[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]

Instead of rejecting this atrocious proposal with horror, as the
Julia of purer days would have done, the unhappy girl listened in
silence to all Sophia's baleful whispers, and with this tacit permission
the whole plan was gradually developed; Sophia's ready
ingenuity devising expedients to obviate each objection as it presented
itself, till all was made to appear easy of accomplishment,
and secure from detection. Still Julia did not speak. She
sat with glazed eyes fixed upon her tempter, and not a muscle
moved, whether in approval or rejection of the plan. Frightened
by her ghastly face, Sophia Blanchard took her hand: it was cold
and clammy as that of a corpse. Thinking Julia about to faint,
she ran for water, and was about to use it as a restorative,
when her victim, rousing herself, put it back with a motion of her
hand.

“Enough, Sophia,” she said; “no more of this now; leave me
to myself! Go—go—no more!” and no entreaties could induce
her to say one word as to her acceptance of the proposition upon
which her adviser had ventured. Sophia Blanchard was obliged
to return home in no very easy state of mind, and all her efforts
to obtain admittance again proved fruitless. Julia resolutely refused
to see any one of the family.

Three days passed in this sort of suspense—an ominous pause,
and one which gave Sophia ample time to reflect on the step she
had taken, and to consider its consequences. The old man went
not forth to his place in the orchard. He sat whimpering in the

[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]

corner, scolding at Julia's laziness, and wishing that Robert Coddington
would come back, that he might have somebody to take
care of him. Julia, stern and silent, moved about the house with
more than her usual activity, regulating matters which had of
late been less carefully attended to than usual, and insisting upon
extra efforts on the part of the domestics, in order that every thing
might be in order for the reception of the family. On the evening
of the third day all was pronounced ready, and the morrow
was talked of as the time for the probable arrival.

At midnight a loud knocking and shouting at Mr. Blanchard's
doors announced that a fire had broken out; and at the same moment
a broad sheet of flame burst from the further end of Mr.
Coddington's house. The neighbourhood was soon aroused, and
all the efforts that country resources allow, were used to save the
main body of the building. Meanwhile, old Brand was carried,
in spite of his angry struggles and repeated declarations that he
would not go, to Mr. Blanchard's, and laid on a bed in one of the
lower rooms, Julia herself superintending the removal with solicitous
care. This done, she took the lead in bringing out from the
blazing pile, everything of value; herself secured Mr. Coddington's
papers, and suggested, from her knowledge of the affairs of
the family, what might best engage the attention of the assistants.
Most of the effects were thus placed in safety; but with scanty
supplies of water, and nothing more effectual than buckets, the
attempt to preserve any part of the house was soon discovered to
be hopeless. The neighbours, having done their best, were
obliged to withdraw to some distance, where they could only
stand and gaze upon the flames, and listen to their appalling
roar.

It was during this pause that the general attention was called
by the most agonizing shrieks, and Julia, who had been all composure
during the agitation of the night, was seen coming from
Mr. Blanchard's in a state of absolute distraction. She had hastened
from the fire to look after her helpless charge, but on reaching
the bed on which he had been placed, she found it empty and
cold. A blanket that had been wrapped round him lay in the
path through the orchard, and the conviction had struck Julia at
once, as it did the minds of all present, that the old man, feeble

[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]

as he was, had, with the obstinacy of dotage, taken the opportunity
when all were engrossed with the fire, to return to his own
chamber, now surrounded by flames. Julia darted towards the
door of the burning dwelling, but she was forcibly withheld by
the men present, who declared the attempt certain destruction.
While she still struggled and shrieked in their arms, the whole
roof fell in, and a fresh volume of flame went roaring and crackling
up to the very stars. The old man was gone!—gone to his
account, of which the midnight burning of the helpless formed so
dread an item. And Julia—it is scarcely to be wondered at that
she envied him his fate. We dare not attempt a picture of her
condition.

The grey light of dawn began to chill the glare of the dying
flames. The contrast produced a ghastly tint on all around, till
the countenances of those who continued to watch the smouldering
fire looked as if death, instead of only fatigue and exhaustion,
was doing its work upon them. Julia, having resisted all entreaties
of the Blanchards to go with them to their house, stood
with fixed gaze, and rigid as a statue, contemplating the ruin
before her; when the sound of approaching wheels was heard;
and the dreary light disclosed the return of the unfortunate family,
not with one carriage only, as they left home, but with two;
and travelling at so slow a pace that it seemed as if they brought
calamity with them in addition to that which awaited them at
their desolate home.

“They are coming!” The whisper went round, and then an
awe-struck silence pervaded the assembly. Julia's perceptions
seemed almost gone, although she was denied the refuge of temporary
insensibility. She had already suffered all that nature
could bear, and a stupid calm had succeeded her agonizing cries.
Yet she drew near the carriage which contained her friends, and
cast her eyes eagerly around.

“Where is Martha?” she said, in a voice so altered, so hollow,
that the hearers started.

Mrs. Coddington burst into tears, but could not speak. Her
husband answered with a forced calmness, “Julia, my love, our
dear Martha is at rest! We have brought home only her cold
remains.”

