University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
CONCLUSION.

We have stated previously, that it was
not our design to give in detail the trial of
Acton Goldfinch for the murder of Ellen
Douglas—the only one he was destined to
have—as Virginia, after hearing of the
fate of the latter, had positively refused
to appear against him—although, on behalf
of the State, her evidence alone would
perhaps have been sufficient to convict
him. It will therefore only be necessary
to our purpose to briefly sketch the proceedings
against him and the result.

The day, then, that Acton was put upon
trial for his life, was one marked with an
excitement almost as intense as when he
was first brought forward for examination.
The trial itself was long and tedious, and
thousands were daily forced to go away with
their curiosity, for a sight of the prisoner,
unsatisfied—the court-room, from the earliest
to the latest hour, being crowded almost
to a state of suffocation. The evidence
in the case was mainly circumstantial,
and in no instance, for the prosecution,
positive—the nearest approach to it
being the testimony of Sarah Farling,
who swore that, to the best of her belief,
the person she admitted into the dwelling
of Madame Costellan, just previous to the
murder of Ellen, was the prisoner—but
that it was he, she would not positively affirm.
The evidence, therefore, on the part
of the state, was wholly circumstantial—
but so direct and strong, that no one doubted
of the guilt of the prisoner, and very
few of his final conviction. The cloak
and dagger were both brought forward and
identified as his property—the tailor who
made the one being summoned as a witness,
and the merchant who sold the other
likewise. It was not only proved that
these were the property of the prisoner,
but that both were in his possession an
hour previous to the awful deed, and the
sheath of the dagger was found on his person
at the time of his arrest. It was
proved, too, he had often made bitter
threats against the life of the deceased,
and that he had been seen going in the direction
of her abode only half an hour previous
to the fatal deed. Here, on evidence
as strong, apparently, as “holy writ,” the
prosecution rested.

The defence opened by an attempt to
prove the previous good conduct of the
prisoner, and impeach some of the witnesses
for the state—both of which attempts
were little better than failures; and
every one had settled it in his own mind
that the prisoner must be convicted, when
lo, and behold! a witness was brought forward,
who astounded and confounded all
by proving an alibi. This was a German
grocer, who, under solemn oath, in
the face of God and man, firmly and di
rectly asseverated, that at the time the
murder was committed, the prisoner was
in his company, at least half a mile from
the scene of the horrid transaction, and
that he and the prisoner did not separate
for an hour afterwards.

What though the judges and lawyers,
the jury and spectators, were all taken aback
by this unlooked for testimony!—what
though they believed it false—that the witness
had perjured himself!—yet here the
evidence was before them—direct, straightforward,
positive, and unimpeached—and,
as such, the jury were bound by oath to
take it for literal truth. The judges and
jury were here to decide a case involving
the life of a fellow being—not according
to their prejudices—not, strictly speaking,
according to their belief—but wholly, and
irrespectively of party or person, according
to the evidence adduced on the trial.
What though they believed the witness
had perjured himself? Their belief amounted
to nothing until it was proved against
him; and not being proved against him,
they were bound to take his testimony;
and taking his testimony, were consequently
bound by their oaths to render a
verdict of acquittal to the prisoner. With
the falsity or truth of the grocer's statement
they had nothing to do, so long as
it was unimpeached before the court. The
prisoner, most certainly, could not be in
two places at the same time; the prosecution
had not proved positively he was the
person who committed the deed; the defence
had proved positively he was the person
who did not; consequently there was
but one way to decide.

In giving his charge to the jury, the
judge brought forward all these points in
a clear, concise and forcible manner, and
concluded by observing, that where there
was the least doubt regarding the guilt of
the accused, the common law of humanity
bade them lean to the side of mercy. The
jury then retired; but not until some time
the following day were they able to agree,
when they returned a verdict of “Not
Guilty.”

This decision was received with great
dissatisfaction by the public at large, before
whose tribunal Acton already stood

condemned; and so high ran the popular
feeling against him, that it was deemed
expedient to detain him in confinement
till the excitement had somewhat subsided.

Throughout Acton's trial, poor Arabella,
who had regained her reason and
sufficient strength for the task, was ever,
like a guardian angel, by his side, watching
his every look, and cheering him with
what feeble words of hope she could summon
to her aid. Her features, like his
own, were very pale and haggard, and it
was evident to all who beheld her, that
grief, anxiety and keen despair, were, cancer-like,
gnawing at her heart's core, and
wasting away her once queenly form.—
Whatever of animosity might prevail
against the brother, not a soul, with a particle
of humanity in his composition,
could view that noble, self-sacrificing, and
almost superhuman devotion of the sister,
with other than feelings of profound respect
and sincere compassion; and many
there were who wished him acquitted for
her sake. That he was guilty of the
crime laid to his charge, Arabella felt
well convinced; but in extenuation of the
foul act, she sincerely believed he had
committed it in the heat of passion, and
had deeply regreted it ever since—both
of which suppositions were literally true.
In any event, he was her brother, had always
been kind to her, and was the only
being on earth, save her father, she truly
loved. Besides, he was now alone in the
world, without a sympathising friend, and
she could not bear the terrible thought of
his coming to an ignominious death. At
least she was his sister, she had a right to
be with him, and she felt it her duty so to
be; and regardless of the opinions of the
world, she flew to his side, to stand his
steadfast friend, let weal or wo betide.—
More dead than alive, she was present to
hear the verdict of the jury; and when the
final words, “not guilty,” were pronounced
in an audible voice, she swooned
for joy, and in an unconscious state
was borne from the court room.

