Chapter XXI (6)

“Lewie! is it indeed you?”

He made no answer, he said not one word, but, drawing Agnes to a seat under one of the trees, he seated himself beside her, and laying his head upon her shoulder, he was quiet for a few moments; and then Agnes felt his frame tremble with sudden emotion, and heard a deep sob.

“Lewie! my brother! do speak to me! What is it? Do not keep me in suspense! What dreadful thing has happened?”

“Agnes,” said he, with a sudden and forced calmness, the words coming slowly from between his white, stiffened lips—“Agnes, it is—_murder_!”

Agnes did not scream—she did not faint—forgetfulness for a moment would have been a relief. In a flash she had comprehended it all.

“Lewie,” said she, “is there blood upon this hand?”

“Agnes, it is true; your brother is a murderer! No less a murderer, because the blow was struck in the heat of sudden passion, and when the brain was inflamed with wine; and no less a murderer, because it was repented of the moment given, and before the fatal consequences were suspected. My sister, I am a fugitive and a wanderer, hunted by the officers of justice, and doomed to the prison or the gallows.”

It seemed to Agnes like a fearful dream! It was too dreadful to be true! The thought crossed her mind, perhaps it _is_ a dream; she had had dreams as vivid, and had awakened with such a blessed feeling of relief. But no! she clasped Lewie’s cold hand in hers, and felt assured it was all reality. For a few moments she could only bury her face in her hands, and rock to and fro and groan. She was aroused from this state of agonized feeling by Lewie, who said:

“And now, what shall I do, Agnes? I have come all this way on foot, and at night, to see you once more, and to ask you what I should do? Oh that I had been more willing to follow your gentle guidance before, sweet sister!—but I have followed nothing but the dictates of my own ungoverned passions. Shall I try to escape, or shall I give myself up for trial? On my word, Agnes, I am not a murderer by intention. I was excited; something was said which tried my quick temper; I answered with a burst of sudden passion; more taunting words followed; and, quicker than the lightning’s flash, I had dealt the blow which laid my class-mate dead at my feet I was sobered in one moment; and oh, Agnes! what, _what_ would I not have given to restore my murdered friend to life!—not for my own sake; for I never thought of myself till urged by my terror-stricken companions to fly. Then I thought of my own safety; and, my darling sister, I thought of you, and determined that you should hear of your brother’s disgrace and crime from no lips but his own. I have been hanging about here all day, but could not see you; and finding no other way to call your attention, I borrowed this guitar at the tavern, and have been watching from these trees, till I saw a white form at a window, which I knew was yours. Now, Agnes, what shall I do?”

“Oh, Lewie, what can I say but _fly_, and save yourself from an ignominious fate! It may not be right counsel; but how can a sister advise otherwise? My poor, poor brother!” And Agnes was relieved by a passionate burst of tears. And now came the time for parting. He must go, for they would be likely to seek him in the home of his only sister,—he must go quickly and quietly;—and, with a few hurried words, in which his sister commended him to God, and entreated him to go to _Him_ for pardon and peace, and with one last fond embrace, they parted. Agnes returned to the house with feeble, staggering steps, stricken to the very heart.

No sleep visited the eyes of Agnes that night; and when she appeared in the breakfast room the following morning, her pale and haggard countenance showed marks of extreme suffering, which should have been respected even by the Misses Fairland. But no! their quick ears had also caught the tones of the guitar, and rushing to a window on that side of the house, in the expectation of a serenade, they had seen Agnes as she crossed the lawn, and returned again to the house. Here was food for conjecture, and jealousy for the suspicious ladies, and they had long been awaiting the arrival of Agnes in the breakfast room, hoping to have the mystery cleared up.

“May we be informed, Miss Elwyn,” began Miss Calista, “how long you have been in the habit of receiving signals from lovers, and stealing out at night to give them clandestine meetings in the grove?”

A bright blush suffused the cheek of Agnes, which died away immediately, leaving it of an ashy paleness, as she said:

“I have met no lover in the grove, Calista, at least not what _you_ mean by a lover,” she added, thinking this might be an evasion, for did not her brother love her dearly?

“Not what _I_ call a lover,” said Miss Calista; “a very nice distinction! then you do not deny that you met what _you_ call a lover in the grove. Indeed you need trouble yourself to make no denial, for Evelina and I both watched you.”

Agnes rose from the table, and all who were gathered around it were amazed at the unusual vehemence of her manner, as with an expression of intense wretchedness upon her face, she exclaimed:

“Oh! _do, do_ let me alone! do leave me in quiet; for I am very, very unhappy!”

And hastily, and with great agitation, Agnes left the room.

Mr. Fairland, who was so much interested in a paragraph in the paper, which appeared to shock him exceedingly, that he had not heard the ill-natured remarks of his daughters, looked up just as Agnes rose from the table, and heard her agonized address.

With more sternness than usual, he asked his daughters what they had been saying to Agnes, and on hearing their account of the conversation, he exclaimed:

“Poor Agnes! you will see in this paper girls something that will shock you, and will perhaps inspire you with a little sympathy for one whom it seems to be your delight to torment. You may perhaps now guess who it was that Agnes met in the grove last night.”

