University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE VERDICT.

That night Corrinton slept more soundly
than he had done for weeks before. He felt a
sort of indifference with regard to the trial, in
which he had taken such an anxious interest
until that day, and upon the result of which he
knew that his life depended. That indifference
was like the apathy which is the reaction of a
lofty mind worn out by disappointments, or
like the strange calmness of despair.

At the opening of the court on the following
morning, it was announced that the jury had
agreed on their verdict, and Corrinton was once
more placed at the bar.

Again the court room was filled with spectators.
To all, except the prisoner, the entire interest
of the trial seemed to be concentrated
into that hour. An awful stillness pervaded
the court and the spectators, when the jury,
attended by constables, entered, one after another,
in solemn procession, and took their

accustomed places. The usual formalities were
duly observed; and the foreman who had been
chosen stood up to reply to the solemn question
of the court: —

“Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty,
or not guilty?”

A breathless silence followed; the spectators
bent forward with eager interest, fixing their
eyes upon the foreman; and the prisoner started,
as if suddenly aroused from his apathy to a
consciousness of the awful importance of the
reply.

With a firm, clear voice, which thrilled to
every heart, the foreman answered, —

“Not Guilty!”

The effect was electric. The gloom of intense,
painful interest, which had darkened the
countenances of those who felt an interest in
the prisoner, gave place to a gleam of satisfaction.
It was like pouring a flood of sunshine
into a dungeon. Corrinton smiled faintly, and
wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

By order of the court, the prisoner was immediately
discharged from custody, and his
friends flocked around him, to congratulate him

on the result of the trial. But his eye was
vacant; he looked about him, as if seeking
some absent face. He thanked all kindly for
their congratulations, but there was a settled
sadness on his brow for which none could account.
A well-known voice aroused him. Mr.
Joseph Sorrel held him by the hand.

“I give you joy!” cried Joseph. “I knew
'twould be so! Come this way, if you
please, doctor; the folks are out here.”

Corrinton knew too well who was meant by
the indefinite term “folks” to need a second
invitation from the simple-hearted Joseph.
Following his guide, the young physician
soon found himself under the canopy of the
sky, to which he had been so long unaccustomed.
It was a beautiful autumnal day, and
the bright sun and life-dispensing air filled his
sad heart with gladness. Moreover, he now
saw the point to which Joseph was leading
him, and his blood flowed more swiftly through
his veins. He distinguished a particular carriage
among several, and a particular individual
in that carriage among others, and he
scarcely heard the words of Joseph, —

“They were going by, and stopped to hear
the news — father, aunt, and cousin. Ah!
there is Mr. Brance with them!”

Regardless of the multitude which followed
at his heels, Corrinton hastened to the carriage,
and extended his hand to Alice. The eyes of
the lovers met, and their souls spake. Recollecting
that he was observed, the young man
turned to shake the hand of the elder Mr. Sorrel,
who was not remarkably cordial in his
greeting, and to pay his regards to Mrs. Silby,
who received them in silence, with a freezing
look. Shocked, confounded, the young man
found himself face to face with Mr. Brance,
before he was fully conscious of that gentleman's
presence. He bowed with becoming
civility and respect, while Mr. Brance merely
nodded coldly, and turned upon his heel. At
that moment, Mr. Sorrel, admonished by Mrs.
Silby, drew taut the reins, and measured out
his whip. The young man had time only to
exchange glances with Alice, when the carriage
rolled away.

Corrinton's heart burned with bitterness.
With a haughty, desperate gesture, he turned

upon the gaping crowd that had followed at his
heels. The wrath of his contracted features
and his angry strides caused the multitude to
fall back and open a way for him, and he returned
to the court house. Joseph followed him
timidly, and at a short distance; but Corrinton
observed him the moment he had reached the
court-house steps, and motioned for him to
approach.

“Find a carriage for me,” muttered he.
“Let me get away from this wretched place.”

“My buggy is at your service, doctor,” said
a gruff voice.

“Ha! Major Smith! thank you. I accept
your offer,” replied Corrinton.

And bidding good morning to Joseph, who
shrank away from the major as if he had been
a dangerous wild beast, Corrinton stepped into
the buggy, and took his seat by the major's
side.

“All the world are fools!” muttered the doctor,
casting a look of scorn and wrath back at
the crowd. “Drive me to the tavern, major!
I'll see no more of this!”

“You forget that witty epigram of an old

French poet, my dear doctor,” replied the major,
laughing. “This is it: —
So, if you hate the sight of fools so badly, lock
yourself up in your office and break your looking
glass. But, jesting aside, Corrinton, I
must say, I never saw a man, who had so much
apparent reason to rejoice, look so grave and
desperate.”

“Reason to rejoice!” echoed the doctor with
a sneer. “Reason to rejoice, indeed! I would
thank you to explain yourself, and then I will
perhaps swing my hat in the air, and shout
victory!”