But Arabella's devotion to her brother
ended not here. She resolved to share
his fortune, whatever it might be; and
though the Rev. Mr. Parkhurst tried with
all the arguments in his power to dissuade
her from it, and offered her a home for
life; and though Edgar, who had now come
in possession of his father's property, so
long and wrongfully withheld by his uncle
and her father, proposed to settle upon
her an independency; yet all propositions
were alike made in vain. She firmly
but respectfully declined to accept of elther;
and when, soon after, Acton secretly
left the city, Arabella was his companion,
and went no one knew whither.

And now, the design of the present volume
being accomplished, here, for a time
at least, ends the history of the family of
Goldfinch. The final fate of father, son
and daughter belongs to a subsequent
period; and it remains for the public to decide,
whether the writer of these pages
shall ever again call them from obscurity
to the stage of action, or allow them, with
all their virtues and vices, to rest forevermore
in oblivion.

Immediately after the conviction of
Oliver Goldfinch, Nathan Wesley left for
parts unknown; while Davis returned to
his friends in Baltimore, where Edgar
generously settled upon him an income of
a thousand dollars per annum.

Some two or three weeks from the acquital
of Acton Goldfinch, a brilliant array
of wealth, beauty and talent were assembled
at Malcolm Place, to solemnize
the nuptials of Edgar and Edith, Clarence
and Virginia; and though every thing was
conducted on a scale of sufficient magnificence
to excite the envy of the proudest
of the beau monde, yet so true were Malcolm
and Courtly to their noble principles,
that the poor of the city long had cause
to remember that day with gratitude, as
in truth they still have their generous
benefactors.

On the second morning after his marriage,
Edith handed Edgar one of the leading
journals of the city, and pointing with
her fair, delicate hand to a prominent paragraph,
blushingly bade him read. Edgar
did read; and his eyes dilated with surprise,
and his heart swelled with pride, at
the following brief notice:

“Marriage in High Life.—At Malcolm
Place, on the 5th inst., by the Rev. Stephen

Parkburst, Clarence Malcolm, Esq.
—long and favorably known to the literary
world as a leading writer of the —
Magazine, and a frequent contributor to
various other periodicals, and in private
life as a philanthropist, gentleman and
scholar—was united in the holy bonds of
wedlock to Miss Virginia Courtly, a niece
of Oliver Goldfinch, whose trial and conviction,
for the forging of a will of her father,
by which both herself and brother were
long deprived of their rightful possessions,
recently excited so much surprise and attention
in this city. Also, by the same,
at the same time and place, Edgar Courtly,
Esq.—a nephew of the said Oliver
Goldfinch, but better known to our readers
as a gifted poet, under the nom de plume of
“Orion”—was united to the lovely Miss
Edith Morton, only child of Calvin Morton,
Esq., a lawyer of great eminence.—
The wedding was a brilliant one—all the
talent and fashion of the city were present—every
thing went off delightfully—
and the joyous couples have our most ardent
wishes for their future prosperity and
happiness.”

“God bless you, my son!” cried Morton,
stealing up behind Edgar while he was
reading; “you were becoming famous without
my knowledge.”

“Ay, and without my own,” returned
Edgar, blushing. “Ha! here, methlnks,
comes the cause,” he added, nodding toward
Clarence, who at this moment entered
the apartment, accompanied by Virginia.

“Well,” answered Malcolm, with a
smile, as Edgar explained the subject of
conversation, “you know I purchased your
poems, and of course felt I had a right to
use them as suited my humor. But you
are still more famous, Edgar, than you
have given yourself credit for. Read
these at your leisure;” and he threw down
upon the table some half-a-dozen different
journals, each of which contained a high
ly complimentary notice of himself and
friend. Edgar was by no means vain—
but he could not drink in so much praise
of his humble efforts and remain totally
unmoved. The main-spring of a laudable
ambition was touched; and mainly to this
circumstance, the world has since been
indebted for many a beautiful effusion
from his gifted pen; while Clarence, under
an assumed title, already ranks among
the leading writers of America.

And now, kind reader, we feel that our
task is accomplished. In the pages preceding,
we have endeavored to show you
how vice may for a time triumph over virtue;
how hypocrisy may take the place of
truth, and deceive the world with its false
glare; how the innocent and pure at heart
may be made the suffering victims of the
guilty and vicious; how crime may lie
concealed, until, in its very security, it
breeds exposure; how retribution, sooner
or later, follows guilt, and strikes with a
heavy hand the guilty doer; how a deviation
from the straight paths of virtue and
honor generally leads to ruin and death;
how the poor, without friends, may struggle
in vain and die unpitied; how good actions
may proceed from the seemingly bad,
and bad actions from the seemingly good;
how the innocent may be accused and arrested
as guilty—how the guilty may escape
the justice of the law as innocent;
how a noble act generally finds a noble reward;
how true virtue gives way to no
temptation, but bears the ills of life with
patience, hoping for a better day, and rejoices
triumphant in the end. In short,
we have endeavored to sketch a true picture
of life as it exists in the crowded city;
and though aware that the sketch is faintly
lined and faulty, yet if it please, so far
as it goes, we shall rest satisfied our humble
efforts have not been wholly made in
vain. With you, gentle reader, rests the
moral of our story; and so, for the present,
adicu.