University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.

We could tell a long story about the manner in which
Beauchampe was captured,—but it will suffice to say that
when the pursuers presented themselves at his threshold,
he was ready, and with the high, confident spirit of
one assured that all was right in his own bosom, he
yielded himself up at their summons, and attended them
to Frankfort. Behold him there in prison. The cold,
gloomy walls are around him, and all is changed, of the
sweet, social outer world, in the aspects which meet his
eye. But the woman of his heart is there with him; and
if the thing that we love is left us, the dungeon has its
sunshine, and the prison is still a home. The presence
of the loved one hallows it into home. Amidst doubt, and
privation,—the restraint he endures, and the penal doom
which he may yet have to suffer,—her affection rises
always above his affliction, and baffles the ills that would
annoy, and soothes the restraint which is unavoidable.
She has a consolation such as woman alone knows to
administer, for the despondency that weighs upon him.
She can soothe the dark hours with her song, and the
weary ones with her caress and smile. But not to ordinary
appeals like these does the wife of his bosom confine
her ministry. Her soul rises in strength corresponding
to the demands of his. Ardent in his nature, little
used to restraint, the circumscribed boundary of his prison
grows irksome, at moments, beyond his temper to endure.
At such moments his heart fails him, and doubts
arise—shadows of the solemn truth which always haunt
the soul of the wrong-doer, however righteous to his
diseased mind may seem his deeds at the moment of their
performance;—doubts that distress him with the fear that
he may still have erred. To the pure heart,—to the conscientious
spirit—there is nothing more distressing than
such a doubt; and this very distress is the remorse which
religion loves to inspire, when it would promote the workings

of repentance. It is misplaced kindness that the
wife of Beauchampe undertakes to fortify his faith, and
strengthen him in the conviction that all is right. We
cannot blame her, though pity 'tis 'twas so. She no
longer speaks,—perhaps she no longer thinks—of the
deed which he has done, as an event either to be deplored,
or to have been avoided. She speaks of it as a
necessary misfortune. As she found that he derived his
chief consolation from the conviction that the deed was
laudable, she toils, with deliberate ingenuity and industry,
to confirm his impressions. Through the sad, slow-pacing
moments of the midnight, she sits beside him and renews
the long and cruel story of her wrong. She suppresses
nothing now. That portion of the narrative relating to
the child, from her previous suppression of which, the
unhappy man whom he had slain, had striven to originate
certain doubts of her conduct, and to infuse them into the
mind of Beauchampe,—was all freely told, and its previous
suppression explained and accounted for. The
wife seemed to take a singular and sad pleasure in reiterating
this painful narrative; and yet, every repetition of
the tale brought to her spirit the pang, as keenly felt as
ever, of her early humiliation. But she saw that the renewal
of the story strengthened the feeling of self-justification
in the mind of her husband! That was the rock
upon which he stood, and to confirm the solidity of that
support, was to lighten the restraints of his prison, and
all the terrors which might be inspired by the apprehension
of his doom. Of the mere stroke of death, he had no
fears: but there is something in the idea of a felon death
by the halter, which distresses and subjugates the strongest
nerves. This idea sometimes came to afflict the prisoner,
but the keen instincts of his wife enabled her very soon
to discover the causes of his depression, and her quick
commanding intellect provided her with the arguments
which were to combat them.

“Do not fear, my husband,” she would say. “I know
that they must acquit you. No jury of men—men who
have wives, and daughters, and sisters, but must not only
acquit of crime, but must justify you and applaud you
for the performance of a deed which protects their innocence,
and strikes terror into the heart of the seducer.
You have not been my champion merely, you are the

champion of my sex. The blow which your arm has
struck, was a blow in behalf of every unprotected female,
of every poor orphan; fatherless, brotherless, and undefended;
who otherwise would be the prey of the ruffian
and the betrayer. No, no! There can be no cause of
fear. I do not fear for you. I will myself go into the
court, and, if need be, plead your cause by telling the
whose story of my wrong. They shall hear me. I will
neither fear nor blush—and they shall believe me when
they hear.”

