University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

The Bridewell, in which malefactors were confined,
from its open and central situation, commanded
one of the most cheerful scenes imaginable.
The barred windows of the prisoners enabled
them to behold the pleasing enclosure already mentioned,
spread verdantly beneath them, overshadowed
with rows of trees—a common thoroughfare
for the busy citizens, a lounge for the meditative
or the idle, and a resort for children, who there

pursued their careless sports, yet happily ignorant
of the dark world around them. A part of the
gay and elegant Broadway rolled along its never-ceasing
tide of human beings. The spire of St.
Paul's Church appeared at a short distance above
masses of thick foliage; and, on the other side, to
the poor captives a shocking contrast, rose the
theatre, whose moving crowds and bright lights in
the evening rendered it easily distinguishable as the
haunt of fashion and pleasure.

One of those reverses of fortune which, however
astounding to the individual victims, are common-place
to the general observer of human nature,
had plunged Norman Leslie—the proud, the sentimental,
the musing, the noble Leslie—into the
common prison, upon a charge of murder. The
crime was fixed upon him by such a concurrence
of glaring and extraordinary facts, that each day
had found more and more people ready to believe
him guilty. Had any one in other times suggested
the probability of his committing such a deed, they
who knew him would have ascribed the suggestion
to madness or malice; but now that he was actually
accused in public, it appeared much less improbable.
His high temper, his brooding mind,
were well known. Eccentricities had been remembered
of him, which before had never excited
attention; and even those who had most depended
upon his purity of character, now found in him a
new illustration of the truth, that “It is not a year
or so that shows us a man.” Covered with obloquy,
execrated by the public, Norman Leslie sat in
a lonely apartment of the prison above described,
on the afternoon of the day of his arraignment,
gazing upon the outward scene of joy and freedom.
His meditations were suddenly interrupted by the
clash and clank of chains, the springing of locks,

and the withdrawal of bolts. The intruder was the
keeper.

“There has been here,” he said, “the Rev. Mr.
Harcourt, sir; and he requested me to—to—”

“I do not know him,” said Norman; “it must
be a mistake.”

“No mistake at all, sir. He came to request
your leave to visit you, to converse with you.”

“With me!” said Norman, as if endeavouring
to recollect himself; “upon what subject?”

“Lord, Lord, sir!” said the man, apparently unable
to conceal a smile, “I thought by this time
you might wish to see gentlemen of his cloth without
any request from them.

“God of heaven!” cried Leslie, starting up, so
that the man stepped back in some alarm, and lifted
his heavy bunch of keys in defence; but, perceiving
that the abrupt action of his prisoner was simply
the effect of agitation and astonishment, he
resumed his first manner.

“Why, yes, sir. He bade me ask you, in short,
if you felt yourself in a state of mind to speak with
him upon your situation.”

The rattling of the heavy chain appropriately
hung at the outer door of the prison, to signify to
the keeper the wish of some applicant for admission,
broke off the discourse.

The new-comer was Mr. Grey, a counsellor,
belonging to the lower ranks of the profession. He
motioned the keeper to withdraw. When they
were alone, he approached his seat close to that of
Norman, and looking around cautiously, said,—

“You do not know me, Mr. Leslie?”

“I have had the pleasure, I think,” replied Norman,
“of seeing you before in the courts. You
are Mr. Grey?”

“Ah! that is well; if you know me,” said Mr.

Grey, “we shall have less difficulty in coming to
an understanding.”

He passed the palm of his hand across his mouth,
as if preparing to open a discourse, in the commencement
of which he experienced some embarrassment.

“You are aware, then, Mr. Leslie, that you stand
endicted for—”

The listener raised his hand with deprecatory
gesture—

“Spare me the repetition of that word.”

“But you are not fully aware of the evidence
accumulated against you.”

“I shall learn it soon enough,” said the youth,
bitterly.

“You do not quite understand me,” continued
the lawyer, in a conciliatory tone; “soon enough
can only be in time to counteract it.”

