University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.

When Deacon Pinchbeck reached the steps of his dwelling,
he felt the weight of a murderer's guilt upon his
soul. He looked around in terror, fearful of having been
seen and pursued by some officer of justice, and half expecting
to find the very stones rise up and cry out against
him. He had done many sinful things before—but none
which impressed him with such nameless horror as this

crowning act of wickedness. He believed in a gigantic, all-powerful,
omniscient, omnipresent Devil; and notwithstanding
his recent conviction, that, in his particular case, the
Lord would sanction the highest crime known to the law,
he now fancied that this same Devil stood at his back, grinning
a horrid approval of his last damning deed. It had
been the good man's design, for the last ten years of his
life, (and we regret to say there are many like him,) to be
just religious enough to escape the Devil at last; but now
he fancied his soul was fairly caught in Satan's snare, and
might eventually find its way to the Bottomless Pit, along
with such common sinners as did not regularly attend church
on the Sabbath. The only fault we have to find with
the Deacon's fancy is—not that he should now think himself
enrolled among Satan's victims—but that he should
ever have thought otherwise.

With a cold, clammy perspiration covering his face and
hands, and his nether limbs trembling and bending under
him like reeds, Deacon Pinchbeck tottered up the steps of
his dwelling, about as miserable and contemptible a piece
of humanity as the most morbid curiosity-seeker could wish
to find. After pausing awhile, to take breath and gather
a little courage, and having wiped the perspiration from his
hands and face, the Deacon ventured to ring the bell. The
door was almost immediately opened; and as soon as she
saw who it was, the domestic hurriedly exclaimed:

“Oh! sir, I'm so glad you've got back, sure—for there's
a gintleman in the parlor waiting to spake to ye, and
Master Nelson is so sick.”

“A-a-gentleman—Nelson—” stammered Pinchbeck;
“wha-what—who, I mean—who is it? and wha-what does
he want?”

“He didn't tell his name, sir—but said he wanted to
see you on very particular buzness—and so I axed him in

to wait. But the boy is very sick, sir—hadn't you better
see him first now?”

“Ye-ye-yes,” replied the miserable man—“I'll—I'll
go right up, Catherine.”

But instead of going “right up,” he blundered along to
the back-parlor and opened the door. To his surprise—we
may add, to his horror, all things being taken into consideration—his
eye fell upon the person of Dr. Newton
Stanhope. The parties knew each other by sight, and were
slightly acquainted—for the father of the young man had
borrowed money of the Deacon on more than one occasion,
and once or twice Newton had taken his father's notes to
him to be discounted beyond the legal rate.

“Good evening, Deacon Pinchbeck,” said young Stanhope,
rising and advancing, with extended hand, and fixing
his eyes piercingly upon the colorless face of the host.
“I trust I find you well, sir, in body and mind.”

“Ye-yes, sir—Dr. Stanhope, I believe,” stammered
Pinchbeck, taking the young man's hand, and immediately
dropping it in his confusion. “Ye-yes—I'm very well;
but—but my boy is sick, sir—Nelson—quite; and—a—ah
—I hope you're well too, sir!”

“Is your child very sick, Deacon?”

“Oh! yes, my friend—quite—terrible, sir—indeed he
is—and that is what horri—I mean, agitates me so. I'm
very nervous, Doctor—very nervous; and—and—what is
good for the nerves, eh?”

“Well, a good conscience, for one thing,” replied the
young physician, keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon the
Deacon's pallid face, and closely watching every expression.

“Ha! ha!” laughed the Deacon, in a wild, unnatural
tone, and turning away, as if for the purpose of depositing

his cloak and hat on a distant chair. “I—I—think I've
got that, my young friend.”

“I hope you have, sir!” was the pointed rejoinder.
And then he added, quickly: “But your child is sick, and
I will not detain you but a moment. I called to see you
concerning a matter rather out of the ordinary line of
business, and I must beg you will pardon my intrusion. I
believe you own some property in what is called the Infected
District?”

“Some—yes, Doctor—some,” replied the Deacon, seating
himself, and beginning to breathe a little more freely.

“And you are occasionally down there yourself, Deacon?”

“Occasionally, sir—yes, occasionally.”

Young Stanhope, as if without design, now managed to
place his seat directly in front of Pinchbeck, so that he
could look full into his eye, and note the slightest change
in the expression of the guilty man's features.

“Well,” he resumed, “the business I came on is this:
Some three nights since, the house of a particular friend
of mine, was robbed of considerable money, valuable plate,
and jewelry; and a little girl, who was living with this
friend, has ever since been missing; and all our search for
her has, up to this time, been without avail. But heavens,
sir, you are ill!”

The Deacon did appear to be ill, it is true; for his face
assumed a sickly, deathly hue—his very features quivered,
and became distorted, as if with a spasm—and he clung
nervously to the arms of his chair, as if he felt himself
going headlong over an awful abyss.