But to this course the husband objected. The heart of a
man is more keenly alive to the declared shame of one he
truly loves, than to the loss of life or of any other great
sacrifice which the social man can make. Besides, Beauchampe
knew better than his wife what would be permitted,
and what denied, in the business of a court of justice.
Still, it was necessary that steps should be taken for his
defence. At first, he proposed to argue his own case; but
he was very soon conscious, after a few moments given
to reflection on this subject, that his feelings would enter
too largely into his mind to suffer it to do him, or itself
justice. While undetermined what course to pursue, or
who to employ, his friend Covington suggested the name
of Calvert, as that of a lawyer likely to do him more justice
by far than any other that he could name.

“I know, Col. Calvert,” said the young man—“and I
can assure you he has no superior as a jury pleader in the
country. He is very popular—makes friends wherever he
goes, and is beginning to be accounted, every where, the
only man who could have taken the field against Sharpe.”

“But what was it that you told me of his fighting with
Sharpe on my account?” was the inquiry of Beauchampe,
now urged with a degree of curiosity which he had neither
shown nor felt, when the fact was first mentioned to
him.

“Of that I can tell you little. It is very well known
that Sharpe and Calvert quarrelled and fought, almost at
their first meeting. The friends of Sharpe asserted that
the quarrel arose on account of offensive words which
Calvert made use of in disparagement of Desha.”

“Yes, I heard that—now I remember—from Barnabas
himself.”

“Such was the story; but Sharpe assured me that the
affair really took place on account of Mrs. Beauchampe.”

“Mrs. Beauchampe!” exclaimed the husband. The
wife, who was present, looked up inquiringly, but said
nothing. Mr. Covington looked to the lady and remained
silent, while, with a face suddenly flushed, Beauchampe
motioned to his wife to leave them. When she had done
so, Covington repeated what had been said by Sharpe concerning
his duel with Calvert.

“It was only some lie of his, intended to help his evasion.
It was to secure the temporary object. I never
heard of Calvert from my wife.”

Such was Beauchampe's opinion. But Covington thought
otherwise.

“A rumour has reached me since,” he added, “which
leads me to think that the story is not altogether without
foundation. At all events, whether there be any thing or
not, Calvert will be your man for the defence. If any
thing is to be done, he will do it. But really, Beauchampe,
if you have stated all the particulars, they can establish
nothing against you.”

“Ah! the general persuasion that I ought to kill Sharpe,
will produce testimony enough. I think I shall escape,
Covington, but it will be in spite of the testimony. I will
escape, because of the sentiment of justice, which, in the
breast of every honest man, will say, that Sharpe ought to
die, and that no hand had a better right to take his life
than mine. But you know the faction. They are strong
—his friends and relatives are numerous. They will strain
every nerve,—spare no money, and suborn testimony
enough to effect their object. They will fail, I think;—
I can scarcely say I hope, for, of a truth, my dear fellow,
it seems to me that I have done the great act of my life.
I feel as if I had performed the crowning achievement. I
could do nothing more meritorious if I lived a thousand
years; and death, therefore, would not be to me now
such a misfortune as I should have regarded it a month
ago. Still, life has something for me. I should like to
live. The thought of losing her, is a worse pang than
any that the mere loss of life could inflict.”

The prisoner was touched as he said these words. A
big tear gathered in his eye, and he averted his face from

his companion. Covington rose to depart. As he did so
he asked—

“Shall I see Calvert for you, Beauchampe.”

“I will think of it and let you know to-morrow,” was
the reply.

“The sooner the better. Your enemies are busy, and
Calvert lives at some distance. He must be written to,
and time may be lost as he may be on the road now somewhere.
I will look in upon you in the morning.”