The Misses Fairland were really shocked to read the account of the murder, and to read the name of Lewis Elwyn as the murderer; and something like remorse for a moment visited their minds, that they had added to the sufferings of the already burdened heart of Agnes.

“Poor fellow! poor young man!” exclaimed Mr. Fairland; “such a handsome fellow as he was, and such a sweet singer too! this seems to have been done in a sudden passion; and not without provocation too. But it is an awful thing! Poor Agnes! she must not attempt to teach the children while she is so distressed; and I do desire girls, that you will have the _decency_, if you have not the _feeling_, to leave her entirely undisturbed.”

Days passed on and nothing was heard of the fugitive. Oh, what days of restless and painful suspense to Agnes! Had she not had constant and unusual occupation for her time, it seemed to her that she could not keep her reason. But poor Tiney had grown suddenly and alarmingly worse, and the physician said a very days at most would terminate her sufferings. With all the distressing thoughts which crowded upon her, Agnes remained by the bed-side of the little sufferer, endeavoring to soothe and cheer her descent to the dark valley.

Mrs. Fairland, who though indolent and indifferent in many things with regard to her children, was not altogether without natural affection, passed much of her time, during the last two or three days of Tiney’s life, in her room, sitting quietly near the head of the bed. Mr. Fairland, who seemed more overcome even than Agnes expected, hardly ever left the bed-side. The older sisters looked in occasionally for a few moments, but their “nerves” (always ready as an excuse with people destitute of feeling) would not allow their staying for more than five minutes at a time, in the room of the sick child. The younger children wandered restlessly about the house, their little hearts oppressed by the first approach of death among their number; sometimes coming in quietly to look at the dying sister, and then wandering off again.

“Cousin Agnes, _must_ I _die_?” asked Tiney, the day before her death, as Agnes and her father and mother were sitting near her.

“You are not afraid to die, dear Tiney, are you?” asked Agnes in reply.

“No, I shall love to die, because you told me I would never be sick any more; but I feel a _little_ afraid to go to Heaven.”

“Afraid to go to Heaven, dear Tiney! And why should you be afraid to go there?” asked Agnes, in astonishment; for she had, oftener than ever, of late, talked to the failing child of the glories of heaven, and did not doubt that, even with her poor weak mind, she had so trusted by faith in the merits of an all-sufficient Redeemer, that through those merits her spirit would be welcomed to that blissful abode.

“I was thinking,” answered Tiney, “that I don’t _know anybody_, there; not a single soul; and I feel so shy with strangers. Will they love me there, cousin Agnes, as you and papa do?”

Agnes could not repress the tears at this question, so natural, perhaps, to a simple child, and yet one which she had never thought of as likely to occur to one before. But she talked to Tiney so soothingly and sweetly of Him who loved little children when on earth, and who was watching for her now, and would send some lovely angel to bear her to His breast, that poor Tiney lost her fears, and longed for the hour of her release. And it came the next morning. Just as the glorious sun was rising over the lake, the spirit of poor little suffering Tiney left its earthly dwelling, and began its long and never-ending day of happiness.

Oh! what a brilliant light shone for once in those dark gray eyes, as Tiney raised them, with a look of wonder and astonishment and joy, as if she saw far, far beyond the limits which bounded her mortal sight!—and as, with an enraptured expression, she murmured something about “that lovely music,” the light faded from the still wide open and glassy eye; and Agnes, passing her hand gently over the lids, said, “Mr. Fairland, she is gone!” and the first thought of her sad heart was, “Oh that I too were at rest!” But she checked it in one moment, when she remembered that there were duties and conflicts and trials before her yet; and she determined she would go forward, in the Divine strength, into the furnace which she must needs go through, in order to be refined and purified.

Once, during Tiney’s last sickness, a messenger called for Agnes, and put a note and a little bouquet of green-house flowers into her hand. At first, Agnes hoped that the note might contain tidings of her brother; but though disappointed in this respect, the contents of the note were soothing and grateful to her troubled heart. The words were simply these:

“Is there _anything_ I can do for you? And if you need a friend, will you call upon me?” The note was signed “C.H.”

At first Agnes merely said, in a despairing tone, “Oh no! nothing can be done;” and then, feeling that a different answer should be sent to a message so kind, she tore off a bit of the paper, and wrote upon it:

“Nothing can be done for me now. Believe me, I will not hesitate to call upon you, when you can do me any good.”

The day after Tiney’s death, officers came to search Mr. Fairland’s house for the fugitive, having traced him to Wilston. Every corner of the house was searched, and even the chamber of death was not spared. The search, of course, was unsuccessful; but, the day after poor Tiney’s funeral, came tidings to Agnes of the arrest of her brother. He was taken at last, and safely lodged in the jail at Hillsdale, where he was to await his trial.

And now Agnes, whose office ever seemed of necessity to be that of consoler and comforter, must leave her little charge, and go to be near her brother. It was a bitter parting; it seemed as if the children could not let her go; and the scene recalled so vividly to Agnes the parting with Miss Edwards at Brook Farm, that the recollection made her, if possible, still more sad, as she thought the resemblance might be carried out even to the end, and the close of this earthly scene to her might be as melancholy as was that of her beloved teacher.

