 | CHAPTER VI. Charles Blackford, or, The adventures of a student in search of a profession |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
We pass over the three years of our hero's law-studies, years of privation, suffering,
mortification, and debt. He had earned fifty dollars the first six months
after entering Judge Orne's office, by teaching the village school one winter.
This sum he immediately mailed to Grayson Preston, who had then graduated
and was living, at his father's in Boston, an idle life of pleasure. The letter
which accompanied it, we have not room for; it was manly, appropriate, and
consistent with our hero's noble and generous nature. Preston took no notice
of it, but Charles learned through authentic sources, that he had received the
money. This debt paid, he felt greatly relieved and went forward with his
studies with that ardor and devotion with which a young man might he supposed
to be inspired, who was ambitious to overtop wealth by worth, to outstrip a
rich rival by talent alone, and to win the respect and regard of a loving woman.
The image of Grace Gordon mingled in all his studies, and her sweet name
floated before his eyes strangely confused with dry law terms.
At length, as we have said, he completed his course of study and was admitted
with great credit to the bar. During the three years of his noviciate he had
been a guest at the parsonage; his expenses, however, for clothing and other
necessaries, had to be incurred on his own account, which at the end left him
debtor to sundry persons in the village about one hundred dollars. These debts
were incurred, however, with the understanding that he was to pay them out of
his first fees.
Behold Charles Blackford now an attorney at law. There was no opening in
his native town and after a long consultation with his father, he resolved on going
to try his fortune in Boston. With forty dollars, made by keeeping the
town school a quarter, in his pocket, a slender but well preserved wardrobe, a
head full of law, and all the world before him, our hero, one sunny morning, left
the rectory and took his way to the city, a distance of thirty miles. In his straitened
life he had learned economy; he therefore preferred sending on his trunk
and a box of law books, presents from Judge Orne and his father, by a waggon
belonging to farmer Gage, who kindly offered to convey them, and to go himself
on foot.
With a cheerful heart he bade his father and his family farewell, and with a
stoutstaff in his hand, took the road to the bridge in the direction of the Boston
road. As he crossed the bridge, he could not help lingering, to look, for the
last time, at the spot whence he had rescued Grace Gordon three years before
from a watery grave. During all that time he had not seen either her or Miss
Hare. Both young ladies had soon afterwards completed their education under
the excellent and thorough tuition of Miss Hazleton, the accomplished Principal
of Bradford Academy, with whom they had been four years; and Colonel
Hare having removed to Boston altogether, he had not even heard from them.
Yet his interest—we will use a stronger term—his love for Grace Gordon continued
deep and strong, and increasing with time and absence. Hope, as he
now leaned over the parapet of the bridge and gazed on the spot endeared to him
by so many associations with which his heart was connected, still whispered
success in law; and the subsequent triumph and realization of all his dreams in
love. Yet he was still a poor student—still without means, and dependent on a
precarious profession in its outset for his daily subsistence. And his heart
smote him when he thought that he might after all fail, and all his hopes be destined
to disappointment. At length he roused himself from his gloomy contemplations,
and pursued his way towards the city.
He had walked all day at a vigorous pace, and the setting sun was gilding the
dome of the State House and the pinnacles and towers of the tri-mountain metropolis
when he crossed the Charlestown bridge, and entered the busy, confused
and thronged streets of the city.
We will pass briefly by the first few months of his residence in Boston. His
forty dollars had been nearly expended in fitting up an office of cheap rent, and
getting a sign, which he added to the scores that grace the fronts of the granite
blocks in Court street. He thought, as he looked at it from the opposite side of
himself was lost among the host of lawyers that thronged the precincts of the
Court.
The first six months he had but a single client, in his landlord—the host of an
humble tavern in Ann street, where he lodged—who gave him employment in
part payment for his own long standing bills of board; for lodging he had on a
cot in his own office. A year passed away, and he had yet no business, and was
reduced to the greatest extremity. His father in the meanwhile had died, leaving
his mother and brothers and sisters in a condition that required his assistance.
Yet he could not help himself. Fortune seemed to turn her smiles from
him, and an evil fate to frown upon him and upon all his efforts to obtain employment.