“Do so. I shall then be better able to say what should
be done. I will think of it to-night: but, of a truth, Covington,
I do not feel disposed to do any thing. I prefer to
remain inactive. For what should I say? Speak out?
That would be against all legal notions of making a defence.
And yet, I know no mode, properly, of defending
myself, than by declaring the act my own, and justifying
it as such. To myself—to my own soul, it is thus justified.
God! if it were not! But, in order to make this
justification felt by the jury, they must know my secret.
They must hear all that damning tale of her trial and overthrow,
and the serpent-like progress of him whose head I
have bruised for ever. How can I tell that? That is
impossible!”

Covington agreed with the speaker, who proceeded
thus—

“Well then, I am silent. The general issue is one of
form, pleading which I am not supposed to be guilty of
any violation of the laws of morals,—though what an
absurdity is that!—I plead it, and keep silent. The onus
probandi lies with the state—”

“And it can prove nothing, if your statement be correct.”

“Non sequilur, my good fellow. My statement is
correct. Nobody saw me commit the deed. The clothes
which I wore are sunk to the bottom of the Kentucky
river—the dirk is buried—and I know, that, with the exception
of the great Omniscient, my proceedings were
hidden from the eyes of all. But it does not follow from
this that there will be no evidence against me. I suspect
there will be witnesses enough. The friends and family
of Sharpe will suborn witnesses. There are hundreds of
people, too, who readily believe what they fancy; and
conjecture will make details fast enough, which the vanity

of seeming to know will prompt the garrulous to deliver.
I am convinced that vanity makes a great many witnesses,
who will lie for the sake of having something to say, and
will swear to the lie for the sake of having an audience
who are compelled to listen to them. With a little management,
you can get any thing sworn to. You have heard
of the philosopher, who, under a bet, with some previous
arrangement, collected a crowd in the street to see certain
stars at noonday, which soon became visible to as many
as looked. Some few did not see so many stars as others,
nor did they seem to these, so bright as the rest; but all
of them saw the stars—they were there,—that was enough;
—and some of your big mouthed observers looked a few
incipient moons or comets, and of course were more conspicuous
themselves, in consequence of their conspicuous
sight-seeing. If I have any fear at all, it will be from
some such quarter. The friends of Sharpe have already
turned upon me as the criminal, and other eyes will follow
theirs. Those who know the crime of Sharpe will conclude
that the deed is mine from a conviction which all
have felt that it should be mine; and not to look to the
political manœuvres for interference. I make no question
but they will find the very dagger with which the deed is
done; perhaps, half a dozen daggers, each of which will
have its believer, and each believer will be possessed of as
many leading circumstances, to identify the murderer.”

“I believe that they will try to convict you, Beauchampe,
but I cannot think, with you, that witnesses are
so easy to be found.”

“We shall see. We shall see.”

“At all events, a good lawyer, who will test such witnesses
to the quick will be the best security against their
frauds, whether these arise from vanity or malevolence;
and I cannot too earnestly recommend you to let me see or
write to Calvert.”

“On that point, I will give you my answer hereafter,”
said Beauchampe evasively.

“In the morning.” Suggested the other.

“Ay, perhaps so. At least, Covington, let me see you
then.”

The other promised, and, taking a kind farewell, departed.
When he had gone, the wife of Beauchampe reappeared,

and with some earnestness of manner, he directed
her to sit beside him upon his pallet.

“Anna,” said he,—“you never told me any thing of a
Mr. Calvert. Do you know any such person, and how
are you interested in him?”

“I know but one person of the name—an old gentleman
who taught school at Charlemont. But I have neither
seen or heard of him for years.”

“An old gentleman! How old?”

“Perhaps sixty or sixty-five.”

“Not the same! But, perhaps, he had a son? Now,
I remember, that when I went to Bowling Green, there
was an old gentleman, with a very white head, who seemed
intimate with Col. Calvert.”

“He had no son—none, at least, that I ever saw.”

“It is strange.”

“What is strange, Beauchampe?” she asked. He then
told her all that he had learned from Covington. She
concurred with him that it was strange, if true; but,
declared her belief that the story was an invention of
Sharpe by which he hoped to effect some object which he
might fancy favourable to his safety.