She promised Mr. Fairland that, as soon as she could attend to it, she would ascertain if there were vacancies in Mrs. Arlington’s school for Rosa and Jessie, and also if Mr. Malcolm would consent to take charge of Frank’s education; and, accompanied by Mr. Fairland, she left Wilston, as she supposed, forever.

XVII. The Jail.

“I may not go, I may not go, Where the sweet-breathing spring-winds blow; Nor where the silver clouds go by, Across the holy, deep blue sky; Nor where the sunshine, warm and bright Comes down, like a still shower of light; I must stay here In prison drear; Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on, Would God that thou wert gone.” —FANNY KEMBLE.

They reached Brook Farm late in the evening, and here the greeting, though not as noisy and joyous, was warmer, and if possible more affectionate than ever. They all loved Lewie in spite of his many faults, and their sympathy was most sincere and hearfelt for Agnes, who was very dear to them all. As soon as Agnes could speak to Mr. Wharton alone, she said:

“Uncle, have you seen him?”

“Every day, dear Agnes, and have been with him some hours each day.”

“And how does he feel, dear Uncle?”

“Relieved, I think, on the whole; that the suspense is over thus far. He says he would not live over again the last three weeks for worlds. Many and many a time he had almost resolved to return and give himself up for trial; but the thought of you, Agnes, prevented. He said that you must be a sharer in all his trouble and disgrace, and if he could spare your distress and suffering, by escaping from the country, he meant to try and do it, and then he would soon be forgotten, except by the few who cared for him.”

“And how does he feel about the—the result, uncle?”

“Hopeful, I think; he seems to think it cannot be brought in murder, when murder was so far from his intention.”

“And what do _you_ think, uncle?”

“I am inclined to think with Lewie, dear; there is always a leaning towards mercy, and your brother has counsel, the very best in the State.”

“Oh, uncle, how very kind! how can we ever repay you for your kindness?”

“No thanks to me in this matter, Agnes; Mr. W—— has been retained by one who does not wish his name known; one who would be glad, I fancy, to have a nearer right to stand by you through these coming scenes, but who will not trouble you with these matters at present.”

A bright blush came up in Agnes’ cheek, and as suddenly died away as she said:

“One question more, uncle; when will it take place—the trial, I mean?”

“It will probably come on in November,” her uncle answered.

“Two long months of imprisonment for my poor brother!” said Agnes.

“But remember, Agnes, those two months will be diligently employed by his counsel in preparing his defence.”

“And by those on the other side, in making strong their cause against him, uncle. My poor dear Lewie! how I long to see him; and yet how I dread the first meeting, oh! if that were only over!”

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Wharton and Agnes drove over to Hillsdale. Agnes shuddered, and turned pale, as they drew near the gloomy jail with its iron-barred windows, and closing her eyes she silently prayed for strength and calmness for the meeting with her brother. Mr. Wharton conducted her to the door of the room in which her brother was confined, and left her there, as he knew they would both prefer that their first meeting should be without witnesses. In one respect Agnes was agreeably disappointed; she had expected to find her brother in a close, dark dungeon; and was much surprised to find herself in a pleasant, light room, with table, books, writing materials, and everything very comfortable about him; the only things there to remind her that she was in a prison, being the locked door, and the grated window.

Agnes had been preparing herself ever since she first received the tidings of her brother’s arrest, for this meeting; and she went through it with a calmness and composure which astonished herself. But poor Lewie was completely overcome. He knew his sister would come to him; but he had not expected her so soon, and the first intimation he had of her arrival, was the sight of her upon the threshold of his door.

“Poor Agnes! poor dear sister!” said he, as soon as he could speak; “what have I ever been from my childhood up, but a source of trouble and distress to you. You were punished for my ungoverned temper all through your childhood; you are suffering for it now; you will have to suffer for it more, till your bloom is all gone, and you are worn to a skeleton. If I had dared, Agnes—if I had dared, I should have put an end to this mortal existence; and thus I should have saved you all this coming disgrace and misery. But I had not the courage to lay violent hands upon myself, and go, a deliberate suicide, into the presence of my Maker. I have tried all other means; I have gone through exposure and fatigue, which at any other time I know would have killed me; I have laid out all night in the rain; _I_, who used to be so susceptible to cold, but nothing seemed to hurt me. I have been reserved for other and more terrible things. And you, Agnes, who are always kind, and forbearing, and self-sacrificing, it seems to be your fate ever to suffer and endure for others. Oh, my sister, you deserve a happier lot!”

“Don’t talk so, dear Lewie!” said Agnes; “you have given me very many happy hours, and all the little troubles of ‘long, long ago’ are forgotten. And now, what greater pleasure can I have than that of sitting with you here, working and reading, and trying to wile away the tedious hours of your captivity?”

“Agnes! this must not be! I cannot allow it. It will brighten the whole day for me, if you will come and spend an hour or two with me every morning; but I cannot consent that you shall be immured for the whole day in the walls of this gloomy prison-house.”

