University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
THE INQUEST.

It was between eight and nine o'clock
in the evening, that Edgar and Dudley,
arm-in-arm, were strolling up Park Row
towards Chatham street, in close conversation.

“And could you not prevail on her?”
asked Dudley, in connection with something
that had gone before.

“No,” replied Edgar. “She said she
could not bear the thought of mingling
again with those, who, having no stain
upon their characters, would withdraw
from her their countenance, and point at
her the finger of scorn.”

“But she should go where she is not
known.”

“So I urged her, but to no effect—she
contending, that to feel her own degredation
in such society, would be more than
she could bear, and for which even death
would be a glad substitute.”

“Poor girl! from my soul I pity her.—
Such a noble, generous nature, to come
to such disgrace and degradation! What
should be done with the villain that so
wrongs a woman, Edgar?”

“He should serve out the balance of his
days between the four walls of a prison.”

“So think I; for I look upon it as one
of the worst of crimes—one of the grossest
outrages of which a man can be guilty.
And yet the law, Edgar, laughs to scorn
our opinion, and holds the seducer innocent.
Society, too, gives its sanction to
the foul deed; and the pampered villain
goes boldly through the world, in a gay,
dissolute career, strewing his path with
blasted names, broken hearts and ruined
souls. We make laws for the poor, Edgar—for
those, who, born in wretchedness,
without hope above their birth, can, at
the best, but eke out a miserable existence.
We make laws for them, and we
press them home closely—execute them
with a diligence, eagerness and fidelity
worthy a better cause. For them we
make no allowance—they being supposed
to inherit immaculate virtue, from
which if they fall, they fall as Satan did from

Heaven, without any temptation but their
own evil passions. Born in degredation—
schooled in vice and misery—debarred all
the exalted enjoyments of learning and
knowledge—scorned, oppressed and down-trodden
by those, who, clothed in broad-cloths
and silks, bow their souls to the
shrine of Mammon, the while their knees
press the richly carpeted floor of God's
holy church—they are still supposed to
know all the technicalities of the law—to
be above all the vices and errors of mankind—to
be, in short, the noble instruments
whereby to exhibit the majesty,
justice and righteousness of man's civil
code: for let one suffer never so much, the
law says it is right; let one starve
himself, and see his poor family—his dear
wife and little ones begging and dying
for the bread which he has not to give—
and the law says it is right; but let him,
driven to desperation, maddened with famine
and mental anguish—let him take so
much as a handful of meal to protect his
life and the lives of those dearer to him
than his own—and then the majesty, and
justice, and righteousness of the law says
it is all wrong; that it is a heineous crime
against community; and forthwith the
offender is seized, dragged to prison,
tried, convicted, and sent away, a condemned
criminal, to serve out his term in
a sink of hell's own vice; while his family
starve, and die, and turn to dust, for the
proud, the arogant, the pampered, the
courted, the flattered, the almost lordly
robber of female virtue to trample on with
scorn! Oh, most truly is there

“You draw a strong picture,” replied
Edgar; “and deeply I regret I cannot
gainsay its truthfulness. But the world
is daily progressing to a better state; and
though we may not live to see it, the time
will surely come, when man can live
without taking what is not his own; and
when the act we both so heartily condemn,
will become a crime in the eyes of
the law, with a penalty attached commensurate
with its wickedness.”[1]

Conversing thus, the two friends entered
Chatham street; and continuing their
course till they came to Mott, they turned
down the latter to visit the unfortunate
Ellen—Edgar with a view to cancel the
debt he owed her, and also, if possible,
prevail upon her to leave her present
abode and retire forever from criminal associations.

“What wretchedness exists on every
hand!” said the latter, as slowly the two
friends pursued their way along the narrow,
squallid, and dimly lighted street.—
“And yet,” he added, with a sigh, “it
is but a few days since my poor mother,
my sister and myself were inhabitants of
this gloomy region.”