“But, at all events, husband, employ this Col. Calvert
of whom Mr. Covington and the public seem to think so
highly. You have spoken very highly of him yourself.”

“Yes:” was the reply:—“but somehow, Anna, I am
loath to do any thing in my defence. I hate to seek evasion
from the dangers of an act which I performed deliberately,
and would again perform, were it again necessary.”

“But this is a strange prejudice, surely, Beauchampe.
Why should you not defend yourself?”

“I would, my wife, if defence, in this case, implied
justification.”

“And does it not?” demanded the wife anxiously.

“No, nothing like it. It implies evasion,—the suppression
of the truth if not the suggestion of the falsehood.
You are no lawyer, Anna. The truth would condemn
me.”

“What! the whole truth?”

“No! Perhaps not—but it would be difficult to get the
whole truth before a jury, and even if this could be done,
could I do it.”

“And why not, my husband?” she demanded earnestly,
approaching him at the same moment, and laying her hand
impressively upon his shoulder, while her eyes were fixed
upon his own.

“And why not? The day of shame—shame from this
cause—has gone by from us. We are either above or below
the world. At least we depend not for the heart's
sustenance upon it. Suppose it scorns and reviles us—
suppose it points to me as the miserable victim of that
viperous lust which crawled into our vallyes with a glozing
tongue; I, that know how little I was the slave of that foul
passion, in my own breast, will not madden, more than I
have done, at its contumelious judgment. They cannot
call me harlot. No! Beauchampe! I fell—I was trampled
in the dust of shame; I was guilty of weakness and vanity
and wilfulness—but, believe me, if ever spirit felt the remorse
and the ignominy, which belongs to virtuous repentance
of error, that spirit was mine!”

“I know it—do I not know it, dearest?” he said tenderly
taking her in his arms.

“I believe you know and feel it, and this conviction,
Beauchampe, strengthens me against the world. In your
judgment I fixed my proper safety for the future. Let the
world know all—the whole truth,—if that will any thing
avail for your justification. Let them speak of me hereafter
as they please. Secure in myself—secure from the
self-reproach of having fallen a victim to the harlot appetite—though
the victim to my own miserable vanity and
folly—doubly secure in your conviction of the truth of
what I say, and am—I can smile at all that follows—I can
do more, Beauchampe, endure it with patience and fortitude,
and without distressing you or myself with the language
of complaint. Do not, therefore, dear Beauchampe,
refuse the justification which the truth may bring, through
any wish to save me from the farther exposure. Hear me,
when I assure you, solemnly, in this solemn midnight—
with no eye upon us in this cold, gloomy dungeon, but
that of Heaven—hear me solemnly affirm that though you
should resolve to spare me, I will not spare myself. If
need be, I will go into the court-house—before the assembled
judges—before the people, and with my own tongue
declare the story of my shame. Base should I be, indeed,
if, to save these cheeks from the scarlet which would follow

such a recital, I could see them hale you to the ignominious
gallows.”

“And sooner would I die a thousand deaths on that gallows,
than suffer you to do yourself such cruel wrong!”

Such was the answer, spoken with effort, with husky
accents, which the criminal made to the strong-minded
woman, whose high-souled, and seemingly unnatural resolution—however
opposed to his—yet touched him really
as a proof of the most genuine devotion. He did not say
more—he did not offer to dispute a resolution which he
well knew he could not overthrow; but he determined,
inly, to practice some becoming artifice, to deprive her,
when the crisis of his fate was at hand, of any opportunity
of meddling in its progress.

Thus the night waned—the long, dark night in that
gloomy dungeon. Not altogether gloomy! Devotion makes
light in the dark places. Love cheers the solitude with its
own pure star-lighted countenance. Sincerity wins us
from the contemplation of the darkness; and with the
sweet word of the truthful comforter in our ear, the fever
subsides from the throbbing temples, and the downcast
heart is lifted into hope. That night, and every night, she
shared with him his dungeon!