“But what can you do, Lewie? I am going to be obstinate for once, and take my own course. Uncle will drive me over every morning, and come for me at night; and I am going to enjoy a pleasure long denied me, of spending every day with my darling brother.”

“Oh, Agnes! this is too, too much!”

“Not too much at all, Lewie. Do you think I could be happy anywhere else than with you? What should I do at uncle’s but roam the house, restless and impatient, every moment I am absent from you? And the nights will seem so long, because they separate me from you!”

“Oh! how utterly undeserving!—how _utterly undeserving_ such love and devotion!” said Lewie, pacing up and down the room. “Sweet sister!—dearest Agnes!—now has my prison lost all its gloom; and were it not for the future, I might be happier here than when out in the world; for temptation here is far from me, and only good influences surround me.”

“And what of the future, dear?”

“Of my trial, Agnes? Well, I hardly know what to say. My friends and lawyers try to keep up my spirits, and mention to me many hopeful things; and, for the time, I too feel encouraged. But I can think of many things that a skilful lawyer can bring up against me, and which would weigh very heavily. I am trying to think of the _worst_ as a _probability_; so that if it comes, I shall not be overwhelmed.”

“Oh!” said Agnes, shuddering, and covering her eyes, as if to shut out some horrid spectacle, “it cannot be! I cannot bring myself to contemplate it for a moment!”

“And yet it _may be_, Agnes! or they may spare my life, and doom me to wear out long years of imprisonment, and then send me out into the world a blighted and ruined man! That is the best I can hope for; and but for the disgrace which would come upon me, I should say the sudden end is better.”

“And what of the future _after that_, Lewie? for that, after all, is the great concern.”

“The _eternal future_ you mean, Agnes. Ah! my sister, the prospect there is darker and more dreary still. I know enough of religion to feel assured that my short life has not been spent in the way to prepare me for a future of happiness; and I am not yet so hardened as to pretend not to dread a future of misery.”

“God grant such may not be your fate, dear brother. Whether life be long or short, happy or sorrowful, our future depends upon heart-felt repentance here, and faith in the ‘sinner’s Friend.’ You have now time for quiet and reflection. Oh! improve it dear Lewie, in so humbling yourself before Him whom you have offended, and in so seeking for pardon, that He will bless you and grant you peace.”

“I see, Agnes,” said her brother, with a sad smile, “you want me to follow in the footsteps of all other offenders and criminals, who, after doing all the mischief possible, and living for their own selfish gratification while abroad in the world, spend the time of their imprisonment in acts of penitence and devotion, and go out of the world, as they all invariably do, in the full odor of sanctity, in peace with God, and in charity with men.”

“Is my advice to you in any way different, my dear brother, from what it was when you were free and unrestrained? Indeed, so much did I dread the effect of your undisciplined temper, and so assured did I feel that for you the grace of God was peculiarly necessary, that I have feared I sometimes made my presence unwelcome by my constant warnings and admonitions.”

“Never, Agnes—never, dearest sister! I always thanked you from my inmost heart for your kind, loving, tender counsel; and though apparently I turned it off lightly and carelessly, yet it often sank deep in my heart; and when parted from you, I often thought what a miserable wretch I was not to give better heed to it.”

“Yet, Lewie dear, I will not deny that I think the need more urgent than ever for repentance and pardon now. I do not wish to harrow up your feelings, dear brother; but, oh! it is an awful thing to send a fellow-creature into eternity!”

“And do you think that thought ever for a moment leaves me, Agnes? Indeed, I think that while I have been skulking and hiding, hunted and pursued from one place to another, and since I have been shut up in these walls, every harrowing thought that could possibly be brought before my mind, has been dwelt upon till it seemed sometimes as if I should go mad. I have mourned for Cranston as if I had no hand in his death; I have thought of him in all his hope and promise; I have thought of his poor mother and sisters, till the tears have rained from my cheeks; and I believe I have been sincere in my feeling, that if by suffering an ignominious death, I could restore my murdered friend to life, I should be _glad_ to be the sacrifice. And then when I thought of _myself_ as the cause of all this suffering, it seemed as if it ought not to be a matter of wonder or complaint if the verdict should be, that such a wretch should cumber the earth no longer. And yet, Agnes, in the eye of Him who looketh only on the heart, I believe I was as much a murderer when I struck down my school-mate in the play-ground as now. For in the height of my passion then, I think I should have been glad to have killed him. But the thought of _murder_ did not enter my heart when I struck poor Cranston; it was a sort of instinctive movement; the work of a moment; and had not the murderous weapon been in my hand, the effects of the blow would have been but slight.”

Many such conversations as these passed between the young prisoner and his sister, during those two months preceding the trial—every day of which, except during church hours on Sunday, Agnes passed with him from morning till night, almost as much a prisoner as he, except that hers was not compulsory. This time was faithfully improved by Agnes, in endeavoring to lead her brother to right views upon the subject of his own condition in the sight of a Holy God. He was very gentle and teachable now, and before the day of trial came, Agnes hoped that her brother was a true penitent, though his own hopes of pardon were faint and flickering.