“I—I—do-don't feel well,” he gasped.

“Well, I will hasten my story to a conclusion,” said
young Stanhope, who marked every effect his words produced,
and who more than ever felt convinced that his

suspicions had fallen upon the proper person. “This little
girl that I speak of—a very sweet, interesting little orphan,
from all I can learn of her—is suspected by some of having
robbed my friend's house; but others feel certain that she
was not strong enough to carry off so many heavy articles
as were lost. However that may be, she is certainly missing,
and nearly all her wearing apparel is missing with her.
As it was known that she had for a short time been among
the degraded outcasts of the Infected District, our search
for her has been carried through that vile locality; but
being, as I have said, unsuccessful, it occurred to me, that
you, Deacon, who own some property in that vicinity,
might possibly have some knowledge of her.”

“No! no! no! I haven't—I haven't—not the least, I
assure you, Mr. Mul—I mean—a—ah—excuse me—
Dr. Stanhope!” cried the guilty man, almost wildly.
“Really,” he said, rising, “some other time I shall be
very—happy—to tell you all about her—I mean, to—to—
talk to you on the subject; but—but my dear boy is very
sick—tremendous sick—horrible—I should say alarming—
and—and—”

“Nay,” interrupted the other, somewhat sternly, “sit
down for a minute—I have not yet told you the name of
this child.”

“I know—I know—that is, I mean, I don't want to
know—or rather—a—ah—I—”

“Deacon Pinchbeck,” again interrupted the young physician,
even more sternly than before, “your manner is
such as to lead me to suspect that you do know something
of this child!”

“Who, me? I? me?” stammered the other, taking hold
of the chair for support.

“I say, your manner is such as to exite this suspicion,”

returned the Doctor. “Pray, sit down, one minute, and
I will tell you her name, and something of her history.”

The Deacon, though never so anxious in his life to get
away from a speaker, whose every word seemed to plunge
a dagger into his guilty soul, seeing there was no chance of
escape, resumed his seat, and made a powerful effort to
compose his mind, and fortify it against the impending
blow.

“Go on,” he said, rather feebly.

“The name of this missing child,” resumed his tormentor,
speaking slowly and distinctly, and watching every expression
of the Deacon's chalky face—“is—Ellen Norbury.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the Deacon, with a spasmodic start.
“Well?”

“You know her then?”

“Me?” cried the other: “I? no! never heard of her
before—upon my honor, as a—as a—(he was going to say
gentleman, but substituted)—church-member.”

“Well, then,” pursued young Stanhope, “I will tell you
something about her, that must be very interesting for you
to hear.”

“Really—I—I haven't time—Mr.—a—ah—Dr. Stanhope,”
replied the other, making an effort to rise.

“Nay, sit still, Deacon Pinchbeck!” rejoined the young
man, speaking in a firm, decisive tone. “You must hear
the story—you shall hear it—or else the consequences be
on your own head!”

“Wha-what consequences?” gasped the guilty man.

“The consequences, sir, of being brought before the bar
of justice.”

“I—I—do-don't know wha-what you mean,” stammered
the Deacon, sinking back in his chair; “but go—go—on.”

“This child, as I was saying,” pursued young Stanhope
—“this Ellen Norbury—was the daughter of William

Norbury, an artist, who once resided in Dublin; and is a
distant relation of John De Carp Montague, a gentleman
of wealth, now living in Ireland; (the young Doctor had
not yet seen the paper announcing his death;) and her
father and mother both being dead, she is the heir presumptive
of the Welden Estate, now held by this same
John De Carp Montague.”

“Well, and what is all this to me?” the Deacon now
ventured to inquire—having, through sheer desperation, in
some degree regained his natural assurance.

“I will tell you what this is to you,” sternly answered
the young physician; “and I believe I shall thus repeat
what you already know. If this same Ellen Norbury were
dead, your wife, Deacon Pinchbeck, would be the next heir
to this estate.”

“Indeed! this is news to me.”

“Is it? we shall see!” was the rejoinder. “After Ellen
Norbury and your wife, my mother would be the next heir;
and a paper, containing this statement, and much more of
the same nature, was in my father's possession, till within
two or three months, when it was stolen by a burglar, who
luckily found little else to steal. Now considering that
fact, in connection with the mysterious disappearance of
this orphan, and the inference to be drawn is, that some
interested party has had a hand in her abduction, perhaps
murder.”

The last word was pronounced so emphatically, that, in
spite of himself, the guilty Deacon could not avoid a kind
of spasmodic start. Stanhope noticed this, and quickly
added:

“Deacon Pinchbeck, a train of circumstances has fixed
suspicion upon you, as the author of a dark deed—a deed
that may send you to the prison, perhaps the gallows!”

“Upon me? what circumstances?” gasped the other.

“No matter what—you are the guilty man!”

The Deacon sprung from his seat, and the young physician
rose at the same time, keeping his eye fixed steadily
upon the accused.

