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Scarcely had Langley Tyringham finished the story
which we have thus abridged in our own words,
when the jailer came in and apprised him it was time
to depart. He took leave of the forlorn girl with feelings
of pity, love and anguish, that almost sundered
his heart, and cleft his brain asunder. Sleepless and
miserable he occupied the livelong night in devising
means of rescuing her who he had found at last only
to lose again forever, by means he shuddered to realize.
At length it occurred to him to seek an interview
with Old Cat, in the hope of obtaining some clue
that might guide him in one more effort to avert the
fate of Miriam. Waiting impatiently for the morning
he proceeded to the prison, and was admitted without
hesitation by the keeper, who had no orders to the
contrary, and who, in truth, began to feel no small
sympathy in the fate of Miriam, whose sweetness of
disposition and quiet resignation had touched his
heart. He showed Langley into the room occupied
by the old woman, and left them together.

Langley found her in a state of great discontent

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and impatience. Instead of being released, as Tobias
assured her she would be by casting the burden of her
supposed guilt on another, she had not only been
remanded to prison but was assured by the jailer that
her confession had only rendered her punishment more
certain. She was muttering to herself a strange jargon,
of which Langley could comprehend little but the
name of Tobias Harpsfield, with whom she seemed
greatly dissatisfied. By perseverance and coaxing he
drew out of her sufficient to enable him to comprehend
that the poor old creature had in some way or
other been employed and deceived by Tobias. With
unwearied patience he questioned and listened, until
step by step he came to a full understanding of the
foul conspiracy against Miriam. Feeling perfectly
justified in a case like this, he affected great sympathy
for her, and more sincere indignation against Tobias,
for not interposing in her behalf as he had promised.
Finally, he urged her, as the best means of escaping
the fate which certainly awaited her, to make a full
confession before the magistrate. To this she finally
consented, and Langley, with a heavy burden removed
from his heart, immediately proceeded to the court
room, where the magistrates were now almost constantly
in session, listening to new tales of witchcraft,
which had so increased in number and extravagance,
that they began to be alarmed at the new and terrible
responsibilities continually cast upon them. It seemed
as if the entire community was about to be involved
in the crime of witchcraft.

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On the representation of Langley, they consented
that Old Cat should be brought before them for examination,
and when she arrived, listened to her confession
with great gravity. A short consultation ensued,
in which the pastor, who constantly attended these
meetings as a sort of spiritual counsellor, being still
led captive by the demon of superstition, which equally
hoodwinks the mind and hardens the heart, took the
lead. He stated as his decided opinion that this confession
of Old Cat was nothing more than one of the
cunning devices of the devil to screen a favored disciple
from merited punishment. He observed there was
no end to the arts of the great enemy of man; and
that most especially in these times, when doubtless
for the punishment of the transgressions of the people,
who had permitted divers heresies and schisms to
grow up among them, the whole host of evil spirits
had, as it were, been let loose upon the land, he would
resort to every device of diabolical ingenuity in behalf
of those he seduced into his toils. This reasoning, so
suited to the times and the hearers, prevailed. The
testimony which had been thought sufficient to convict,
was declared insufficient to acquit poor Miriam,
and the Old Cat was once more remanded to prison,
muttering maledictions against the whole world, most
especially Tobias Harpsfield. Langley Tyringham,
who, until now, had not been fully aware of the state
to which the minds of these pious, well-meaning men
had been wrought by this terrible delusion, was
stricken with disgust and horror at this perversion of

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justice and humanity. He now, for the first time,
became fully sensible of the desperate situation of
Miriam, and felt the leaden hand of numb despair
oppressing the vigor of his body, as well as the energies
of his mind. “Alas!” thought he, “what possible
chance is there that light should penetrate the
deep gloom in which both reason and humanity seem
alike buried forever. There is no hope for innocence
when both religion and law combine for its destruction.
No hope—no refuge—ha!” A sudden thought
seemed to strike him, and rushing out of the court he
bent his way to the place where he had taken lodgings.
Here he loaded his pistols carefully, and concealing
them about his person, proceeded rapidly to
the abode of Tobias Harpsfield, at the door of which
he knocked impetuously. A female answered the
summons, from whom he learned Tobias was not at
home. He had been absent several days, and left no
word where he was going, or when he would return.
“The last staff is broken—be it so—we will die
together!” murmured Langley, as he staggered towards
home. Convinced of the guilt of Tobias, and
equally certain that none but a base coward could
have hatched such a conspiracy against a lonely
orphan girl, he had determined to force him to confession
through his dastard fears, in the expectation that
it would have more weight than that of the old
woman. But he was gone, and now nothing less than
a miracle could save her who had twined herself about

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his heart a thousand times more closely than ever by
the double tie of love and pity.

The day had been spent in these unavailing efforts,
and it was evening ere he could visit Miriam, the last
they were to pass together. She had not wondered at
his absence, feeling assured that he labored in her
behalf. As he approached, she gently yielded herself
to his outstretched arms, and looking in his face, softly
said, “To-morrow another bridegroom will come, and
I must go with him. Till then, Langley, I am wholly
thine.”