Mr. Malcolm too, often visited young Elwyn, in whom he was most deeply interested; and his gentle teachings and fervent prayers were eagerly listened to by the youthful prisoner. Mr. W——, his counsel, came often, also, but in his endeavors to keep up the spirits of Lewie and his sister, his manner was so trifling and flippant that it grated on their feelings painfully. He was working as laboriously it seemed, as the enormous fee promised him would warrant, leaving no stone unturned which would throw some favorable light on young Elwyn’s case. Thus days and weeks passed on, and in the midst of increasing agitation and excitement, the day of trial came.

When the brother and sister parted the evening before the trial, Agnes once more renewed the entreaties she had so often made that Lewie would allow her to remain by his side during the painful events of the coming day. But his refusal was firm and unyielding.

“No, no, dear sister, pray do not urge it,” said he. “I know I shall be too much agitated as it is; I do not believe I can go through it with even an appearance of calmness alone; and how much more difficult it would be for me with you by my side. I know I could not bear it. No! Agnes, remain in the village if you prefer it, but do not let me see your dear face again till my fate is decided. Let us pray once more together, sweet sister—let us pray for mercy from God and man.” And when they arose from their knees they took their sad farewell, and Agnes accompanied her uncle to the house of her kind friend, Dr. Rodney, where she was to remain till the trial was over.

XVIII. The Trial.

“The morn lowered darkly; but the sun hath now, With fierce and angry splendor, through the clouds Burst forth, as if impatient to behold This our high triumph. Lead the prisoner in.” —VESPERS OF PALERMO.

To say that, long before the hour fixed for the trial, the court room was crowded to its utmost capacity with eager and expectant faces, would be to repeat what has been written and said of every trial, the events of which have been chronicled; but it would be no less true for that. And when the young prisoner was brought into the room, his handsome face pale from agitation and recent confinement, and with an expression of intense anxiety in his eye, all not before deeply interested for the friends of the unfortunate Cranston were moved to pity, and strongly prepossessed in his favor.

Mr. W——, the counsel for the prisoner, was an able and eloquent lawyer. He was a small, slight man, with a high, bald forehead; and a pair of very bright, black, restless eyes. His manner was naturally quick and lively; but he well knew how to touch the tender strings, and make them give forth a tone in unison with his own, or with that which he had adopted for his own to suit the occasion. He had an appearance, too, of being assured of the justice of his cause, and perfectly confident of success, which was encouraging to the prisoner and his friends.

After the necessary preliminaries and statements had been gone through with, the witnesses against the prisoner and in his favor were called, who testified to the fact of the murder, and to the prisoner’s natural quickness of temper, inducing fits of sudden passion, which, even in childhood, seemed at times hardly to leave him the mastery of himself. Friends, school-mates, college-mates, in turn gave their testimony to the prisoner’s kindness of heart, which would not suffer him to harbor resentment; and yet many instances were mentioned of fierce and terrible passion, utterly heedless of results for the moment, and yet passing away quick as the lightning’s flash.

It was shown that he had no ill-will to young Cranston; on the contrary, they were generally friendly and affectionate; that they had been so throughout the evening on which the fatal deed was done. It was at a supper table, when all were excited by wine; and Cranston, who was fond of a joke, and rather given to teazing, and being less guarded than usual, introduced some subject exceedingly unpleasant to young Elwyn. The quick temper of the latter was aroused at once, and he gave a hasty and angry reply. The raillery was pushed still farther; and before those about him had time to interfere, the fatal blow was struck in frantic passion.

“And is this no palliating circumstance,” said Mr. W——, “that God has given to this young man a naturally fierce and hasty temper, which could not brook that which might be borne more patiently by those whose blood flows more coldly and sluggishly? Is there no difference to be made in our judgment of men, because of the different tempers and dispositions with which they were born? Of course there is!—_of course_ there is! It has been clearly shown that there was no malice aforethought in this case; the injury was not brooded over in silence, and the plan matured in cold blood to murder a class-mate and friend. No! on the moment of provocation the blow was struck, with but the single idea of giving vent to the passion which was bursting his breast. And those who witnessed his deep remorse and agony of mind, when he discovered the fatal effects of his passion, as, all regardless of his own safety, he endeavored to restore his expiring friend to life, have assured me, that though they were witnesses of the whole scene, they felt for _him_ only the deepest commiseration.”

And here Mr. W—— paused and wiped his eyes repeatedly, and the sobs of the young prisoner were heard all over the court room.

“There was one,” Mr. W—— continued, “of whom he wished to speak, and whom, on some accounts, he would have been glad to bring before the jury to-day. But he would not outrage the feelings of his young friend by urging him to consent to the entreaties of his lovely sister, that she might be permitted to sit by his side in that prisoner’s seat to-day. She is his only sister; he her only brother; and they are orphans.” (Here there was a faltering of the voice, a pause, which was very effective; and after apparently a great effort, Mr. W—— went on.)