“I am in the hands of God,” said Norman, with
a look that betrayed a heart sick and wearied—
“He created—he can destroy—he can rescue me.”

“Ay, ay,” answered Mr. Grey, hitching his
chair yet a few inches closer, again looking round,
as if to assure himself that they were alone, and
reducing his tone to a yet more confidential key—
“but Providence, my young friend, works by human
means. It would be rather dangerous to trust
to Him alone in your case. You must have another
lawyer. His aid may be invoked, but it
must be by active exertion, not by idle prayers.”

“What can I do?” asked the prisoner, with
moody calmness; “I am a prisoner; I cannot
break through stone walls and iron bars.”

“There is one thing which you can do,” cried
the lawyer.

“To free me from this dilemma?” said Norman.

“Ay, to put you forth as unrestrained as the bird
that flies at will.”

“What can I do?”

“You can confess,” said Grey, in a close whisper.

Norman started again, with lively signs of agitation
and anger.

“Am I to understand that you believe me
guilty?” he demanded.

“Mr. Leslie,” said the lawyer, “what you say
to me is secret as if whispered only to your own
heart. I am not here to accuse, but to defend you.
Confess to me as your lawyer, as your friend, that
in a moment of wild delirium, perhaps maddened
by wine, you perpetrated a deed foreign from your
nature, which, the moment before, you did not
dream of, and which now you cannot look back
upon without regret and horror. It will contribute
greatly towards your defence. It may save your
life, my young friend, which now stands in imminent
danger.”

“And what good can my confession do?” asked
Norman, in an under tone of forced composure.

“Much, much,” cried the wily lawyer. “The
sailor who would navigate a dangerous sea must
know the quicksands and rocks which lie in his
path. To cure a wound—and the more loathsome,
the more need of examination—it must be probed,
young man, with a firm and friendly hand, though
you shudder and faint under the operation. I am
your friend, your pilot, your surgeon. I come to
save you. Say you are guilty. The law has its
accidents, its shifts, its subterfuges; the clerk's pen
may mistake; the jury's mind may be embarrassed,
if it cannot be satisfied. Embarrassment is doubt,
and doubt is acquittal. You are young; life is
sweet; sweeter than wealth, power, reputation.
You have been under the influence of a moment's
temptation; you have been touched with lunacy;

you have committed a crime. Well, thousands of
good men have sinned. It is the lot of mortals.
You are but a boy yet. You must live and repent.
The world is broad. Time heals every wound;
and repentance converts even sin into joy. Dismiss
romantic sensibility. Perhaps you have resolved
to abandon the world, either guilty or innocent.
If guilty, you imagine death alone can expiate
your deed; if innocent, calumny and unjust
accusation have at once stripped life of its charms
and death of its terrors. Think better of it. Let
not the idea of guilt prostrate your moral character
too much. Guilt? cant! we lawyers understand
it. It is a physical thing, and depends on the
nerves and the blood. Any man, when the lightning
of passion darts through his veins, when reason
reels—any man may yield. The very apostles
sinned. The saints in heaven have felt the pollution
of this earthly evil. It is a fever, a plague.
The best of us may catch it. Come, confess without
shame the whole truth. Your life, your reputation,
commit to my hand. Your father's life, your
sister's, their happiness, their fame, are all connected
with your fate. You have no right to yield
to an unmanly despair. In the sacrifice of yourself,
you drag others with you to the altar.”

Norman heard him to the end, as if partly with
wonder at the tenour of his discourse, and partly
with a resolution not to interrupt him; at length
he said,—

“And if I do confess that I deliberately murdered
that unfortunate girl, goaded by interest and
revenge, can you save me?”

“While there's life there's hope,” said the lawyer.
“You have money. Money is a god. It
commands the strength, the genius, the knowledge,
the souls of men.

“And how may money stead me in this extremity?”

“It is to be considered,” replied the lawyer—
“it is to be considered. Have you never a friend,
bound to you by obligations, poor and needy, yet
honest in the world's eye, who could confirm a story
on oath?”

