Norman Leslie :: :: University of Virginia Library

They stepped cautiously towards the bed, and
gazed upon the features of the poor, unconscious
old man, with that silent and steady examination
with which the living contemplate the dying or the
dead,—awed—horror-struck—plunged in mystic
fear and wonder at the vast changes in the fleshly
temple, and those far more vast and sublime which
have stricken the interior, breaking its lighted altar,
and leaving its aisles dark and abandoned.

“He's dreadfully fallen away, doctor. His actions
lately have been very strange; but he appeared
more settled and sensible before his slumber. Do
you think there is any hope?”

The doctor compressed his lips, and shook his
head.

“None, nurse, none; the good old man cannot
last the day.”

“He has lived a pure life,” said the nurse. “He
has been a charitable and a religious man, and a
kind friend to me.” Alice wiped her eyes with the
corner of her apron. “I shall never get such another.”

The physician gave some trivial instructions.

“Can you not stay, doctor, and see the end?”
asked Alice.

“No, good Alice, my presence can avail him
nothing; but there are others less hopeless whom I
am bound to see. This poor old man's heart is
broken beyond the reach of medicine.”

“Hush!” said the nurse, as a murmured name
broke from the lips of the dying father.

“Rosalie—Rosalie! My child—my child! Save
her—do not kill—Leslie—Leslie!” Drops of agony
stood on the dreamer's forehead.

“Wake him,” said the doctor; “this agitation
will destroy him.”

With a gentle hand on his skeleton fingers, the
honest nurse dispelled the horrid vision.

“Ah! where am I?” said he, with a feeble and
repining voice, opening his glassy eyes—which now,
from the sunken proportions of his ashy face, appeared
strangely large—and rolling them fearfully
round, with a vacant stare, upon his companions.

“It is I, Mr. Romain—Alice, and the good Doctor
Melbourne,” said the nurse, carefully wiping his
damp forehead with a handkerchief.

“Oh, true—I was dreaming of my poor daughter.”

“My good friend,” said the doctor, “how are you
this morning?”

“Oh—better—thank you—much better,” he said,

drawing his short breath quickly with nearly every
word; “I shall be well soon.”

He smiled. What is there so ghastly as the
smile of a dying man unconscious of his situation?

“Alice,” he said, peevishly, “what is the reason
Rosalie stays—so that—”

His faint breath was exhausted; his heavy eyes
closed again; and he sank once more into a doze.

“Yes,” said the nurse, “there it is; the murder
of poor dear Miss Rosalie has broken the old man's
heart.”

“But you should not say murder, nurse,” said
the doctor; “it is decided, after an adequate examination,
that Miss Romain was not murdered, at
least by that unfortunate Norman Leslie.”

“Not murdered!” echoed the nurse, in a vehement
and sudden whisper. She took the doctor by
the lapel of his coat, and led him from the bed towards
an embrasure of the window. “Doctor Melbourne,
that wretch, that monster Leslie is her
murderer, as sure as the sun is in heaven!—all the
world knows it.”

“Nay, nurse—nay, this is not right,” said the
doctor, gravely. “I am sorry to find the people so
generally withholding their sanction from the deliberate
verdict of a jury. The sufferings of poor
Leslie touch my heart.”

“Blood for blood!” said the nurse, her generally
mild features animated with indignation and merciless
revenge.

“But, Mistress Alice, `judge not, lest ye be
judged!”'

“Whatever be the truth,” said the old woman,
solemnly—“and God knows it, and will judge the
wicked—Mr. Romain has lived, and will die, with
the belief that Norman Leslie killed his daughter,
to hide from him and the world the base and cruel

arts he had used against her, and to her destruction.
I have never spoken to any one but yourself, doctor,
who was not of this same opinion.”

“Sorry to hear it—sorry to hear it, Alice. A good
citizen should not only obey, but respect, the laws.
In no country are they better and more wisely and
impartially administered than in our own. It is
cruel and wicked to persecute this unhappy man,
regularly and fully acquitted by a court of justice.
He is already half destroyed by this affair. I fear
it will weigh him down yet, and drive him to some
desperate extremity.”

“I hope it may—all the world hopes it may,”
cried Alice. “Look at that poor, poor old man,
his gray hairs brought down in sorrow to the grave.
Father and daughter—both fallen beneath his hand.
He who did this has money. Wealth can work wonders;
he has got himself acquitted—in what way
they best know who acquitted him; but the bloody
murderer walks the streets, free and independent,
seeking whom else he may devour—the horror of
every one that sees him. If I were a man, I would
strike him down in the street. Let him look to
himself. Time will show. He should be, and will
be, hunted down like a wild beast. Were I to meet
him, old woman as I am, I do believe I should tear
his eyes out with my own hands. God forgive me
for such feelings, and by the bed of death, too!”
And the highly-excited old woman wiped her eyes,
which were full of tears.

“Mistress Alice, Mistress Alice,” said the doctor,
“while you exclaim against one crime, take
care you be not guilty of another yourself. The terrible
odium poured upon the head of that wretched
and persecuted man, must, sooner or later, overwhelm
him; he will die, and his blood will be upon
the heads of his oppressors.”

“Never a bit,” replied Alice; “the devil will take
care of his own. Oh, doctor, that this blood-stained
assassin should walk the streets is a crying shame
and disgrace to the country! I repeat—let him
look to himself. I have heard hard things said of
him. There are eyes on him he little suspects. I do
think the news of his sacrifice would sweeten the
last moments of that dying old man.”

“Monstrous! Alice, monstrous! you speak almost
blasphemy. I have heard much talk of this
kind lately. If you have friends capable of injuring
Leslie, as your words imply, warn them, Alice, of
their wickedness and danger. The law would take
terrible vengeance upon them, should it come before
the court.”

“Oh yes, forsooth,” said Alice; “upon the poor
it would doubtless fall; but the rich can escape, no
matter what they have done. Doctor, doctor, I tell
you—mark my words—safe as he thinks himself,
that Norman Leslie is on the brink of a precipice,
and no one will pity him—the villain, the monster!”

Words were wasted upon the enraged old woman,
and the doctor left her without reply.