His rent day came, and fortunately his landlord had tenants to sue,
and gave him the business; but this brought him in no money. His wardrobe
had gone piecemeal to the pawnbrokers, his law books sold, and his landlord had
no more defaulting boarders to sue, and was clamorous for his money. Poor
Blackford's heart became hard through his misery, and he felt that he should
have rejoiced in the commission of any crime that would have brought him
business.
It was the night of the day of extreme suffering and mortification. He had
been menaced with the jail by his landlord and others to whom he had inevitably
become indebted. But one day of grace and favor was given him. He must
pay more than a hundred dollars on the morrow, or the next night become the
inmate of a prison, disgraced in his profession, and with all his hopes of respectability
and honor among men forever blasted. He lays restless upon his hard
couch, for his anxiety was too intense for sleep. He rose and paced the floor of
his narrow office. He had fasted all he day, for fear of meeting his landlord's
angry eye and of hearing his landlady's sneering tongue. He was, therefore,
fevered; and his pulse was quick and his brain hot with his mental pain.
`Here I am,' he said bitterly, `after four years of hard, penurious toil and
study, enduring the bitterest privations to gain a profession, at last having
gained it, left to starve in it? Here I am again reduced to debt, to disgrace
and mental anguish, as I was the last day of term in college! And what hope
more than then has four years furnished me? None. I am indeed a victim of
false paternal pride. If I had been a mechanic, I should not now be enduring
this! Yesterday I saw my cousin, James Blackford, the cabinet maker, riding
out of town in his own barouche, and saw the Mayor and General D —,
touch their hats to him. Surely being a mechanic has not made him less respectable;
and God knows, being a lawyer has not made me more so! I
would go to him for aid, but my pride forbids! I have despised him—been
taught to do so—and now I cannot sleep! No. I must meet my fate, whatever
it be. At least I have not brought it upon myself by any acts of my own.
How callous and hardened my heart has become to human suffering! How I
should rejoice in an opportunity of defending a murderer! Gracious Heaven!
am I fallen so low as—as I fear I do in my heart—as to half breathe a wish
that some crime might be committed that I might profit by it professionally!
Ha! what sound is that! Murder!'
He sprung to the window of his office, which was in the third story, and
looked out upon Court street. The moon was shining with the clearest light
upon the pavements below. The cries of `murder' help! help!' rung loud
upon the silence of midnight as he threw up his window and looked down.—
Near the corner of an alley he perceived two men struggling, and in the hands
of one a knife glittered as it descended again and again into the body of the
other.
`Hold, assassin!' cried Blackford, almost paralyzed by the scene, and unable
to move; and at the same instant were heard footsteps approaching, and shouts
of men crying to the rescue. Charles saw that the assasin lingered to strike a
final and decisive blow, and then throwing away his weapon, started to fly in
the direction of the Old State House. His course was instantly arrested by
two watchmen coming up, when he turned to escape by the Court passage to
School street. But some persons rapidly approaching the scene of the outcries
of murder, turned him back, and for an instant he hesitated, as persons were
advancing from every quarter. At this instant his eyes detected the common
trusting for escape to the numerous rooms and passages, he darted in the direction
of the open door, and disappeared within it beneath the window out of
which Charles was looking. Instantly our hero flew to the door and opened it
into the passage, to intercept and if possible arrest him, should he ascend to the
third story. The stair halls were perfectly dark, and he heard him below,
mounting upward with free and rapid flight from story to story, without seeking
shelter in the rooms below.
In the meanwhile, of those whom the cry of murder had brought to the
neighborhood, some gathered about the dead body, others watched at the windows
and surrounded the building, lest he should escape by the windows, and
two watchmrn entered the gallery after him. Charles heard their slow and
uncertain steps in the dark below, while the fugitive was on the stairs terminating
on his own floor.
The man came up at such a fierce and desperate pace, that Charles was
forced to step aside to escape being thrown down; but as he did so, he forcibly
seized him by the arm as he was passing him after reaching the landing.
