
the jury were by law in
this case the judges; and to
lay down the law as a guide
to them, was all he had to do
in the matter. Having done
this, he went over the evidence,
briefly, on both sides; and
-- 100 --
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concluded by saying, that if,
from the testimony before
them, they conscientiously believed
the accused guilty of
premediated murder, they
could render their verdict accordingly;
but if they had any
doubt in the matter, they were
bound to give that doubt in
favor of the prisoner. “For
it is better that ninety-nine
guilty men should go unpunished,
than that one innocent
man should suffer.”
The Jury now retired, amid
the most intense excitement
among the spectators. It being
about three o'clock in the
afternoon, the court decided to
remain till night, in the hope
of receiving the verdict before
adjournment.
Reader, can you picture to
yourself the feelings of Arthur
and his friends, during
that awful suspense? But we
are privileged to follow the
jury—to hear their deliberations—
to see in what manner
they arrived at their verdict—
and we will do so.
CHAPTER XIII. THE VERDICT.
Twelve men were seated
in a small, square chamber,
in a retired portion of a building,
exclusively devoted to
law, and so called justice, in
the thriving little town of
Bertram. A table, having on
it pens, ink and paper, stood
in the middle of the chamber;
and this table, and the benches
on which these twelve men
were, as we enter, seated,
comprised the only furniture
of the apartment. And these
twelve men, it needs no conjuror
to tell the reader, were
here assembled to decide the
fate of poor Arthur Warren.
We will premise that they
had been conducted hither by
the sheriff some half an hour
previous to our entrance.
“Well,” said one, “if we
stay here till doomsday, hang
me if I'll give in!”
“Well, Sam, you know it's
a hanging matter, any how—
so don't!” laughed another.
“I wonder,” said a third,
“there can be any disagreement;
for to my mind, it's as
clear as daylight that he killed
the man; and as long as he
don't choose to tell how he
killed him—why let him
swing, that's all.”
“So say I,” cried a fourth.
“Well, I was pretty much
of the same opinion,” put in a
fifth, “till Lawyer Gibbs
made his speech in favor of
the poor fellow—and that,
somehow, brought the thing
round in quite a different
light.”
“Dang it, but he's a smart
fellow!” rejoined another.
“Blarney,” said the one
whose remark we first recorded—
“all blarney!”
“Well, blarney or not,” returned
the other, “I saw the
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[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
tears running down your
cheeks while he was speaking.”
“Well, that's nothing, if
you did. Of course I pity the
old man; and when he went
on so about his family, of
course it touched me; but it
don't alter my opinion about
Arthur, now I've got where I
can think it all over.”
“O, of course,” chimed in
another, “these lawyers are
paid for their fine speeches,
and they always make 'em to
suit the side they're on. Now
if he had been employed on
the other side, he'd have piled
on the prisoner's guilt so thick,
that he'd have appeared like a
devil incarnate.”
“Well,” said one, who had
not before spoken, “for my
part, I really think the man
is innocent, for, from what I
know of his character, I do
believe, if he were guilty, he
would boldly proclaim it, let
the consequences be what
they would.”
“More fool he, then,” cried
another; “for if I were guilty
of killing a man, you may be
certain I'd wait for it to be
proven before I owned up.”
“Arthur Warren, and you,
sir, are very different persons,”
was the tart reply.
“Well, so I reckon.”
“Now if I were on a jury
in your case, with the same
facts against you, I would say
guilty, without leaving my
seat.”
“Thank you! and I say
ditto to you and Arthur War
ren also.”
And so they went on, these
twelve men, discussing the
matter for better than an hour,
and finding themselves at the
end of that time exactly
where they set out.
“Come, come, this will
never do!” rapped the foreman
on the table: “This hit
and fling is all nonsense: we
shall never come to an agreement
so.”
“No, nor any other way,”
replied a voice.
“Let's agree to disagree,”
suggested another.
“And stay here and starve,”
said a third. “O, I know the
old Judge well; I was on one
of his juries once before; he'll
not let us off, without a verdict,
till we've taken as many
days to consider the case as
he was trying it—I believe
that's his rule.”
“Hang him!” grumbled
one.
“No, hang the prisoner—
that'll do better,” was the rejoinder.
“How do we stand?” inquired
the foreman.