“She has sat beside him hour after hour, and day after day, in yonder dreary jail, endeavoring to make the weary hours of solitude and captivity less irksome, and lead the prisoner’s heart away from earthly trouble to heavenly comfort. Her hope in the jury of to-day is strong. She believes they will not doom her young and only brother to an ignominious death, and a dishonored grave; she even hopes that they will not consign him to long years of weary imprisonment; she feels that he is changed; that he no longer trusts to his own strength to overcome his naturally strong and violent passions; but that his trust is in the arm of the Lord his God, who ‘turneth the hearts of men as the rivers of water are turned.’”

“May He dispose the hearts of these twelve men, on whom the fate of this youth now hangs, so that they shall show, that like Himself they are _lovers of mercy_.”

And Mr. W—— sat down and covered his face with his handkerchief. The hope and expectation of acquittal now were very strong.

And now slowly rose the counsel for the prosecution. Mr. G—— was a tall thin man, of a grave and stern expression of countenance; his hair was of an iron-gray, and his piercing gray eye shone from under his shaggy eye-brows like a spark of fire. It was the only thing that looked like _life_ about him; and when he first rose he began to speak in a slow, distinct, unimpassioned manner, and without the least attempt at eloquence.

“He _had_ intended,” he said, “to call a few more witnesses, but he found it was utterly unnecessary; those already called had said all he cared to hear; indeed, he had been much surprised to hear testimony on the side of the prisoner which he should have thought by right his own. No one attempts to deny the fact of the killing, and that the deed was done by the hand of the prisoner. The question for us to decide is, was it murder? was it man-slaughter? or was it _nothing at all_? for to that point my learned adversary evidently wishes to conduct us.”

“The young man it appears, by the testimony of friends and school-mates, has always been of a peculiarly quick and fiery temper; so much so it seems, that a playful allusion, or what is commonly called a _teazing_ expression, could not be indulged in at his expense but his companion was instantly felled to the ground. And was _he_ the one to arm himself with bowie-knife or revolver? Should one who was perfectly conscious that he had not the slightest control over his temper, keep about him a murderous weapon ready to do its deed of death upon any friend who might unwittingly, in an hour of revelry, touch upon some sore spot?”

“As soon would I approach a keg of gun-powder with a lighted candle in my hand, as have aught to do with one so fiery and so armed for destruction. It has been said that it is the custom for young men in some of our colleges to go thus armed; the more need of signal vengeance upon the work of death they do. Gentlemen of the jury, if this practice is not loudly rebuked we shall have work of this kind accumulating rapidly on our hands.”

“‘It was done in the heat of frenzied passion, and so the prisoner must go unpunished.’ My learned friend argued not so, when he appeared in this place against the murder Wiley; poor, ignorant, and half-witted; who with his eyes starting from his head with starvation, entered a farmer’s house, and in the extremity of his suffering demanded bread. And on being told by the woman of the house to take himself off to the nearest tavern and get bread, caught up a carving knife and stabbed her to the heart, seized a piece of bread, and fled from the house. He had a fiendish temper too; it was rendered fiercer by starvation; and when asked why he did the dreadful deed, he said he never could have dragged himself on three miles to the nearest tavern, and he had no money to buy bread when he got there. He must die anyway, and it might as well be on the gallows as by the road-side.”

“He, poor fellow, had no friends; he had been brought up in vice and misery; he had no gentle sister to lead him in the paths of virtue, a kind word was never spoken to him; a crust of bread was denied him when he was starving; and above all, he had no wealthy friend to pay an enormous counsel fee, and my learned opponent standing where he did just now, called loudly on the jury and said, ‘away with such a fellow from the earth!’”

“Do not think me blood-thirsty or unfeeling. The innocent sufferer in this case, the sister of this unfortunate young man, has my deepest sympathy and commiseration, as she has that of this audience and the jury. But could those here present have gone with me”—(here the speaker paused, too agitated to proceed)—“to yonder desolated home; had they seen a mother, lately widowed, and four young sisters, around the bier where lay the remains of the murdered son and brother—their only hope next to God—he for whom they were all toiling early and late, that, when his education was completed, he in turn might work for them,—had they heard that mother’s cry for strength, now that her last earthly prop was thus rudely snatched away, they would have found food for pity there. I tell you, my friends, I pray that I may never be called upon to witness such a scene again!”

Wiping his cheeks repeatedly, Mr. G——resumed:

“These tears surprise me; for I am not used to the ‘melting mood,’ and I cannot afford to weep as readily as my learned opponent, who will count his pile of bank notes for every tear he sheds, and think those tears well expended. I speak for an outraged community; my sympathies are with the poor—with the widow and the fatherless—with those whose only son and brother has been cut off in his hope and promise, and consigned to an early grave.”

“Shall these things take place unnoticed and unpunished?—and for a light and hasty word, shall our young men of promise be cut down in the midst of their days, and the act go unrebuked of justice? I look not so much at this individual case as to the general good. Were I to look only on the prisoner, I too might yield to feeling, and forget justice. But feeling must not rule here: in the court room, justice alone should have sway; and I call upon the jury to decide as impartially in this case as if the poorest and most neglected wretch, brought up in vice and wretchedness, sat there, instead of the handsome and interesting prisoner; and I call upon the jury to show that, though in private life they may be ‘lovers of mercy,’ yet, where the general good is so deeply involved, they are determined to ‘deal justly’ with the prisoner.”