“Why, you confounded simpleton!” said
Major Smith, good humoredly: “where were
you last week? and where are you to-day? You
see no difference, I suppose, between the grim,
dark walls of a jail, and the bright firmament

of heaven, sunshine, and mountain breezes?
no difference between the narrow precincts of
your late apartments, and the world-wide liberty
you now enjoy? no difference — O, none at
all, I am sure — between the companionship
of sheep stealers, and that of excellent, fine fellows,
like your old friend and humble servant?
Ha! ha! But if you distinguish no preference
here, bethink you a moment of the journey you
might now be travelling, with the last good
wishes of Judge Cone, and under the faithful
guidance of an excellent sheriff! By Jove,
doctor, there is a trifling difference between a
verdict of `guilty' and a verdict of `not guilty.'
It makes a slight difference in the end, I assure
you. Thus far,” pursued the facetious major,
touching his fast nag under the shoulder with
his whip, “I say, you have reason to rejoice.”

“Then the man who falls off a four-story
building and breaks both legs, but preserves
his neck bone entire, has reason to rejoice!”
answered Corrinton, bitterly. “The wretch
who loses all his property through the perfidy
of supposed friends, but by some extravagant
good fortune saves from the wreck a change
of linen and two pairs of boots, has reason to

rejoice! The man who passes forty of the best
years of his life in prison on a false accusation,
and is magnanimously pardoned out a week
before his death, has reason to rejoice! According
to your principles, I have reason to
rejoice — I, who have been accused of a crime
of which I am innocent as a new-born babe —
I, who have been cursed by fools who believed
me guilty — I, who have been for the space of
four bright summer months shut up like a culprit
in a prison with culprits, where the only
rays of God's glorious daylight which came to
me struggled through cold iron bars, fixed in
walls of stone — I, who have suffered languor,
anxiety, contumely, wretchedness, all undeserved
— I, who have been abhorred like the
bloodiest villain, gazed at like a barbarian, tried
like a criminal — I, who have gone through all
this to find myself at last set free, delivered from
the gallows, let loose upon a society still believing
in my guilt, and shuddering at my approach,
as if I had forfeited the head which I
wear on my shoulders, and had defrauded society
of the exquisite pleasure of hanging up
an example to evil doers — I, who am ruined
for life by the wrongs I have suffered — yes, I
suppose I have reason to rejoice over the magnanimity
of society, over my great good fortune,
over the hated existence which is spared
to me!”

“I perceive you have become a confirmed
grumbler!” said Major Smith. “Well, I
can't say I blame you. Misfortunes are hard
to bear.”

“Misfortunes!” cried Corrinton. “Wrongs!”

“Ah! my dear fellow, you mistake,” replied
the major. “Who has wronged you? No
one. Whom can you blame, because there was
evidence which led to suspicions of yourself?
That there was sufficient evidence to warrant
your arrest, you must yourself allow. Why then
should you not be tried like any man? What
wrong is there, that you have been subjected
to the scrutiny of the law?”

“None!” exclaimed Albert. “I could have
borne every thing without complaint, had my
acquittal been a signal for the death of all suspicion.
But although the law has cleared me,
society still holds me guilty. I meet suspicious
glances on every side. I am reckoned a murderer,
and shunned!”

Major Smith was a very lively and good-natured

companion, and, notwithstanding his
gruff voice and ferocious beard, was not devoid
of sympathy; but he had not words of consolation
to suit the bitter feelings of the young
physician. His rude jests and blunt manner
of speech availed nothing; and when he set
Corrinton down at the tavern door, the latter
appeared as dispirited and as much out of conceit
with the world as ever.

Several individuals whom the doctor knew
were in the public room of the tavern, and his
appearance created quite a sensation. Some
stepped aside, as if they feared to offend him,
and considered his society dangerous; others
greeted him warmly, but in a manner which to
Corrinton seemed to say, “We know you
killed Brance in a quarrel; but what of it?”
and one or two offered him congratulations
with delicacy and respect.

“Give me the key to my office,” said the
doctor, addressing the landlord. “You have
it, I believe.”

“Yes; at your request, I took possession of
the key, and have kept the office locked,” said
the landlord.

He bowed obsequiously, but with marked

coldness, and fumbled in his desk with nervous
haste. Nothing could have irritated Corrinton
more than such deference paid to his notoriety;
and with a scornful smile, taking the key from
the landlord's hands, he strode out of the room
without another word.

The young man unlocked the door of his
little office, and entered. The dreariness of the
interior sent a chill to his heart. The air was
close; dust covered the furniture, and spiders
had spun their webs in every corner. He
seemed entering a prison more desolate than
the one he had left. The window panes, coated
with dust within and bespattered with mud
without, admitted the sunlight of that bright
day in cold and cheerless rays. The worn
covers of the volumes on the shelves had
lost their familiar aspect; every thing looked
changed. With a sigh of deep misery, Corrinton
threw himself in the old, leather-cushioned
arm chair in whose embrace he had passed so
many solitary but pleasant hours, and which
revived a thousand sad remembrances, loading
his heart with sorrow.