“Oh, how you must have suffered!” replied
Dudley, sympathetically. “I do
not wonder your poor mother died—I only
wonder you and your sister had nerve
enough to bear up against so dark a fate.
To those born and bred here—who have
never known nor ever expect any thing
better—it is a paradise, compared to the
misery you experienced, from its contrast
to those days when almost boundless
wealth was yours. But, thank God! you
have met with a happy deliverance, and
soon, I trust, will be able to resume your
proper station. There is an old adage,
that `bought experience is the best, if we
do not buy it too dear;' and your suffering
here, may be of advantage to you hereafter,
by bringing home to you forcibly the
necessities of the poor, which are too apt
to be overlooked by the wealthy. What
a field is every where open to the opulent
philanthropist, to give hope to the forlorn
and happiness to the wretched; and how
much more noble are his labors in the sight
of God—how much more exalted should he
be above his fellows—than he who rides the
hero of an ensanguined field, and with his
own arm carries death before him—makes
the wife a widow, the child an orphan—
and leaves mourning and lamentation to
follow in his train! And when at last he
is laid upon the bed of death, and feels his

life slowly but surely ebbing away—
knows that his spirit is about to separate
from its mortal tenement, and take its
flight to the eternal world, bearing with it
all the deeds, good and ill, it has done in
the body—how cheering and refreshing,
to turn his eyes back upon the past, and
behold the path, once full of thorns, that
he has strewn with flowers, and think that
the blessings and prayers of those he has
rescued from destruction, will precede him
to the Mercy Seat of the Most High and
gain him pardon for the minor errors of
frail humanity! O, if the rich did but
know wherein lieth their true happiness, and
would but give heed thereto, thousands upon
thousands would be daily snatched from
the dark haunts of misery, vice and crime,
and sent upon their way rejoicing—
the world would be redeemed to its pristine
happiness—and the glorious Millenium,
foretold of old, and for which all good
Christians watch and pray, would truly
come to make a second Heaven of earth!”

“You are most eloquent in a good
cause, friend Dudley; and I heartily concur
in all the sentiments you have advanced,
and sincerely trust the time is
not far distant, when the philanthropist
shall be considered the true hero—when
nations shall settle their disputes by arbitration
instead of battle—when the poor,
oppressed, and down-trodden wretches
that now every where exist, shall no longer
be found, but in their stead happy
and intelligent beings—and lastly, when
the warrior, as an object of antiquity, shall
excite more wonder than admiration.—
But see! we have reached our destination.
Yonder,” added Edgar, in a faltering voice,
pointing across the street with an unsteady
hand: “Yonder it was, in that
most wretched hovel, surrounded with the
dregs of misery, my poor sainted mother
took leave of all she held dear on earth!”

As he spoke, he turned away to hide
his emotion, and rapped loudly on the
door of Madame Costellan's dwelling.—
Almost immediately after, the rattling of
chains and bolts was heard, and the door,
as usual, opened but slightly—sustained
in its position by a short, heavy chain,
linking it to the casing, that the person
within might have an opportunity of
knowing the number and wants of those
without before admitting them—and a female
voice inquired who they were and
what their business. Edgar replied by
giving his name, and stating that he had
called with a friend to see Ellen Douglas.

“I think she's got company,” was the
rejoinder; “but I'll go and see;” and closing
the door behind her, the two friends
heard her hasty steps along the hall.

Scarcely a moment, as it seemed to
them, elapsed after this, ere they heard a
piercing scream from the room above their
heads, followed immediately by another
and another, more wild and frightful still,
and then by the noise of many feet, as of
others rushing to ascertain the cause of
alarm.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Edgar;
“what can be the meaning of this?”

“Something frightful, I fear, has happened,”
replied his companion.

Presently the two friends heard an agitated
rattling of the chains and bolts at
the door, and then it swung wide open,
and the same female who had first given
Edgar admission, now stood before them,
pale, bewildered and terrified.

“What has happened?” cried Edgar, as
he sprang within.

“Oh God! sir,” gasped the attendant,
with a look of horror, “poor—poor Ellen
Douglas!”

“Well, well—what of her?”

“She's been foully murdered!”

“Murdered?” fairly shouted Edgar.—
“Murdered? Great God! poor Ellen murdered?”
and he rushed up stairs in frantic
haste, followed by Dudley.

As they reached Ellen's apartment,
they encountered some half-a-dozen females,
among who was Madame Costellan
herself, and two or three of the opposite
sex, some half frenzied, and all looking
bewildered and terrified.

“Oh, gentleman,” cried Madame Costellan,
rushing up to Edgar and Dudley—
“such a terrible thing to happen in my
house! Look there, for God's sake!—oh,
look there!” and she pointed towards the
inner chamber, and hid her face in her
hands.

Edgar and his friend sprang forward,
and soon beheld what froze their blood and
sickened them with horror. Upon the
bed, bathed in her own heart's blood,
which had run down the snowy sheets and
puddled on the floor, reposed the earthly
remains of the beautiful Ellen—beautiful
even in death—with her fair hands, all
stained with gore, crossed on her bosom,
as if to staunch the wound in her left
breast, and her features calm and composed,
and almost dazzling white, save where they
were spotted here and there with the red
current of life. On the floor, all sanguine
from hilt to point, lay the fatal instrument
used in this hellish work; and just beyond
it a man's cloak, one slight portion of
which was dabbled in the blood of the
owner's victim. It was, all-in-all, a sight
to pale the features and move the heart of
a stoic, and make the sensitive soul sicken,
shudder and recoil, and is too dark a
picture for us to portray more vividly.