The assassin struggled violently, and releasing himself, darted into Blackford's
room, the door of which was open. He was about to close it and bar himself
in, when Charles threw it open, and entering, grappled with him. In the terrific
contest that ensued, they fell together against the closed door the assassin
underneath. For a few seconds there was a pause, broken only by the heavy
breathing of both. At length the man spoke, in a low deep tone, which Charles
recognized as that of the man Bucklin, who kept the inn where he had boarded
ever since he had been in the city.
`Mr. Blackford—I—I am in your power. I have killed a man—I am pursued,
and throw myself upon your generosity. I have money, and you are in
want! Secrete me from those who are in pursuit of me, and I will place five
hundred dollars in your hands to-morrow morning, in told gold. Do not delay!
I hear them searching in the story below—they will soon be up here. You can
hide me without suspicion, by locking your door. No one would suspect I had
entered your closed door. Save me, and the money—nay, six hundred dollars!'
Charles paused a moment—for the temptation was great. But he paused but
a moment, and the temptation was only a temptation.
`Bucklin, you appeal to me in vain,' he answered firmly. `You are a murderer
by your own confession and by my testimony. I saw you do the deed
from my window.'
`It is because I threatened you with jail to-day! This is poor revenge,
when you will lose seven—yes eight hundred dollars by it. I have the money,
and it shall be yours. You are the only one that has recognized me as the murderer.
Keep me here till morning, and we will go down to the inn together,
and then I will count you out the money. Hark, they are on the stairs! Release
my throat and let me get up, and hide me!'
`No. You are secure and shall abide the issue of your crime. I will not
stain my hands, poor as I am, also with the blood.'
The man made a strong effort to rise and throw Blackford off; but was unsuccessful.
He made one more appeal to him for life and liberty.
`Who have you murdered?' demanded Charles.
`A seaman who once sailed with me when I committed a crime on the high
seas, I would not care men should know,' replied Bucklin in a hoarse tone.
`I knew him to be the only living witness. I had not seen him for years, when
he came to my house to-night and called me out of bed. He then demanded
money, saying that he was in poverty and that unless I gave it to him he would
'peach. I offered him fifty dollars. He swore he would have two hundred.—
At length I gave it to him, and professing friendship went out with him, resolving
to get him drunk and take it from him again. But he would neither drink
nor enter a tavern. So we walked until we came to the corner of the alley
yonder, down which I tried to prevail upon him to go, saying it was the nearest
way back to my tavern. He refused and boldly accused me of my intention of
robbery. I denied it, and he reiterated the charge. I then made a stroke at
him in the breast with a knife I had taken from my box for the purpose. `It was
not fatal, and he grappled with me and cried murder. I stabbed him several
knowing how numerous were the rooms and passages in this building, I thought
of it for shelter and of you. I fled to your room expecting you would conceal
me for money, knowing your poverty. I now repeat my offer of eight hundred
dollars, but here on the spot giving you the the hundred dollars, I took
from the wretch I have killed. They are near your door! For God's sake
bolt it! Save me and the money is yours.'
`Tempt me not.'
`I will give you half I am worth,' cried the man in despair as a hand was laid
upon the bolt to try the door.
`Never! Come in, sir!' he added in a loud tone. `Here is your prisoner!'
The door was thrown open and several men with lanterns entered and beheld
Blackford and the assassin on the floor.
`Secure your prisoner! He fled to my room and I have been so fortunate as
to detain him,' said Charles.
He was speedily relieved from his charge by two officers of police, and the
murderer was dragged off to prison.
The papers of the next day paid Charles Blackford, Esq, many handsome
compliments for his courage and self possession in arresting and detaining the
assassin who had fled into the Law Building; and for a few days he was quite
a lion for a poor lawyer. But this did not put money into his pockets nor pay
his debts. The creditors who had been impressed by his temporary notice by
the public, and ceased for a while to urge him, again became clamorous. At
length the lawyer who held Bucklin's account, received instructions from that
assassin to sue it. Charles was waited upon with a writ. Unable to obtain bail
he was conducted unresisting, and feeling that all his hopes and ambition were
forever dead, to the prison in Leveret street.