The judge then gave his charge to the jury, which was thought to lean rather to the side of the prisoner, though he agreed with Mr. G——, that some sharp rebuke should be given to the practice, so common among the young men in some of our colleges, of carrying about with them offensive weapons.

The prisoner was led back to the jail; the jury retired; and it being now evening, the court room was deserted.

XIX. The Sealed Paper.

“Sister, thy brother is won by thee.”—MRS. HEMANS.

The verdict would not be made known till the next morning. Oh! what a night of mental torture was that to the devoted sister of the prisoner! The terrible suspense left it out of her power to remain quiet for a moment, but she restlessly paced the room, watching for the dawn of day, and yet dreading the signs of its approach. Her aunt, who remained with her during that anxious night, endeavored as well as she could to soothe and calm her excited feelings; but how little there was to be said; she could only point her to the Christian’s never-failing trust and confidence; and it was only by constant supplications for strength from on high, as she walked the room, that Agnes was enabled to retain the slightest appearance of composure, or, as it seemed to her, to keep her brain from bursting.

The longest night will have an end, and morning at length dawned on the weary eyes of the watchers. The family rose and breakfasted early, for an intense excitement reigned throughout the house. Agnes begged to be allowed to remain in her own room; and though, in compliance with the entreaties of her friends, she endeavored to eat, she could not swallow a morsel. Mr. Wharton came early; and soon after breakfast, he and Dr. Rodney went out. At nine o’clock the court were to assemble, to hear the verdict; and from that moment, Agnes seated herself at the window, with her hands pressed on her aching forehead, and her eyes straining to catch the first glimpse of them as they returned.

She sat thus for an hour or more at the window, and at the end of that time the crowds began to pass the house, and she soon caught sight of Dr. Rodney and her uncle. They did not hasten as if they had joyful news to tell, and as Agnes in her agitation rose as they approached the gate, and watched their faces as they came up the gravel walk, she saw there enough to tell her the whole story; and pressing both hands upon her heart she sat down again, for she had no longer strength to stand. In a few moments she heard her uncle’s step coming slowly towards her room. As the door opened very gently she did not raise her head; it had fallen upon her breast, and she was asking for strength to bear what she knew was coming. When at length she looked towards her uncle she saw him standing with his hand still on the lock, and gazing at her intently. His face was of an ashy paleness, and he seemed irresolute whether to approach her or to leave the room.

“Uncle,” gasped Agnes, “do not speak now; there is no need; I see it all,” and slowly she fell to the floor and forgot her bitter sorrow in long insensibility. When she recovered it was nearly mid-day, and only her aunt was sitting by her bedside.

“Aunty,” said she, as if bewildered, “what time is it?” Her aunt told her the time.

“And is it possible,” said Agnes, “that I have slept so late?” and then pressing her hands to her head, she said:

“Who said ‘_condemned_’ and ‘_sentenced_?’”

“No one has said those words to you, dear Agnes,” said Mrs. Wharton.

“But oh, aunty!” she exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Wharton’s hand, “it is _true_, is it not? Yes, I know it is. My poor young brother! And here I have been wasting the time when he wants me so much. I must get up this moment and go to him.”

Her aunt endeavored to persuade her to remain quiet, telling her that Mr. Malcolm was with Lewie, and that he was not left alone for a moment. Agnes insisted, however, upon rising, but on making the attempt her head became dizzy and she sank back again upon her pillow; and this was the beginning of a brain fever, which kept her confined to her bed in unconscious delirium for more than three weeks. In her delirium she seemed to go back to the days of her childhood, and live them over again with all the trouble they caused her young heart. Sometimes she fancied herself a lonely prisoner again in the cold north room, and sometimes pleading with her little brother, and begging him to “be a good boy, and to try and not be so cross.” At one time Dr. Rodney had little hope of her life, and after that he feared permanent loss of reason, but in both fears he was disappointed. Agnes recovered at length, and with her mind as clear as ever.

During the days when she was convalescing, but still too weak to leave her bed, her impatience to get to her brother was so great, that the doctor feared it would retard her recovery. It could not be concealed from her that Lewie was ill, and the consciousness that she was so necessary to him, made it the more difficult for Agnes to exercise that patience and calmness which were requisite to ensure a return of her strength. Lewie had taken to his bed, immediately after his return to the jail, on the morning of the sentence, and had not left it since. He seemed fast sinking into a decline, and much of the good doctor’s time was taken up in ministering at the bed-side of the brother and sister.

At length Agnes was so much better that the doctor consented to her paying her brother a visit. She found him in the condemned cell, but no manacles were necessary to fetter his limbs, for a chain stronger than iron bolts confined him to his bed, and that strong chain was perfect weakness. Though his cell was darker and more dungeon-like, yet through the kindness of friends the sick young prisoner was made as comfortable as possible. By a very strong effort Agnes so far commanded herself as to retain an appearance of outward composure, during that first meeting after so long and so eventful a separation; and now began again the daily ministrations of Agnes at the bed-side of her brother, for in consideration of his feeble condition his sister was permitted to remain with him constantly.

