University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
VISIT TO THE PRISONER.

There was one strange circumstance almost contemporary with the murder,
which ingenious minds endeavored to connect in some way with that
mysterious affair. Three nights before the deed was perpetrated, every
Indian pupil in the college absconded, and had not since been heard of. The
interpreter, his mother and sister, were also missing. If the desertion from
the College had taken place a few days earlier, so that any of them could
have arrived at the half way station, then the presence of the mysterious boy
might have been accounted for, but all the testimony tended to prove that
Spotswood himself had conveyed the boy there, and it was clearly impoesible
that any one of “Mr. Boyle's disciples,” (as they were called,) could have
reached there on the very night of leaving the city. As the public mind
became calmer, all these things were discussed, without however elucidating
the dark deed much more than the first investigation had done.

Same few persons maintained Hall's innocence, even under present adverse
circumstances, and notwithstanding the cloud of witnesses who were ready
to appear against him. Among the most staunch and active of these, was
old Doctor Evylin, who busied himself in his behalf, by setting about a private
investigation into the mysterious circumstances attending the murder—those
that as yet had no light thrown upon them from the first moment of the
occurrence. Such as the affair of the Indian boy—and the disappearance of
the pupils from the College. The sagacious old man knew that if these two
circumstances could be unravelled in all their bearings, that much light
would be thrown upon the dark transaction, but all his inquiries were fruitless,
Spotswood had taken such precautions, when he left the city, that it was
impossible to trace the place from whence he had procured the boy, and all
the preparations of the Indian pupils had been conducted with such secrecy,
that not a trace of them could be obtained, nor could any cause be imagined
for their sudden departure. There had been no very recent outbreak between
the two races in College, indeed there had been for the few days preceding
their departure, uncommon quiet and peace.

The Doctor had paid one visit to the prisoner in jail, in order to learn
something from which he might persue his investigations more understandingly,
but except the plain tale which he had already told he could say nothing.
The Doctor found him in rather a strange state of mind, for one of his intelligence,—he
seemed to think, that as he had been placed in his present unfortunate
position by the unforeseen concurrence of providential circumstances,
that his deliverance would come from the same quarter, and by means equally
startling and mysterious. The Doctor endeavored to reason him out of this
superstitious looking for of miracles, and to convince him, that the exertions
of himself and friends must be in proportion to the strength of the testimony
which would be brought against him; but it was to very little purpose, for up
to the termination of the interview, the prisoner maintained a state alternating
between mental stupor, and that wild dreamy hopefulness already described.
The old man left the prison, much affected and deeply pained for the condition
in which he found him, he in fact feared mental alineation. Nevertheless, he
went to work as industriously as ever, but with the same results as before.
He at length determined to try what a visit from his daughter would do in the
way of bringing the prisoner to a plain common sense view of his situation.
She had already been struggling in the same unpromising cause, but she was
now precluded from her usual resource, of consulting with Kate, as the family
at the mansion, were wrapt up in profound grief, and of course could not be

expected to take any part in the endeavor to exculpate the supposed anthor
of their afflictions. No one knew what their opinions were, as to his guilt or
innocence—indeed, as is usually the case, under such circumstances, they
thought very little about the perpetrator of the deed; their thoughts were
wholly absorbed by the death of one so near and dear to them, and it mattered
little how the sad event had been brought about. The funeral was just over,
and they were not visible to any body, except Ellen—she was like one of the
family, but of course Hall's name was now one of those dread talismanic
words which brought all the horrid tragedy to view in revivified colors, not
because of any revengeful feelings towards him—profound grief is incapable
of revenge—but that the associations of his name alone were painful. Ellen
was thus, so far as female council was concerned, thrown upon her own
resources, and she naturally turned to her father, that dear confidential friend
from whom she concealed no secrets. She found him already actively engaged
in the business, and forthwith they united their councils. She was not so
ready to adopt the old gentleman's suggestion of a visit to the jail, as he had
expected, but when he described the alternate lethargic and wild moods into
which the prisoner was plunged, she consented at once.

It was after dark, and they found him sitting upon his wretched three legged
stool, and a small taper burning on the table, within reach of the chains which
hung down from his hands. His feet were free, and he could walk round a
semicircle of four or five feet. On the table was a bible open, and upon it his
eyes rested as they entered.

“Oh,” said the old Doctor, “I am glad to see you so much more profitably
employed than at my last visit; but see here I have brought you a visitor to
cheer a solitary hour.”