Who can pourtray the feelings of this young man as he threw himself upon
his wretched cot when the turnkey closed the massive door upon him! For
hours he lay upon his face without moving, but with his soul tortured by anguish
inconceivable. He had been thrown into jail by an assassin, and was
now partner in prison with the wretch whose gold he had spurned! `Alas!'
thought he,' what reward has honesty and integrity in the world!' He groaned
deeply; but the consciousness of rectitude sustained him in that dark hour
when life seemed valueless.
Worthy suer of a debt, an assassin in chains! Such men should alone be
base enough to cast a man into prison because he cannot pay! Upon an equality
with him is every heartless and despicable wretch who can coolly give orders
to deprive a fellow-being of liberty, and then go home to his own fire-side
and smile and chat and be happy, while the home of the victim of his malice is
a scene of anguish and woe! Malice or a spirit of revenge, or, what is worse
still, a naturally cruel and vindictive temper alone actuates the creditor who
visits his helpless debtor, with such a fearful judgment. The power, because
laws, disgraceful to a christian community, give it to him, he exerts to indulge
his own bad nature. For the benefit of such men, these laws are suffered to
disgrace the statue books. But thank God this relie of the barbarian and cruel
ages is disappearing before the light of civilization and heavenly charity! Legislatures
have been moved as one man, by the spirit of benevolence—and
three states of the confederacy have boldly and nobly thrown off the stigma
that still adheres to all New England, the boasted land of intellectual light, the
cradle of civil and religious liberty. Let the shouts which will hail the elevation
of the last stone upon the summit of Bunker Hill monument, be echoed
from the debtors' cells in Leverett street by the hollow vibrations of deserted
vaults, and not with the groans of the imprisoned `freemen,' which answered
the loud huzzas of multitudes that witness the laying of its corner stone! Is
there no legislator ambitious for an imperishable name, now in the Legislature
of Massachusetts? Let him then win it, and the blessings of posterity by
stepping forward the pioneer of civil liberty, and striking the first blow that
shall shiver in pieces the chains of the debtor and restore him forever to the
open air of heaven and the free wide earth God has given him to walk upright
upon!
It was the grey dawn of morning when Charles Blackford roused himself
dreadful night. He rose and paced his narrow cell wretched and indifferent to
life. His pride of character was gone! He felt he could no more hold up his
head among his fellow-men! He felt disgraced and broken spirited. He wished
for death, for life was now wearisome and a weight to him. Suddenly a key
was thrust into the lock of his door, bolts and bars were removed, and the jailor
appeared with food; after setting it down upon a stool and casting a scrutinizing
glance about the cell, he went out again without a word being interchanged
between them.
`This is to be my way of life for ten weeks, till the court sets, and perhaps
longer—for I have no means of employing counsel or of paying my debts, said
Charles bitterly. `I pray that death may release me ere then! I see nothing
before me but months of imprisonment, for I have no one to go to. The remembrance
of Colonel Hare's offer occurred to him, but he instantly banished
the idea of soliciting his interference, for he knew Preston was intimate with
him, and had reason to believe he had prejudiced him against himself. His
thoughts then reverted to Grace Gordon with such sweet and touching memories
that his heart became softened and tears came unbidden and unchecked to
his eyes. He could not help painfully reflecting how much happiness his poverty
had shut out from him, in losing her whose image had so long been graven
upon his heart. He pictured her now as the wife of Preston, and the thought
was anguish to him. Hope at this moment whispered that she might yet be
free!
`Free,' he cried with bitter scorn; free and for whom? Not for me! What
have I—the inmate of a felon's cell, my name blasted by my fellow-men—I to
do with hope connected with that bright creature! No, no, 'tis madness, and
I do believe I am mad! I wish I were, then should I be insensible to my
wretchedness!'
He leaned for some moments in silence against the stone sides of his prison
in passive thought, when he was startled by the door of the cell a second time
unbolted and unopened. The jailer admitted a woman whom he instantly recognized
as Bucklin's wife.
`Leave me alone wid him, Mr. Jailor, a few minutes, till I talk with him
about the defence of my husband, and make the bargain with him,' she said in
a coarse, coaxing tone.
`I will give you, madam, while I go to two other cells at the end of the passage
and be back again,' he said, shutting to the heavy door and locking them
in. Charles gazed upon her with surprise and distrust.