“Miriam,” said he, as he held her closely to his
heart, “think you that death shall ever part us?”

“But for a season, I trust—not forever.”

“Not for a moment—we part no more.”

“I understand thee, Langley,” said Miriam, quietly
withdrawing from his arms. “Sit down by me and
let us talk together. Thou hast a mother still living—
hast thou not?”

Langley answered in the affirmative, and she proceeded:

“I know full well, thou hast enough of what men
call courage, or thou wouldst never have been the
chosen of my heart. Thou hast the courage to die;
but I exact of thee the courage to live. Could thy
death preserve my life, there might be some motive for
offering up the sacrifice. But to die with me, or follow
after, would be to sacrifice thyself on the altar of
cowardice. If thou indeed lovest me, thou must obey
me and live.”

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“For what should I live?” asked he gloomily.

“Live for the performance of those high and noble
duties for which man was sent into this world, gifted
with qualities which enable him to administer to the
welfare of his fellow creatures. Live for thy country,
which demands thy services, and merits thy devotion.
Live for thy widowed mother, who, now in the vale of
tears, will by thy death be robbed of her only stay
and staff in this world. Live for me, Langley; for
when thou art dead, there will be none to remember
that I ever existed. Thou wilt be as a tomb to
my memory; for while thou livest, I know I shall not
be forgotten. But thy parent, thine only parent,
think of her. The ties which bind the mother and
the child are more holy than those of love. Live,
then, and prove thyself worthy of mine.”

“I am glad you do not wish me to forget you,” said
Langley, a little reproachingly.

“No—no—no—never! I wish thee to remember me
for ever in this life, and if possible in the life to come—
as one who loved thee with all the depth and purity
of woman's first and only love; as one who, when
time shall have smoothed the rough furrows of grief,
thou canst call to mind without reproach and without
remorse. Let it be your consolation, that you never
sought to lure me from the path of duty—never suffered
thy selfish wishes to interfere with my painful
self-denial, nor ever wilfully inflicted a pang on my
heart. Thus, there will assuredly come a time when
thou wilt remember poor Miriam; it may be with

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sorrow, but it will be a sweet and gentle sorrow, softening
not corroding thy heart, and free from all the
bitterness of self-reproach. O! if it be permitted me
to look down and see thee thus, it will add to my joys
in the regions above.”

“Miriam, Miriam!” cried Langley, “is this the
way you would reconcile me to losing you? Do you
think I can see you dying a death of infamy—for so it
will be in the eyes of all spectators but mine—do you
think I can see you suffer an innocent victim to a
blind and bloody superstition? It cannot be—it is not
in man to bear it. I should go mad, and run a muck
against all mankind. Having tried every means to
avert your doom, I will die with you.”

“Thou art then a coward, Langley. I would not
have believed it. Thou wilt deny my last request,
and yet pretendest to love me. Thou wouldst add to
the pains of death the last and bitterest pang. Cruel
Langley, I did not expect this of thee;” and now for
the first time she wept, and sobbed aloud. Langley
could not stand this, and replied—

“Be satisfied, dearest love. I promise to bear my
burden till it crushes me.”

She thanked him gratefully, and for a brief period
they both remained silent, absorbed in deep reflection.
At length Langley suddenly rose, and closely scrutinized
the window, together with every part of the
room. “It is impossible, at any rate it is too late
now,” said he, and resumed his seat again.

“I was thinking,” said Miriam, almost cheerfully,

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“how little space I occupy in this world, and how few
will miss me when I am gone. I was plucked up by
the roots from my native soil, and have taken no root
here. I am the last of a race that, if I may believe
our family chronicle, had existed on the same spot
eight hundred years. I shall perish here in this lonely
corner of the earth, without being missed by any but
you—for poor old Mildred has forsaken me since I became
a witch—and the false and foolish stigma on my
fame will soon be buried in forgetfulness. Why then
should I fear to die? Death would perhaps be a hardship
were it not the common lot of all the living. We
all follow in the same track, and soon overtake each
other. But I had forgotten. I have a request to
make thee, Langley. It is, that when thou goest
home, thou wilt entreat thy mother to call me her
daughter Miriam. Wilt thou?”

“I will” replied he, in a voice choking with agony.

The jailer now summoned Langley to depart. It
was as the knell of death, and both stood silent and
immovable. At length Miriam said—as to herself—
“It must be, and it must be borne.” Then once more
voluntarily yielding to his arms, she spoke her last
farewell.

“Not for ever,” faltered he, “I will be with you in
your last moments—I will see you die—perhaps your
example may give me courage to live.”

“Thou canst not bear it, dearest Langley.”

“Perhaps my heart will burst. So much the better.

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But do not attempt to dissuade me, for so help me
Heaven I will be with you.”

The jailer repeated the summons; Langley tore himself
away to spend the rest of the night in wandering
about like some guilty spectre, and Miriam to sink
into that profound sleep which is the blessed refuge of
mind and body, when exhausted by conflicting struggles.

you one who will be the solace of your age for long
years to come.”

“Amen!” said the old cavalier, and they parted.

p316-489

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