Mr. Grey smiled, meaningly, and rubbed his
palm over his mouth and cheek.

“As you say,” replied Norman, “I have money;
but if I procure such a one, can you use him to
your purpose? Can you bend aside the flow of
public justice? Can you leave the blood of the
innocent unavenged? Can you set the guilty free,
unaneled, and high among his friends? If I give
you money for this redemption from wo, ignominy,
and the scaffold, can you effect it?”

“Can I?” said the counsellor, with slow and
emphatic deliberation, and a glance of pleased and
sly assent—“can I not?”

“And will you?” cried the youth, grasping the
arm of his disinterested friend with the iron power
of one clinging for life; “knowing me to be guilty,
deeply, damnably guilty, will you?”

“To-morrow,” said the lawyer, rubbing his
hands, “you shall be free as air. I shall but want
something to satisfy expenses—a hundred dollars
or so.”

“And I,” said Norman, with a countenance of
bitter contempt, and flinging from him, with an
expression of disgust, the arm of his cunning adviser,
“if I had a thousand lives, would rather lose
them all on the scaffold than share in the corruption
of such a base scoundrel. Begone, sir! or I
may really be what you, and such as you, think
me.”

The astounded personage to whom this was

addressed started from his seat with mingled anger
and fright, but immediately recovering himself,
said,—

“Your only hope, young man. You are young
and romantic. Imprisonment and misfortune have
shattered your nerves, and violent repentance, perhaps,
inflamed your imagination. If one hundred
is too much, say fifty.”

“I would be alone,” cried Norman.

“I may, at least, entreat of you a pledge,” said
the lawyer, “that what I have offered in kindness
will never be betrayed. My only object, sir, I
give you my sacred word of honour, was to do you
service.”

“You have nothing to fear from me,” returned
Norman, “if you will take yourself away.”

“Then, farewell. You may have carried my
intimations further than I intended, Mr. Leslie;
but, remember, should you think better of my means
of serving you, I am ready to do my utmost. I
can save you from death. Without a free understanding
between counsellor and client, the case is
hopeless. To-morrow you will tremble at the
array of proof against you. We may have no
opportunity of meeting again in private. Your
counsel, at present, have nothing to urge in your
defence. I have taken the pains to inquire; they
have literally nothing. Innocent or guilty, die you
must, unless you adopt means. In twenty-four
hours, perhaps, the verdict may be rendered. As
the case stands now, it must be fatal. The form
of your own scaffold may well startle your reason.
I can save you. I am your only hope. Good-morning,
sir; good-morning. I rest satisfied, sir,
with your word of honour, that what has passed
between us will go no further. Let me leave my
card. Good-morning, sir.”

At the door Grey met another learned member
of the profession, whose eloquence and talents
placed him already in its front ranks. They were
but slightly acquainted; for Mr. Grey belonged to
those base pettifoggers and hangers-on of the profession
who at once disgrace it and human nature.

“Ah, Mr. Moreland,” he said, “are you too bent
to this wretched man?”

Moreland signified the affirmative.

“A strange fellow!” continued Mr. Grey, with a
significant smile; “guilty, I fear, and reckless of
death. He is like a baited bull, ready to gore alike
friend and foe.”

“Does he confess?” asked Moreland, with agitation.

“No,” replied the other, “he confesses nothing
He still affects ignorance and perfect innocence,
assumes the lofty moralist, and vainly hopes with
this brazen hypocrisy to elude his fate, or cast a
doubt over his crime. His father and sister are
evidently dear to him, and rend his thoughts more
than his own misery. He seems ready to die rather
than compromise their good name by confessing
his guilt. He is a noble but a desperate being, and
requires watchfulness and care, or he may give
the impatient mob the slip `after the high Roman
fashion.' ”