“Great God!” ejaculated Edgar, shutting
the horrid scene from his sight with
his hands: “what a foul murder! Alas!
poor, erring, but noble hearted Ellen Douglas—thy
earthly misery is over now!”

“Who hath done this damnable deed?”
questioned Dudley, turning to those who
pressed hard behind him. “Who was
with the unfortunate deceased when this
happened?”

“As I hope for mercy, no one to my
knowledge!” cried Madame Costellan, in
wild agitation. “Oh, gentlemen,” she
continued, greatly alarmed for the consequences
that might ensue to herself and
household should the affair become public,
and appealing to each and all—“for
Heaven's sake! do not let the report of
this get abroad, or I shall be ruined!”

“Peace, woman!” rejoined Dudley,
sternly. “You know not what you ask.
As if we could be privy to a foul murder,
and suppress the tale! Where is she
who gave us admittance?” he continued,
in a tone of authority.

“Here—here—I—I—am, sir,” stammered
the terrified domestic, coming forward.

“Who was here with poor Ellen Douglas
but a few minutes since, of whom you
spoke when we inqiured for her?” questioned
Dudley.

“Why—why—sir—I—I—” stammered
the woman, sinking upon her knees before
Dudley, in an attitude of entreaty, as
if she fancied he had the power to pardon
or condemn her: “I say—'pon my soul!
if it's the last words I've got to utter—I
—I—didn't think any harm, I didn't—I
—”

“Up, woman, and answer my question,
or you will be suspected of having a hand
in the murder yourself!” interrupted Dudley,
sharply.

“Well, sir—well, sir—” continued the
other—“a man came to the door, and
gave me this gold piece to let him in—
and say nothing—and I—I—did it; but—
but without thinking the least bit of harm
—'pon my soul! if it's the last word—”

“Who was the man?” interrupted Dudley
again.

“I couldn't see his face, sir, for the
cloak which he held round it: but—but by
his eyes, sir, I guessed it—it—was Acton
Goldfinch.”

Both Dudley and Edgar uttered exclamations
of surprise together, and gave each
other a look, expressive more of bewildered
belief than doubt.

“Good God!” groaned Edgar—“this is
more terrible still!”

“O, you daring good-for-nothing!” cried
Madame Costellan, now rushing forward
to the still kneeling domestic and dealing
her a blow on the head with her fist. “Out
of my house, and get you gone forever!
Oh, you have ruined me! you have ruined
me!”

“Peace, woman!” commanded Dudley,
stamping his foot on the floor. And then
to the domestic: “Stir not from here for
your life! You shall not be harmed. Let
some one hasten and summon the coroner
immediately.”

“I will go,” said Edgar, darting through
the crowd, down the stairs and into the
street, the door to which had been left unfastened
by the agitated and frightened
servant.

In less than half an hour Edgar returned,
bringing the coroner and his jury, who
at once proceeded to hold an inquest on

the body of the murdered Ellen Douglas.

It is unnecessary for us to enter into
farther particulars. On examination, it
was found that the steel, striking upon one
of her left ribs, had glanced and entered
the heart of poor Ellen in an oblique direction,
thus speedily terminating her existence.
Each member of the ill-fated
house was then closely interrogated, as
were also Edgar and Dudley—but from
none save the domestic, who gave her
name as Sarah Farling, was there elicited
any important evidence. She having now
become somewhat calm, being assured by
the coroner no harm could accrue to her,
told her story in a straight-forward manner;
and mainly from her testimony, the
jury, after a short consultation, returned
the verdict:

“That the deceased came to a violent
death, by means of a wound inflicted by a
dagger, supposed to be in the hands of Acton
Goldfinch.”

Ordering the remains of Ellen to be
properly laid out and prepared for interment,
and securing the cloak and dagger
for farther evidence, the coroner, after an
examination of the premises, especially
where the open window showed the murderer
had made his escape, quitted the
house, accompanied by the jury, Edgar and
Dudley. Proceeding to the nearest magistrate,
a writ was sworn out against Acton
Goldfinch and placed in the hands of an
officer for his apprehension, while the two
friends bent their steps homeward, with
what feelings we leave the reader to imagine.