Lewie knew that he was failing; “I think,” said he to Agnes, “that God will call for my spirit before the time comes for man to set it free. But oh! Agnes, if I could once more look upon the green earth, and the blue sky, and breathe the pure fresh air; and die _free_.”

It was after longings for freedom like these, that when Agnes returned to Dr. Rodney’s one evening, (for ever since the trial, at the earnest request of the kind doctor and his wife, she had made their house her home except when with her brother,) she found her cousin Grace, who often came over to pass the night with her, waiting her arrival with tidings in her face.

“Agnes,” said she, “I have heard something to-day which may possibly cast a ray of hope on Lewie’s case yet.”

“What can it be, dear Grace?” asked Agnes.

“Who do you think the new Governor’s wife is, Agnes?”

“I am sure I cannot imagine.”

“Do you remember that strange girl, Ruth Glenn?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, it is she. Only think how strange! I have no idea how much influence she has with the Governor; but unless she has changed wonderfully in her feelings, she would do anything in the world to serve you, Agnes, as she ought.”

“Oh, blessings on you, Grace! I will go; there _may_ be hope in it; and if poor Lewie could only die free; for die he must, the doctor assures me—perhaps before the flowers bloom.”

“Father will go with you, Agnes. I have been talking with him about it.”

“Oh, how very, very kind you all are to us!” said Agnes. “Then, no time must be lost, Grace; and if uncle will go with me, we will start as early as possible in the morning.”

Agnes rose early the next morning, with something like a faint tinge of color in her cheek, lent to it by the excitement of hope; and after visiting her brother, to give some explanation of the cause of her absence, she took her seat in the carriage by her uncle, for they must ride some miles in order to reach the cars.

They reached the Capitol that afternoon; and Agnes, who felt that she had very little time to spare, left the hotel a few moments after their arrival in the city, and, leaning on her uncle’s arm, sought the Governor’s house. Agnes felt her heart die within her as she ascended the broad flight of marble steps. Years had passed, and many changes had taken place since she had met Ruth Glenn. Would she find her again in the Governor’s lady?

Mrs. F—— was at home, and Mr. Wharton left Agnes at the door, thinking that, on all accounts, the interview had better be private. “He should return for her in an hour or two,” he said, “when he intended to call upon the Governor, who had once been a class-mate and intimate friend.”

Having merely sent word by the servant that an old friend wished to see Mrs. F——, Agnes was shown into a large and elegantly-furnished parlor, to await her coming. In a few moments, she heard a light step descending the stairs, and the rustling of a silk dress, and the Governor’s lady entered the room.

Could it be possible that this blooming, elegant, graceful woman was the pale, nervous Ruth Glenn, whom Agnes had befriended at Mrs. Arlington’s school? To account for this extraordinary change, we must go back a few years, which we can fortunately do in a few moments, and give a glance at Ruth Glenn’s history.

She had left school almost immediately after Agnes and her cousins, having been recommended by Mrs. Arlington to a lady who was looking for a governess to her children. Here she became acquainted with a lawyer who visited frequently at the house; a middle-aged man, and a widower, who was just then looking out for some one to take care of himself and his establishment. By one of those unaccountable whims which men sometimes take, this man (who, from his position and wealth, might have won the hand of almost any accomplished and dashing young lady of his acquaintance,) was attracted towards the plain, silent governess, and he very soon, to the astonishment of all, made proposals to her, which were accepted.

Soon after their marriage, business made it necessary for Mr. F—— to go to Europe, and Ruth accompanied him. A sea voyage and two years’ travel abroad entirely restored her health, and with it came, what her husband had never looked for—_beauty_; while the many opportunities for improvement and cultivation which she enjoyed, and the good society into which she was thrown, worked a like marvellous change in her manners. All her nervous diffidence banished, and in its place she had acquired a dignified self-possession and grace of manner, which fitted her well for the station of influence she was to occupy. Soon after her return, her husband was elected Governor; and the city was already ringing with praises of the loveliness and affability of the new Governor’s wife.

No wonder, then, that as Agnes rose to meet her they stood looking at each other in silence for a moment; Agnes vainly endeavoring to discover a trace of Ruth Glenn in the easy and elegant woman before her, and Mrs. F—— trying to divine who this guest who had called herself an old friend might be.

For sickness and sorrow had changed Agnes too. Her bright bloom was all gone; her charming animation of manner had given place to a settled sadness; and though still most lovely, as she stood in her deep mourning dress, she was but a wreck of the Agnes Elwyn of former years.

But when after a moment Agnes said, “Ruth, do you not know me?”

The scream of delight with which Ruth opened her arms, and clasped her to her breast, crying out, “_Agnes Elwyn!_—my dear, dear Agnes!” convinced her that in heart at least her old school-mate was unchanged. Ruth immediately took Agnes to her own room, that they might be undisturbed, for she guessed at once her purpose in coming; and then Agnes opened to her her burdened heart; relating all her brother’s history; telling her of his naturally strong passions, and saying all that was necessary to say, in justice to her brother, of the injudicious training he had received; at the same time treating her mother’s memory with all possible delicacy and respect.