Moreland is already partly known to the reader.
He differed in many respects from his more aged
and experienced associates; and rather sought excuses
for undoubted sin, than invented selfish motives
for apparent virtue. As he pictured the cheerful
aspect of his own home, which he had that instant
left,—the elegant gayety ever presiding at his
domestic circle—the innocent love and arch vivacity
of his sweet wife, the voices of his beautiful
children, and his own bright prospects of future

wealth, fame, and happiness,—as he compared
these blessings with the miseries of his once pure
and noble friend, now a prisoner, perhaps about to
be sacrificed on the scaffold—these dismal walls,
this desolate cold solitude, and the reflections which
must rend the mind of the accused,—his heart softened
yet more tenderly towards him; he mourned
over the bleak vicissitudes of life, and trembled at
the inscrutable decrees of Providence. His soul
yearned to believe him guiltless; but such an astounding
array of proof had been elicited against
him that even he wavered, and knew not what to
think.

As the lawyer entered the cell of the captive, he
turned actually pale at the sight which met his
view. It was not that his friend suffered any of
those dismal privations of food, light, and air, so
commonly identified with the idea of a prison;—
indeed, he occupied a room well furnished for his
use; and the care of his affectionate and heart-broken
family had supplied him with all the luxuries
of life compatible with his situation;—but he
himself was so changed and faded—so haggard and
ghastly with the gnawings of a haughty and proud
spirit—that, for the moment, in that dim light, he
was scarcely recognised. Still, however, around
him hung that beauty which had rendered him re
markable in better days, a reflection of the manly
graces of his father, and which now seemed even
heightened by the subduing and chastening hand
of thought and sorrow. His handsome hair now
fell over a forehead which seemed, from its whiteness,
yet more broad and high; his eyes wore an
expression more pensive and touching; the smile
had gained in winning grace all that it had lost in
spirit; and his whole manner announced a character
deepened, purified, and elevated.

He raised his hand calmly to his friend, who
seized it with silent anguish; and Moreland fell on
his neck and wept, while the prisoner soothed and
rebuked him, though with a tremulous voice.

“Dear, dear Norman!” muttered Moreland, his
words broken by sobs; “pardon me—forgive me!”

“God bless you, Moreland,” replied Norman, as
his friend grew more composed; “how I have
wished for you!”

“Your father and Julia, Norman, and Howard?”

“They are all with me hours every day, but
their grief agonizes me.”

“And your counsel, Mr. Loring?”

“Oh, he talks to me, but racks and excruciates
me also. I have told him I know nothing whatever
of this charge. It must fall by itself; I cannot
stoop to confute it, nor have I the means. But
you, Moreland, you will join yourself with Loring,
and clear me from so ridiculous, so absurd an accusation.
I have had hard thoughts of you, too,”
he continued, still holding his friend's hand in his
own firmly and affectionately. “That the world
at large should desert me, as I am told they do,
was to me a theme neither of much grief nor wonder;
but you, Albert, you and Mary!”

“We were far, far away, and flew to town the
very moment we heard of this inexplicable—this
terrible—this—”

“Ay, Albert,” said Norman, a cloud darkening
his face, “pause and seek for words, as I have done.
But how is Mary?”

“Well in health, but shocked, agitated, and thunderstruck
at your present situation, and at the startling
evidence against you. It is astounding, it is
stunning to hear the array of facts; but Mary would
be your defender were they ten thousand times
more appalling.”

“And yet—confess it, Albert—even you have
been staggered?”

“Norman, I have been stunned; but I come to
you, not only as a friend, but as a counsel. I shall
add myself to the gentleman already employed by
your father. But, before we proceed, let me ask
one question. If any extraordinary circumstance—
any horrid dilemma—any sudden intoxication of
love, or passion, or despair, or madness, has hurried
you to—”

Norman started once more to his feet. It was
no longer with agitation. Deep despair had thrown
around him a character of mysterious and unearthly
coldness, of passionless solemnity and calmness,
like that which invests a statue gazed on by moonlight,
in which there is ever a thrilling and spectral
power.

“It is enough!” he said; “my cup is full. I
drink it to the dregs without a murmur. Leave me,
Moreland.”

He was obeyed. We shall not intrude upon his
meditations.