Ellen was leaning heavily upon her father's arm, her veil still drawn close
over her face. Hall made an inclination of the head, and rose and stepped
forward as if to seize her hand, but was jerked suddenly back by his chains, his
head fell immediately upon his chest, and the scalding tears stole down his
cheeks.

All reserve was gone from Ellen at this sight, and she threw back her veil
and her ringlets, and advanced and offered him both her hands. He seized
and held them for some time; when he raised his face again, it was almost
convulsed, so fearful was the working of his spirit, brought to a full consciousness
of his position by the presence of one who had once before, as it were,
brought him back to life and hope. At length he spoke—“Your presence
here, Miss Evylin, is an assurance to me, that at least, there is one of your
sex, who believes me innocent of the horrid crime laid to my charge.”

“Oh, Mr Hall, we have never for one moment supposed you capable of
crime, much less such an one as this.”

“Miss Evylin, I have tried to think, but I cannot. My faculties are benumbed
by the appalling severity of the blow. I have tried in vain to rally my
scattered thoughts, and reflect over my past life, to try and ascertain what I
have really done to deserve the affictions which have fallen in such quick
succession upon me.”

“The judgments of the Almighty are not always proportioned exactly to
our past offences, they have also reference to the future.”

“Ah, Miss Evylin, when the poor faculties of the mind are paralyzed as
mine have been, it is very difficult to discern nicely, the designs of the great
and mysterious power, which rules us. If my sufferings are indeed but the
chastening rod, administered in mercy and not in anger, it seems to me that the
punishment has been meeted out rather beyond my capacity.”

“It is only your sex,” replied Ellen quickly, “that runs into these nice hairsplitting
questions, ours seize upon the broad lines before us—we see, and see
quickly, that this is a world of suffering and not of pleasure—of probation and

not of enjoyment. Yours only finds that out in old age, but the heaviest
denunciations of the curse falling upon us, we are endowed with quicker
perceptions of the uses of this world.”

“If it is wholly a world of trial and not of enjoyment, as you say, it appears
to me as if there were studied deception about it.”

“You astonish me.”

“I say it in no irreverent spirit, I merely speak the honest impressiona of
my mind—your views are somewhat new to me, and I frankly present the
difficulties in the way.”

“I am impatient to hear them.”

“Look at the beauty of the natural world around us—the clear blue sky—
the pure air—the solemn and magnificent ocean—the towering mountains—
the majestic rivers—the beautiful meadows—the sweet landscapes, and then
dot them over with flocks and herds, and scatter here and there a few of man's
handy works—a ruinous tower, an old vine clad castle, around which the
memorles of the past may gather, and tell me if this beautiful, beautiful globe,
looks as if it had been made for the grand penitentiary of our race.”

“I do not perceive the point at which you aim.”

“It is the inconsistency between God's natural and moral governments.
If this is indeed but one great prison house for the purification of our race
from sin, why is it not clothed in the habiliments of the penitentiary?”

“Why, Mr Hall! would you have the heavens hung eternally in black,
our mountains dark precipices and beetling crags—our rivers driving torrents;
our beautiful landscapes nothing but dreary wilds, inhabited by howling
monsters? Why this would lead the thoughts down to hell, and not up to
heaven. Think of the first glories of the natural world upon your own heart,
give scope to your imagination and reinvest the pictures which you have just
drawn, and see and feel if they do not point to heaven and tell of God! All
the poetry of this life—the real poetry—is nothing more than the overpowering
aspirations after still brighter regions and sunnier skies, elicited by the
faint sketches which we catch here and there from these beauties which are
scattered around us for this very purpose. Poetry is the true language of
heaven, and not a breath of inspiration ever fed to man, but was drawn, if
not from God, at least from his glorious works.”

Hall forgot for the time his sorrows and his chains. He replied, “You
overpower my benumbed faculties with your delightful enthusiasm, but still
my reason is not wholly convinced. We know that deception is the result
of all the beauties of nature of which we have been speaking. Men bow
down before these bountiful works of God and forget the maker in that which
he has made. Does it not seem to our poor mortal vision, that it would have
been better, had the scene of our probation been less seductive?”

“Why what difference does it make whether the sufferings with which we
are surrounded are of a spiritual or a physical nature. Surely there is mercy
as well as wisdom in the present arrangement. If we are in a penitentiary,
as you call it, it is certainly mercy to us that our prison house is so beautiful,
and filled and surrounded with so many comforts. God does not wish to
punish but to purify us. Moreover, when our trials are mostly of a spiritnal
nature, it enables the great ruler of our destinies to measure out the chastisement
to the capacity of the creature. If all nature had been shrouded in
gloom and our physical necessities constantly kept on the stretch as the meana
of purifying us for a better state of existence, then all men must have been
afflicted alike, and the poor grovelling unintellectual creatures of our race
have suffered unnecessarily. As it is, only those who are highly endowed,
ever suffer the afflictions which surround you. You never saw a mere animal
man schooled and purified in this manner. There is no truer precept in
that holy book, than the one which says, `whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.”