`Well, Mr. Blackford, you see my man is locked up as well as yourself,
though your crime isn't quite so bad as his'n; but then the law don't make no
difference 'tween debts and murders, and locks 'em all up alike, just as it should
be, for a man might as well kill a body as keep their honest money away from
'em. But this is nothing to the purpose, and I must be quick as old Bunch-o'-Keys
won't be long away. You see I've just seen Bucklin, and he says that
you are the only witness that can 'dentify him in that killing business. He
says he shall plead not guilty, and I and another at the tavern will swear to an
alibi. Now they can't prove that the man that run into the building, and the
man my husband, you had down on the floor in your room was one and the
same man. You and Bucklin, you know, might easily have had a quarrel
about your debt, he havin' come to ask for his pay, and you be scuffling and he
down when the watchman came, and you out o' revenge told 'em he was the
murderer when you knew he wan't.'
`To what does this strange language tend, woman?'
`Why, in plain words, as there is no time to mince the matter, Bucklin will
swing if you are a witness. Now he has sent me to offer you two thousand
dollars in good city bills, if you will keep out of the way. You have not been
subpœned yet. Here is the money in $100 bills—twenty of 'em she added,
taking a package of bank notes from her bosom and displaying them before him.
`You shall be discharged from Bucklin's suit at once, and then keep out of the
way till he's acquitted. Do this, and you are free, and the money is yours.'
Here was a great temptation to any man under circumstances far different
from Blackford's! He was overpowered be the weight of the temptation, and
man he saw in the street slaying another was Bucklin?' This question pressed
itself strongly home upon him as he hesitated under the temptation. `Yes,' he
could! He knew him then, and knew him to be the assassin when he had him
down in his room. But did the honesty of conscience require that he should
give his testimony—wait to be subpœned? A moment's reflection decided him
in the affirmative; for at the tribunal of an honorable man's conscience, questions
of moral action are soon and correctly decided. He felt it to be his duty
as a man of integrity, to be at the service of justice in this case, whatever might
be the forfeiture of worldly considerations.
During the time in which he was arriving to this moral result, the woman
Bucklin was fixing her keen eyes upon him, reading his very thoughts; and
she was not startled when he replied firmly—
`Woman, put up your bank notes! I cannot sacrifice my integrity, even for
such a price!'
She knew from his tone and look that this decision was final, and that he was
immoveable. She therefore said vindictively, returning the money to her bosom—
`Be it so, young man. You will repent it. There will be witnesses in behalf
of my husband to impeach your testimony. Men will stand there who will
swear to the fact of your having had a quarrel with the murdered man in my
tavern that day—and that you called late at night and asked for him, and when
I told you he had gone out, you asked after Bucklin—and when you were told
he had gone to your office to see you, you went out swearing `he had best not
come to you dunning any more if he knew what was good for himself, and
that if you crossed that sailor's path you would have a reckoning with him for
his blackguarding you in the morning.'
Charles stood petrified, listening to this statement, every word and letter of
which was utterly false, and without even a shadow of foundation in truth;
for he had not been near the tavern that day nor night, seen no sailor, nor asked
for Bucklin.
`Woman, art thou fiend or human?'
`Ha, ha! I told you you would repent. Bucklin shan't swing if swearing
will get him clear.'
`Demon! begone! Out of my sight. If I perish by thy evil machinations,
be it so! Hence!—Jailor!' he cried as the turnkey appeared, `lead this person
forth, and let me no more see her. Begone!' he cried, with a sensation of mingled
terror and disgust.
`So I am to be charged with this murder! Well, be it thus! God, and not
man is my judge. I feel the consciousness of innocence, which will sustain
me. This blow was only wanting to complete my degredation in the sight of
men; but I am pure and honored in that of Heaven, for which I feel I cannot
be too grateful. God alone gave me strength to resist this great temptation.—
I will trust in Him for the issue of this false accusation!'