“Six and six, Colonel—
that is to say, if you are in
favor of an acquittal.”
“Well, I am.”
“What's to be done?—this
is dull business.”
“Let's hang ourselves, and
let the prisoner go,” laughed
one.
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“If we only had a pack of
cards here now,” suggested
another.
“Hurrah! I've two—lucky
thought!” cried a third.
“Hurrah for us!” cried
half a dozen voices; and amid
hilarious tumult, the cards
were produced: and those
twelve men, assembled there
to decide the fate of poor Arthur,
soon became absorbed
in the to them more important
matters of Loo, Poker, and
All-Fours.
Oh! could he have seen
them there—seen how indifferent
they were concerning
his fate—his sensitive soul
would have been more harrowed,
perhaps, than at any
time during the painful trial.
After gambling some time;
for in those days, and that
portion of the country, men
seldom played cards without
betting something, just to
make the game interesting;
one of the party, struck with
a new idea, exclaimed, striking
the table with his clenched
hand:
“I have it! I have it! a
glorious plan, to get us out of
an ugly fix! Come, what do
you say, gentlemen? let us
have a game to decide the
verdict.”
“Capital! capital! hurrah!
hurrah!” cried half a dozen
of eager voices, clapping their
hands in glee. “A game to decide
the verdict! three cheers
for that idea!”
It was soon arranged that
the two best players, one on
either side, should play a
single game of “all-fours,” or
as it is frequently termed
“seven up,” and whichever
party won, that party should
be privileged to decide the
verdict. The players selected
were Colonel Parker, the foreman
of the jury, who was in
favor of the acquittal of the
prisoner—and one Samuel
Page on the opposite side, and
of course in favor of his conviction.
The rest of the number
divided off, five against
five, and each party placed
itself behind its respective
champion, to watch the progress
of the game with all the
eagerness with which men regard
a contest in which they
are deeply concerned.
“May heaven aid the right!”
said one, and the game began.
“High and game!” exclaimed
the Colonel, at the
close of the first hand.
“Low and Jack!” cried his
opponent—“two and two.”
The cards were again shuffled
and dealt.
“Low and game to your
high,” said the Colonel, as the
last card of the second hand
was played.
“Hurrah for the Colonel!”
cried his party. “One ahead;
four to three.”
“Go it, Sam; it's your
deal,” was the opposite rejoinder.
The cards were again shuffled
and dealt, and a jack was
turned by the dealer.
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“Good for our side!” cried
one of the party for conviction;
“we'll win yet; even up.”
“I beg,” cried the Colonel.
“Take one,” said Page;
“and that makes you five to
my four.”
The third hand was played.
“Game!” cried the Colonel.
“High and low!” cried
Page.
“Six and six!” shouted the
excited by-standers.
The fourth and last hand
was dealt out by the Colonel
amid breathless silence; for
all were now too intensely excited
to speak; and something
like awe stole over the company,
as they saw the game,
so equal, and so near a close,
with the life of a fellow being
depending on the result.
The last card was dealt, and
the trump turned. It was the
ten-spot of diamonds. Page
looked at his hand, and a
gleam of triumph shot athwart
his face.
“The game is mine!” he
cried. “I ask one; you cannot
give of course; and the aces
of the three remaining suits I
hold in my hand;” and he
exposed them on the table.
“There is only one chance
for us, Colonel,” exclaimed
one of his party; “you must
run the cards, and all will
depend upon your turning a
Jack.”
“If the man is innocent,
let heaven send a Jack!” said
Page.
“Five to one it don't!”
cried one on the same side.
“I'll take that bet,” said one
of the opposition; and the
deal was delayed till the stakes
were put up.
“Hold on one minute, Colonel!
there's another bet pending.
There, all right.”
The Colonel dealt three
cards each, and in a deep, solemn
tone, said:
“Are you ready, gentlemen?”
“Ready!” was the answer;
and all eyes were fixed intently
upon the pack.
Colonel Parker's face grew
deadly pale, and his hand
trembled with strange emotion,
as he carefully lifted the
deciding card. On that stamped
pasteboard hung the fate of
many human beings; the face
of that would bring great happiness
or utter misery. For
a moment or two he held it inverted,
in a horizontal position,
and then slowly turned
it over. As he did so, a cloud,
which had obscured the rays
of the setting sun, passed, and
a flood of bright light poured
in at the window, and streamed
upon the hand, and upon
the card, a golden glory. A westruck,
the by-standers gazed
upon that card, and upon one
another, pale and silent, with
the dying sunlight bathing
them in a flood of golden light.