Rest assnred, Sir, that you are reserved for some great purpose yet,
even in this world. I have suffered in the same school, and therefore I have
presumed to lecture you.”

“May God always send me such a teacher!”

The old physician meanwhile, slowly walked the narrow cell, and occasionally
as some remark of one or other of the speakers arrested his attention, he
leaned his hands upon his cane and his chin upon his hands, raising up his
benevolent visage between the speakers, with a beaming smile lightening up
the parchment like wrinkles. He was delighted to see how Ellen, with all a
woman's tact, succeeded in her errand, so much better than he had done.

“You see, Mr. Hall,” said the old man, “that we do not even entertain the
question of your guilt or innocence, we take it for granted that you are unfortunate
and not criminal, but, my dear Sir, you know enough of the world to
be aware that the public is not so easily satisfied, where appearances are
against a man. You must now look about you, and take the necessary steps
to make your innocence apparent; and, if possible, ferret out the real criminal.
Have you no suspicions of any one?”

“None in the world. I am as ignorant of the person who murdered Spotswood—the
manner of its accomplishment—and nearly all the attendant circumstances,
as your innocent daughter. I was so shocked and benumbed on the
morning of my arrest, that I scarcely noted the wretched details taken down
by Henry Lee; and since then I have had less opportunity than others to
learn anything of them.”

“Have you any suspicion that Lee himself did the deed?” and the old man
stopped and looked searchingly into his face, as he waited for his answer.

Hall mused a moment, and then replied, “No, no—he could not be guilty
of such a crime, he had no earthly motive. Had it been me, now, that was
killed, I am not so sure that he would not be liable to suspicion”—hastily
checking himself, he said, “but no, it is too bad, I must do even him the justice
to say, that he could not commit murder upon his enemy.”

Ellen's beaming eye rewarded him for his magnanimous admission, as she
said, “you are right, Mr. Lee, with all his faults, is no murderer; but think
you he will be as generous towards you on the day of trial?”

“I know not, nor does it matter much—luckily, neither my condemnation
nor deliverance will come from him. My reliance is upon the discovery of
the real criminal.”

“Well, Mr. Hall,” continued the Doctor, “if you can throw no light upon
the murder, at least you can relieve yourself from your doubtful position
before that time. I understand from your counsel whom I sent to you, that
all suspicious circumstances anterior to the date of the murder become now
of immense importance, and—”

Hall waved his hand impatiently—“No more! no more! my dear Sir. Had
this thing not happened, then indeed it might have become me to clear my
good name from reproach, and to tell you the truth. I only waited to hear from
the other side of the water to do so, but now I must begin the work of purification
at the bottom. If I am destined to die the death of a felon, it will
make very little difference in what light I stood previously. If, on the other
hand, it is the will of Providence to point out the real criminal, so that I may
stand forth before all men, free even from a shade of suspicion, then I will
indeed resume my station in society.”

He was much agitated while touching upon these delicate matters, and
walked the length of his chains like a chafed lien in his cage, and when he had
concluded, threw himself upon his rude seat, and buried his face in his hands.

The father and daughter seeing his deep distress, approached to take their
leave. He rose up, and taking both of Ellen's hands within his, shook them
with great feeling, and evidently struggling to maintain his composure, and
then wrung the old man's hand, without uttering a word.

As the two left the prison, the former said, “Did you ever see such a man
as that, in like circumstances before—such an one charged with a crime so
wholly foreign to his whole nature.”

“Ah, my Ellen, if you will look through the State Trials of our father-land,
you will find gentlemen and noblemen, whose whole lives gave the lie to the
charges brought against them, and guilty, too, and for which they suffered.
It is not that upon which I found my confidence of his innocence, it is the
absence of all motive.”

“But they say, he supposed it was Harry Lee, because poor John was
wrapped up in his cloak.”

“Aye, but did you hear him just now say, that he could not suspect Lee
of the deed, and would a man murder another of whose character he was thus
tender. No, no, my child, he neither committed it intentionally nor by mistake.”

Thus they discussed the subject until a late hour—between them devising
the best means they could to assist the prisoner on the morrow, when he was
to be brought out for examination before the Grand Inquest of the County, or
rather of the Colony, for the General Court had jurisdiction to its utmost
limits.