The day of Bucklin's trial came. Charles was conveyed from prison, where
he had lingered weeks, to the tribunal as a witness. He was sworn, and gave
in his testimony. His clear and connected narrative, his pale and intellectual
features, his emaciated form, interested the Court in him. Bucklin pleaded not
guilty, and the false witnesses appeared in his behalf and against Blackford.—
The charges were made with such boldness, and were so plausibly prepared and
worded, that all eyes were fixed upon Charles as the real murderer, and sympathy
began to be strongly enlisted in favor of Bucklin. An order was already
made out by the Judge to commit him to the felon's cell to await trial for the
murder, when the jailor appeared in Court and desired to be sworn. He had
listened and overheard the interview between Bucklin's wife and Charles, and
now bore witness accordingly. Charles was acquitted by acclamation, and
Bucklin convicted on his previous testimony.
Our hero was removed from the Court again to his cell; for after the momentary
enthusiasm was over, no one took interest in him; or if any one did,
out of benevolence on account of the false charge against him, this sympathy
flowed directly back to the bosom from whence it sprung, on hearing that he
was a prisoner for debt. When a man's feelings are awakened by benevolence
Heaven, whence all charity flows, if he has let any thing step between it and
its object before he has fully and thoroughly investigated, for himself, the condition
of the person or persons who have enlisted his feelings.
In a drawing room of an aristocratic mansion in the vicinity of the Common,
sat a family group around the breakfast table, the morning after the murder and
arrest of Bucklin. It consisted of Colonel Hare, his daughter, Mary Hare, now
become a tall, fine looking belle, and Grace Gordon, whom four years had
changed from girlhood to all the graces of woman. She was now twenty, and
in the richness and bloom of her rare loveliness. Save in form and feature,
she had not changed. Her smile was the same, her heart was the same, beating
with the same generous impulse that had first led her to defend Charles
Blackford on the evening of the day on which he preserved her life. During
the four years, she had cherished his memory with grateful interest. Nay, the
feeling might have been tenderer and deeper than gratitude with which she remembered
him, for she had refused numerous offers of marriage, and declined
Preston's urgent suit to her; and a fourth time, and but a few days before we
now meet them, had dismissed him forever with downright displeasure, because
he had thrown up to her, in revenge for his discomfiture, `a low attachment
for that poor parson's son who had sponged on him in college.' Preston left
her, and mounted his dashing phæton, asservating with an oath, that he would
never trouble her again with his notice. Mary Hare had a half a score of lovers,
whom she kept to flirt with and wait upon her—for to a belle, a retinue of
beaux is a very great convenience She found it so, and knew how to make it
so. Colonel Hare was about the same as when we last saw him, save that his
hair was something whiter. General Gordon, we should have mentioned, had
deceased two years before, and Grace, who was now Colonel Hare's ward was
just coming out of mourning. Thus affairs were at the time we renew our acquaintance
with them.
The Colonel was reading the Daily Mail, when a paragraph met his eye
which he read aloud. It was the account of our hero's arrest of Bucklin.
`Well, he is as brave and resolute a man as ever,' said the Colonel, looking
over his spectacles to the ladies; `and can arrest assassins as easily as save
girls from drowning. He is an extraordinary young man, and seems to abound
in adventure. I have wondered where he has kept himself, and now find by
the paper that he is a lawyer in this city. It is strange we have never met his
name before. We must invite him to the house. What say, girls, hey?'
`I should have no objection, dear father,' said Miss Hare, with a haughty
movement of her head; `but I think as there has been no acquaintance for some
years, it would be hardly worth while. We should have to introduce him into
society; and we don't know what his character is, and but what he may be very
poor.'
`I will vouch for his character, Mary,' warmly said Grace Gordon, whose
cheek had deepened its tone and whose eyes beamed with secret hope and joy;
`whatever may be his condition, I am confident he is and always will be an
honorable man. He may be poor, but that should be nothing against him.'
`Not where a person with simply repeating the little word `Yes,' can make
him rich, I suppose it is not,' said Miss Hare between irony and playfulness.
`If the whole of my wealth—every dollar of it—were bestowed upon him,
Mary,' answered Grace, with spirit, `my life would be cheaply paid for.'
`And to make up the deficiency, I suppose you would be ready, if he should
be so presumptuous as to ask you, to throw your heart and hand into the scale.'