They fancied they saw something
more than chance in the
decision evoked; they felt that
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the hand of God was among
them.
That card was the Jack of
Spades!*
Slowly—with solemn tread,
one after another, single file;
tramp, tramp, tramp; those
twelve men entered the court-room,
and took their places in
the jury-box, just as the last
golden rays of the sinking sun
streamed in at the windows.
A strange kind of thrill, something
like awe, pervaded every
breast. No one who beheld
the sober faces of that jury,
dreamed that they had been
gambling for a verdict.
“Gentlemen of the Jury,”
inquired the Judge, in a tone
of thrilling solemnity, “are
you agreed upon a verdict?”
“We are,” replied Colonel
Parker, the foreman.
“Then, gentlemen of the
Jury, you will arise and fix
your eyes upon the prisoner;
and prisoner at the bar, you
will arise and fix your eyes
upon the jury.”
Arthur stood up, pale, haggard,
and with lips compressed,
and faced the jury
with an unquailing eye; and
Marian half rose from her
seat, with one hand clasped
upon her heart, and her veil
thrown back to get her breath,
for her respiration came with
the labored difficulty of the
first stages of suffocation.
Every eye was now turned
upon the jury—it was an awful
moment.
“Gentlemen of the Jury,”
pursued the learned Judge,
“you will now answer—do
you find the prisoner guilty or
not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
There was a low, half-smothered
shriek, and Marian Waldegrave
sunk senseless to the
ground, overcome with joy;
while Arthur reeled and fell
into his father's arms, and the
shouts of the spectators shook
the building.
A few minutes later Arthur
was borne in triumph from the
court-room, amid loud cheers
and tumultuous excitement.
eaf479n1* Strange as it may seem to many of
our readers, this incident of the finding
of a verdict in a criminal case, by a
single game of all-fours, is a fact, and
occurred in the manner related above.
CHAPTER XIV. CONCLUSION.
A week or so had passed
away after the trial, when one
day, as Arthur sat with his
mother—who, since his restoration
to her, had, as the physician
predicted, recovered her
reason—he heard the clatter
of horse's hoofs; and looking
out of the window, he espied
George Nixon, the son of the
inn-keeper, advancing up the
road with his horse on a keen
run. Almost the next moment
he reined up to the house,
sprang from the back of the
panting beast, and rapped on
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the door. Apprehensive of
some new calamity, Arthur
sprung to and opened it, while
his mother's eyes assumed the
wildness of fear.
“The very person!” cried
the boy. “Quick! Mr. Warren—
mount that horse, and
ride to the White Deer, as fast
as you can!”
“What is the matter?”
gasped Arthur; “what has
happened?—my father—”
“No, no, nothing of the
kind. There's a man, a
stranger, there, that's dying,
they say, and he wants to see
you before he dies—that's all
I know.”
“Do not be alarmed, mother—
I will be back presently;”
and catching up his hat,
Arthur rushed out, mounted
upon the back of the horse,
and in less than two minutes
dismounted at the White
Deer.
“This way! quick, Arthur!”
cried Nixon, running
out to meet him; and the next
moment the two were ascending
the stairs, three at a time.
They entered a small bedchamber;
and there, stretched
out on the bed, Arthur beheld
a wan, haggard, miserable
looking object, with wild
bloodshot eyes, long matted
beard and hair, who seemed
by his convulsive gasps, the
nervous twitching of the muscles
of his face, and the
clenching and unclenching of
his hands, to be in the last
agonies of mortal suffering.
There were two or three persons
round the bed, gazing
upon the sufferer, who drew
back as Nixon and our hero
rushed in.
“This is Arthur Warren,”
said the former.
The dying man turned
quickly upon him, and gasped
forth, in a faint tone, which
he struggled to make strong:
“Do you know me?”