[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]

Julia uttered not a sound, but, tossing her arms wildly in the
air, fell back, utterly lifeless, and in this state was carried to the
house of one of the neighbours.

The funeral was necessarily hurried, for poor Martha had died
two days before; so that the ruins of the home of her childhood
were still smoking when the sad procession passed them on its
way to the grave. Julia, recovered from that kind swoon, had
made a strong effort to master her feelings, and to take some part
in the last duties, but so violent had been the action of the overtasked
nerves, that she was feeble and faint, and utterly incapable
of the least exertion. No vestige of the old man's body could
be found among the ruins, so that she was spared the vain anguish
of so horrible a sight; yet the reality could have been
scarcely more dreadful than the picturings of her own guiltquickened
fancy. She shrunk from joining, according to the
custom of the country, in the funeral solemnities of her friend,
and passed the dread interval alone in her chamber.

When the bereaved parents returned to the house, Mrs. Coddington
went immediately to Julia.

“My daughter!” she said, “my dear—my only daughter!
what should I be now without you! You must take the place of
the blessed creature who is gone!” And she threw herself sobbing
upon Julia's bosom, clasping her in her arms, and bestowing
upon her all the fulness of a mother's heart.

Like a blighted thing did the wretched girl shrink from her
embrace, and sinking prostrate on the floor at her feet, pour out
at once the whole shameful story of her guilt. Not a shade was
omitted, not even the unsought and frantic love which was now
loathsome in her own eyes, nor the suspicions of Mr. and Mrs.
Coddington which had been instilled into her heart until its very
springs were poisoned.

Mrs. Coddington shook like an aspen leaf. She tried to speak—
to ask—to exclaim—but words came not from her paralyzed
lips. At length—“Julia!” she faltered out,—“Julia—are you
mad? You cannot surely mean, my child—you cannot mean all
this! You cannot intend me to believe that you are the—”

She stopped, for Julia, still prostrate, groaned and shuddered,

[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]

deprecating by a motion of her hand, any recapitulation of the
horrors she had disclosed.

“It is true,” she said; “I am all that I have told you; I have
burned your dwelling, so long my happy home; I have committed
murder,—all I ask now is punishment. I have thought of
all; I am ready for what is to follow; I wish for the worst;
make haste, for I must die soon,—very soon!”

She concluded so wildly, and with such an outburst of agony
that Mrs. Coddington again thought her mind had become unsettled
by the dreadful occurrences of the last few hours.

But these tears somewhat relieved her, and she was comparatively
calm after the paroxysm had subsided. And now, in a
collected manner, and in the presence of Mr. Coddington, did she
firmly repeat all that she had said, gathering courage as she proceeded,
and anxiously entreating to have her statement taken
down in legal form.

Mr. Coddington, once convinced that there was a dreadful reality
in all this, felt it as any other man would; but he treated
it with a calmness and forbearance which not every man could
have commanded. He heard Julia's statement through, asked
some questions as to certain particulars, and then, taking her
hand with his old air of fatherly kindness, he said, “My poor
child! you have been dreadfully deluded! Those who have led
you astray have much to answer for, and I shall take care that
they do not escape the reckoning. You I can forgive. The
mental sufferings you must endure are atonement enough; but
for those who wilfully poisoned your young mind—”

“Oh no—no!” exclaimed Julia; “no one is to blame but myself.
I alone am answerable for my crime! I did all with my
own free will—out of my own wicked heart! And oh! how I
wish this wretched heart were cold and still, even now! How I
envy dear Martha her peaceful grave! Make haste and take
down what I have said, for I cannot live!”

“Julia!” said Mr. Coddington, interrupting her, with an air of
severity very different from his former manner, “do you wish me
to believe that all your expressions of remorse and self-abasement
are false and hollow? What do you mean? That you would
raise your hand against your own life? Rash girl! your thoughts

[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]

are impious. Suicide is not the resource of the true penitent,
but of the proud and self-worshipping hypocrite. If you are sincere
in your desire to atone for the injury you have done me,
show it by entire submission to what I shall see fit to direct.
You know me; you know you have no reason to dread harshness
at my hand. Be quiet then; command yourself, and to-morrow
I will talk with you again.”

So saying he left the room, seeing Julia too much exhausted
for further conference, but Mrs. Coddington remained long with
her, soothing her perturbed spirit by every thing that a mother's
love could have suggested, and assuring her of Mr. Coddington's
kindness and of his forgiveness. “You have already suffered
enough, my poor child,” said this kind-hearted woman; “now go
to rest, pray for pardon and for peace, and fit yourself by a quiet
night for the duties of to-morrow.”

And such friends Julia had been persuaded to believe harsh
and unsympathizing!