“Where is that child?” he almost fiercely demanded.

“I—I—do-don't know—upon my word, I don't!” stammered
the agitated church-officer.

“'Tis false! you do know! and I know you know!” was
the emphatic rejoinder. “Now mark me!” he continued,
stepping in front of the accused, and speaking in a tone
that admitted of no doubt of his keeping his word: “if this
girl is restored to her friends, safe and sound, within four-and-twenty
hours, your part in the guilty transaction shall
be overlooked, and the secret kept; but if she be not so
restored, within that time, then the law shall take the affair
in hand, and you shall answer for your crime at the bar
of justice!”

“But—but—how—how—” began the Deacon, when the
other interrupted him.

“Not another word!” he said, sternly. “I have said my
say, and warned you of the consequences. Restore that
child, or woe be to you! Good-night.”

He opened the door into the entry, and the trembling
Deacon followed him.

“Wha-what—what do you know about it, any how?”
gasped the latter.

“To-morrow night, at this time, you shall learn something
about what I know, if that child is not restored to
her friends ere then.”

Young Stanhope opened the outer door as he spoke,
closed it after him, and darted down the steps; while the
guilty Deacon leaned against the wall for support, and
fairly gasped for breath.

“O Lord! O Lord!” he muttered—“what will become
of me?”

“Oh! sir,” exclaimed Catharine, at this moment appearing
at the head of the stairs—“isn't you coming up, sir?
The boy is so sick—choking like—and mistress is crying,
and seems as if she'd go into a fit—and I'm so frightened!
Oh! do, sir, come up, and send for the Doctor!”

“I'll be there in a minute,” groaned the guilty wretch,
hardly conscious of what he heard, or of what he was saying.

He staggered along into the back-parlor, and sunk upon
a seat, one of the most miserable beings then in existence.

“Too late!” he groaned; “too late! I'm lost! I'm lost!
He has done the bloody deed, before this, and fled. O
Lord! O Lord! what will become of me?”

Suddenly he bounded to his feet, with the exclamation:

“It may not be too late to save her yet! Something
may have happened to prevent the crime! If it isn't
done, I'll stop it, and get the girl, and he may take the
money and go.”

He seized his hat as he spoke, and rushed out of the
house like a madman. Down one street, and up another,
he fairly flew, till he reached the Infected District: then
he was forced to advance more cautiously in the thick darkness.
But he had been to the house, knew where it was
situated, and he hurried toward it by the nearest course—
plunging on through dark, filthy lanes, alleys and courts,
till the dismal structure stood before him, rayless and silent
as the grave. Neither looking to the right nor to the left,
and thinking of nothing but the bloody deed, whose guilt
must be upon his soul if a single moment too late, he
reached the door, quite out of breath, and gave a few hurried
raps.

As he did so, a figure, which seemed to start forth from

the very darkness itself, tapped him on the shoulder; and
words, that made his blood curdle, sounded in his ear:

“Sir! I summon you, as a juror, to hold an inquest upon
a female body within this house! Who are you? and what
is your name?”

“O Lord!” mentally groaned the Deacon; “then it is all
over! and I am lost—ruined—lost!” and he clung nervously
to the casement of the door, to keep his trembling
frame from sinking to the earth.

“Quick! speak! who are you, sir?” demanded the Coroner—for
the person who addressed the terrified and guilt-burdened
Pinchbeck, was no other than that officer, legally
acting in the discharge of his duty.

“My — my name — is — is — Pinchbeck,” gasped the
Deacon.

“What Pinchbeck? and where do you live?”

“Absalom, sir — Absalom Pinchbeck — and my — my
residence is—a—ah—No. — South Eighth Street.”

“Ah! Mr. Pinchbeck, I know you.”

Pinchbeck felt as if every thing guilty and wicked knew
him now, as well as the officer.

“I am surprised to see you here, sir, at this hour,”
continued the Coroner; “but it is no business of mine. Remain
here till I summon the rest of the jurors! I will not
keep you long.”

“Oh! sir, please excuse me!” whined the Deacon. “I
have a child at home, very sick—indeed I have!”

“I am sorry to say that I can't excuse you, Mr. Pinchbeck—or
Deacon, as I believe you are usually termed. I
want just such men as you—but they are very scarce round
here. Remain, sir, till I return! I will not keep you
long.”

He hurried away as he spoke; and the Deacon, afraid to
leave, sunk down, terrified, upon the damp, filthy ground.

It was awful enough, he thought, to be guilty of a murder,
without being obliged to sit as a juror on the corpse of his
victim; and in the half hour that the officer was away, he
suffered the agonies of a thousand horrible deaths himself.
At last the Coroner returned, with a light, in company with
the rest of his jury; and the old hovel was immediately
taken possession of by this officer of the dead.

As the Deacon, the last of the party, stepped over this
late abode of crime, he fairly shook in every limb, and
gasped for breath, and felt that hell itself was within him.