Arthur gazed upon him a
moment and then, with
strange emotions, which the
reader will readily understand,
cried, in a quick, eager tone:
“Yes! yes! you are the
man I saw in the wood, on the
day—”
“On the day a villain
spurned me with his foot,”
cried the stranger, interrupting
him with fierce energy,
while his face became livid
with rage. “But,” he added,
with a gleam of triumph, “I
got my revenge all in good
time, and so let him go. I did
you a service there, and an
injury too, for which I ask
your forgiveness. There, don't
interrupt me! my minutes
are numbered—and I have
not said all I would. I have
dragged myself hither, Arthur
Warren, at the last moment,
to see you once more, to do
you justice, and ask you to forgive
me. Bear witness all here
present, that a dying man,
with his last words, avows that
he alone killed Ernest Clifford,
and that Arthur Warren
is innocent of the crime! Yes,
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it happened thus,” he continued,
fixing his eyes upon
Arthur. “After you were
gone, I found a knife lying at
my feet. I kept it for the
purpose of taking the life of
Clifford. I did not know it
was yours, and what trouble
it would bring upon you, or I
would not have used it. Well,
to be brief. I procured food,
and afterward took up my
abode on that mountain, in a
sort of cave that overlooks the
valley, there to wait my
chance to settle with the man
I hated. It was a long time
coming, but it came at last.
By chance, one morning, I
saw Clifford approaching the
pass, as you term it here, I
believe. Something whispered
me fate had sent him to
his doom; and I hastened
down, and took up a position
behind a tree, at the very spot
where he insulted me. I might
have killed him elsewhere
sooner, perhaps; but that
seemed the only place proper
to revenge myself upon him.
Well, he came up, and I made
quick work of it. Just as I
had drove the knife through
his heart, I heard steps, and
secreted myself down the
bank. There I overheard all
that passed between you and
the innkeeper here; and I
felt deeply troubled lest I had
ruined you. More than once
I was on the point of reappearing,
and confessing the
deed; but somehow, I could
not bear the thought of being
dragged before a bar of justice,
and I did not exactly want to
kill myself; and so I remained
secreted till you were gone,
and then went back to my
home on the mountain, determined
to stay about here till
you had had your trial; and if
convicted, I was resolved to
appear in time to save you.
You know the rest. With joy
I overheard some persons passing
along the road say that
you were acquitted. That
night I was seized with a fever,
and have been sick ever
since. Last night I thought
I was dying; but I struggled
not to die, till I had seen you,
and done you justice; and I
believe my will gave me new
strength, and chained my spirit
here a little longer. I dragged
myself hither this morning,
and here I shall end a miserable
existence. Do you forgive
me, Arthur Warren?”
“All that concerns myself
I forgive, as I hope myself to
be forgiven,” was Arthur's
magnanimous reply.
“Thank you!” replied the
stranger; “for the rest I must
take my chance.”
“But will you not tell us
who you are, and whence you
came?”
“No, my secret must perish
with me. I have seen better
days, and there are those
living whom news of me would
trouble. Suffice it, that I have
been a bold, bad man, with
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few virtues and many crimes.
There, go your way, my end
has come.”
The stranger had all along
spoken with great difficulty,
and as he pronounced the last
words, he fetched a long, convulsive
gasp, and his dark
spirit was in the eternal world.
“Thank God!” said Arthur,
as he gazed upon him—
“the only stain upon my character,
is, by this confession,
removed.”
The fall passed away, winter
came and went, and on a
calm, pleasant spring day,
about a year from the date of
our story, a group of several
persons stood before the altar
of the village sanctuary of
Walde-Warren. Never did
Arthur Warren look more
noble and manly—never did
Marian Waldegrave appear
more sweet and lovely—than
as they stood before the sacred
desk, hand in hand, and took
upon them the holy vows
which made them one by the
covenant of marriage.
The parents of both parties
were present, as were most of
the villagers. When the ceremony
was over, Mr. Warren
grasped the hand of
his friend, the father of the
bride, and in a voice of deep
emotion said:
“Archer, the hour we have
both prayed for has come at
last. The night of wo is past—
the morning of joy is here—
and let us daily petition the
Great Ruler of the universe,
that the sun of our prosperity
and happiness may never
again set!”
“Amen!” was the heartfelt
response.
Many years have since
passed away, but the bright
sun of happiness still shines
upon the valley of Walde-Warren;
and Arthur and
Marian, blessed with worthy
descendants, are still happy
in the love and companionship
of each other.
THE END
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