We shall not venture to give a fictitious conclusion to this story
of real life. It might not be difficult to award poetical justice;
but neither that nor any other was the result of Mr. Coddington's
efforts. He adhered firmly to his resolution of holding Julia's
advisers answerable for what she had done. She was not yet
sixteen, and her account of all that had passed during the absence
of her friends plainly showed a conspiracy on the part of
the Blanchard family to do him a deep injury. Slanderous fabrications
of the vilest character had been employed to prejudice
Julia against her benefactors. She had been urged to treacherous
and injurious conduct; persuaded that Mr. Coddington was planning
to possess himself of her property, on her grandfather's
death; and frequently reminded that whatever injury should be
done to the Coddingtons, would be considered as no worse than
they merited; in attestation of which the sentiment of the neighbourhood
on the occasion of the burning of the barn, was frequently
cited. On the whole, Mr. Coddington, who was a man
of strong and decided character, was fully of opinion that he had
just cause of complaint against Blanchard, as answerable not
only for his own share of these misdemeanours, but for those
which his family, by his instigation, had carried more fully into

[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]

practice. He refused, therefore, to listen to Julia's entreaties,
that she alone might bear the burthen of her crime, and proceeded
to seek redress from his malicious neighbour.

His first care was to obtain an interview with Mr. Blanchard,
and endeavour to induce him to make reparation and acknowledgment,
from a sense of justice. But this course, however accordant
with the sound principles of the injured party, was wholly
lost upon the virulent enmity of his opponent. Blanchard, who
did not believe in Julia's deep repentance, treated his neighbour's
remonstrances with scorn and derision. He heaped abuse and
insult upon Mr. Coddington, telling him that it was well known
that his premises had been insured beyond their value, and more
than suspected that the fire had been a matter of his own planning,
in order that the insurance money might help to build a
more modern house. He said, as to Julia, that the young men
of the neighbourhood had resolved to release her by force, in case
she was not given up peaceably, since she was believed to be detained
against her will. In short, this bold, bad man, strong in
the knowledge that the prejudices of the country, (so easily
awakened on the subject of caste,) had been thoroughly turned
against the Coddington family, defied him with contempt, and left
nothing unsaid that could exasperate his temper.

Mr. Coddington now resolved to appeal to the laws, his last resort
against this determined enmity. That Blanchard was morally
accountable he felt no doubt; to render him legally so, he
thought required only that the fact should be plainly set forth to
a jury. The ends of justice seemed to sanction if they did not
require such a course; since it is always desirable to ascertain
what protection the laws do really afford to those who give them
their support. He probably thought this necessary also on Julia's
account; for her dread secret was in possession of the declared
enemies of the family; and a judicial investigation, by showing the
influence under which she had acted, would place the matter in
its true light, and set forth the palliation with the crime. So the
matter was laid before the grand jury.

It might, perhaps, be inquiring too curiously, to ask whether,
in coming to this conclusion, Mr. Coddington did not consult his
passions rather than his judgment. It is difficult to know exactly

[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]

how much love we bear to abstract justice. That another course
would better have promoted both his happiness and his pecuniary
interests, is highly probable; since it is at least as true in a new
country, as elsewhere, that the law is a great gulf which is apt
to swallow up both parties. Yet the desire to appeal to public
justice was at all events a natural, if not a prudent one.

But a grand jury, though sworn to “diligently inquire and a
true presentment make” of such matters as the foregoing, and
that “without fear, favour, or affection,” are far from being above
prejudice, and, perhaps, not always secure from influences likely
to obstruct the even flow of justice. When the matter is not a
“foregone conclusion,” a judgment prejudged,—it too often happens
that the story first told has the advantage. There is no
room for more than one set of ideas on the same theme. The
prominent and tangible fact in this case was, that a young girl
confessed having burned a house; this might bring her to the
penitentiary, and the jury would not find a “true bill.” In vain
did the deeply penitent Julia make her statement in presence of
the court. She was represented as under compulsion. She was
taken aside again and again, at the repeated instigation of
Blanchard, as if, like prince Balak, he still hoped “peradventure
she will curse me them from thence;”—but although her story
was unaltered, it remained unheeded. She was now offered half
the homes in the neighbourhood, and repeatedly reminded that
she was under the protection of the court, and could go where
she liked; but she insisted on remaining with Mr. Coddington,
and declared that she desired life only that it might be spent in
atoning the injury she had done him. Foiled, as we have seen,
in his attempt to make the shame and the punishment due to so
great an offence fall on those whom he considered most guilty,
Mr. Coddington's next thought was to vindicate his own character
from the boundless calumnies of his envious neighbour. But a
better consideration of the case determined him to let his reputation
clear itself; trusting that the past and the future would alike
be his vouchers to all those whose opinion he valued. So he contented
himself with having placed Julia in comparative safety,
and resolved to live down the calumnies which had been so industriously
propagated against him. Instead of quitting the

[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]

neighbourhood, as a man of weaker character might have done, he has
rebuilt his house, and adopted Julia as his daughter, fully convinced
of the change in her character, as well as of the violent
mental excitement under which she yielded to temptation; and if
there be any truth in the doctrine of compensations, it cannot be
doubted that a man of his character must, in time, obtain a complete
though silent triumph over the desperate malignity of such
people as the Blanchards.