`Mary, you are unkind,' said Grace, blushing and looking hurt; `I respect
the character of Mr. Blackford, and remember him with gatitude.'
`And if you gave him you heart and hand and fortune, my noble girl,' said
Colonel Hare, taking her hand with kindness in his manner, `you would, I
doubt not, give them to one every way worthy of you, and upon whom, (he added,
in a lower tone,) if I read the heart of a certain young lady I wot of, they
are one day destined to be bestowed, or this certain young lady will be disappointed
in her bright dreams of the future!'
Grace gratefully returned the pressure of his hand, and, rising from the table,
from the cold and haughty eyes of Miss Hare.
Circumstances prevented Colonel Hare from calling on our hero for some days, when he found his office shut up, and no one could inform him of his address.
He then dropped a line to him through the Post Office; but day after
day passed, and he did not hear from him.
Grace, in the meanwhile, was all anxiety and solicitude, with doubts, fears,
and hopes, alternately in her mind, She no longer hesitated to acknowledge
to herself, now that Colonel Hare had discovered to her the secret of her heart,
her long cherished attachment to her youthful preserver. Miss Hare got possession
of the secret, and cruelly rallied her, but the Colonel was her fast friend,
and took her part nobly.
Some weeks clapsed, and the party were assembled around the tea-table,
when a servant entered with a package addressed to Miss Gordon in the handwriting
of Preston. She opened the envelope, and found a note and an evening
paper. The note read briefly as follows:
`Miss Gordon will find, on perusing the marked column of the accompanying
print, that a certain gentleman for whom she professes great personal regard,
has been charged with a murder—though acquitted, it seems, through the evidence
of his friend, the turnkey of the city prison, where he at present lodges,
and would no doubt be happy to entertain his friends. Mr. P. will do himself
the honor of calling on Miss Gordon to-morrow and renewing his appeal to her
generosity, now that it is certain what he believes to be the real obstacle to the
consummation of his wishes, is removed by crime and degradation from all farther
place in her thoughts.'
`The dastard!' cried Grace, indignantly crushing the note in her hand, while
the tears flowed fast and free.
Colonel Hare and Mary rose from the table with surprise and alarm.
`Read that, sir! Has such a craven kindred blood to the Gordons in his
veins?' and the insulted, grieved and high-spirited girl walked to and fro before
the table, till he had finished the perusal of the note.
`He is a villain, Miss Gordon. Old as I am I will call him out for this insult
to your feelings,' said the Colonel indignantly.
`No—leave him to his own contempt Let me read this paper! What
says it?'
Her eyes rapidly ran over the report of that day's trial, and the account of the
proceedings which are already known to the reader.
`Base conspiracy! I knew he was innocent,' sir,' said she with a glad sound
in her voice and a heaving heart. `But why was he taken back to prison?—
This is fearful! Had he been there before? I must know the worst ere I sleep.
I cannot endure this uncertainty. Order the carriage, Colonel Hare, and let
me drive there!'
`Where, my dear child?' asked the Colonel, sympathising in her feelings.
`To the prison,' she answered with energy.
`It will be improper. You—besides—'
`Well—speak—'
`You are not certain—I do not wish to damp your hopes—but he may possibly
not be prepared to requite the interest you feel in him.'
Miss Gordon looked him in the face for a few seconds after hearing these
foreboding words, and then sunk in tears of mortification and wretchedness of
heart upon the sofa. She felt an affectionate arm around her and a soft cheek
laid to her's and words of hope and confidence in her ear. It was Mary Hare's
arm and sympathy and affection. She has become interested in our hero from
the account of the trial, and from the contrast his character exhibited to that
of Preston, whose conduct in this affair roused her spirited indignation. She
felt keenly for her friend—for Miss Hare, though haughty and exclusive, was
by no means destitute of feeling, or insensible to the better feelings of nature.
Colonel Hare, kissing them both with pride and affection, told Grace to be patient
and she should soon hear from him. He immedieatly went out and getting
into his carriage drove rapidly away.
| CHAPTER VI. Charles Blackford, or, The adventures of a student in search of a profession | |