University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE AWFUL DEED.

The reader, who has closely
followed us in our story of
life, cannot have failed to perceive
the marked change
which has taken place in Ar
thur Warren, since his return
from abroad with one he believed
to be his friend; and
the causes of this change are
likewise known to him
Then, he was buoyant, spirited,
and happy—looking
upon life as a bright reality,
unshadowed by clouds; but
now we find him dejected,
dispirited, and gloomy, a prey
to bitter feelings and fancies,
and viewing the world as a
theatre of contention, disappointment,
and vexation,
where he was forced to play
a part ill-suited to a noble confiding
nature. The severest
misanthropes are probably
those who, at one time, have
felt the greatest general love
for mankind; and who, regarding
all men like themselves—honest,
honorable, and
generous to a fault—have
trusted implicitly, with a
whole heart, and been deceived
to an extent they could
not have believed possible;
and which, when convinced
of its reality, has shattered
their whole moral system, by
one tremendous blow, leaving
them a mere wreck of what
they were, with all faith in
humanity destroyed. It is a
fact well known, that the
swiftest running stream, if
suddenly obstructed, will
send its waters backward
with the greatest velocity;
and, as in this case, so in
every other; one extreme, if
suddenly checked, gives us
another directly its opposite.

The angel, fallen from a high
estate of grace, holiness, and
beatitude, becomes a demon
of the worst type; and she,
the most lovely, pure minded,
and virtuous among women,
when once degraded, becomes
the vilest of the vile; and if
she is ever reclaimed, it may
be set down as one of God's
miracles—as an event beyond
the regular order of nature.

In some degree these remarks
will apply to Arthur
Warren; for in just so much
as he had believed mankind
perfect, and fit to be trusted,
he now regarded it as base
and unworthy of confidence;
but as in the former case,
there ever had been with him
considerable qualification, so
he was still prepared to acknowledge
there might he
some good in the world,
though so mixed up with
cunning hypocrisy, as to be received
only with great caution.
after a careful examination
and proper test. There might
be such a thing as pure, disinterested
friendship, he
thought; but the cases of the
reality were at the same time
so rare, that they might be
said to serve as the proper exceptions
to an opposite rule
of action, and by said rule
he resolved henceforth to
abide, and regard friendship
only as a name. He fancied
he had good cause for this uncharitable
resolution; for the
man he had called his dearest
friend, had proved his worst
enemy; and she who had occupied
no trifling place in his
youthful dreams, he now began
to regard as false, and unworthy
of his esteem; but in
this latter he was mistaken;
for his own hasty acts had
compelled appearances against
Marian, when she was really
innocent.

In this gloomy, bitter, morbid
state of mind, Arthur
hurried forward to the inn, to
confront Clifford, ere the village
was much astir. It was
a clear, beautiful morning,
and as he crossed the bridge,
he saw by the golden glory
sent before the sun in the
east, that he was about to
make himself visible. A
lovely, picturesque landscape
lay before him, with diamond
dew drops sparkling on leaf,
and blade, and flower; birds
were singing melodiously
their morning songs, and the
stream murmured sweetly
over its rocky bed; but this
fine combination of sight and
sound harmonized not with
his feelings, and he experienced
no enjoyment from the
scene.

On arriving at the inn, Arthur
found a son of the landlord,
a lad of sixteen, standing
on the piazza, cleaning a gun;
and of him he inquired if
Mr. Clifford was yet stirring.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply;
“he came down about fifteen
minutes ago, and went up
your way. If you came direct
from home, it's a wonder

you didn't meet him. I
reckon he's in sight yet, Mr.
Warren;” and the lad
stepped off the portico, and
looked up the valley. “Yes,
there he goes now,” he continued,
“just beyond your
house. I shouldn't wonder if
he were going up the mountain,
for lately he seems very
fond of a morning ramble.”

“Thank you,” replied Arthur;
and as he turned away,
he muttered to himself, “Now
then shall I be able to meet
him alone, and we will see
who is the coward.”

The traveled road which
ran through the village, as we
have previously said, crossed
the bridge, and continued up
the right bank of the stream,
past the mills and the residence
of Waldegrave and
Warren, when it again crossed
the stream, and took the left
bank through the eastern
pass, and around the base of
a steep mountain. By going
through a field, and over a
steep hill, you could reach
this pass from the inn by
a nearer but less pleasant way
than following the road, and
this nearer course was the one
taken by Arthur.

He had been gone about fifteen
minutes, when Mr. Nixon
appeared on the piazza, and
inquired of his son with whom
he had been speaking.

“Arthur Warren,” was the
reply.

“What did he want?”

“He was asking for Mr.
Clifford, and I told him he'd
gone up the valley, and he
immediately started off after
him.”

“George, you should not
have done this,” said his father,
reprovingly; “for if they
meet, there will surely be a
quarrel.”

“Well, if they want to fight,
I reckon it's best to let 'em,”
said the lad.

“Well, sirrah! I reckon it
isn't,” replied the father sternly.
“I should be sorry to have
the village disgraced by a fight
and besides, if these young
men meet, something more
serious than an ordinary fight
may result from it; and as I
have a regard for both, I am
determined to interfere, though
I may not be thanked for my
pains. Who knows but this
may end in a secret duel? I
will after them; stay you here
till I return.”

Saying this, Mr. Nixon set
off in the direction taken by
Arthur, at a hasty pace. On
reaching the summit of a steep
eminence, about half way between
the village and the upper
pass, he espied Arthur
some half a mile distant, and
a little further on, Ernest Clifford,
both walking very fast.
He shouted to Arthur; but
probably he did not hear, for
he kept straight on, neither
turning his head to the right
nor left. Nixon descended the
hill on a run, and did not
slacken his pace to a walk till
near the pass so often alluded

to, though he failed to overtake
Arthur, of whom and Ernest,
for the last few minutes,
he had lost sight.

In a former chapter, we
gave a brief description of the
wild and gloomy appearance
of the spot where the road left
the valley, winding round the
base of a steep, and overhanging
the stream; and how the
branches of the trees, interlocking,
formed a leafy canopy,
that almost excluded the rays
of the noon-day sun, and at
all times rendered the place
sombre with shadow. It was
now an early hour in the morning—the
sun had not sufficiently
risen above the hill to
throw his rays here at all—
and consequently at the moment
Nixon passed beneath
the trees, the light here was
rather like the approach of
night than that which belongs
to sun-rise. At first, therefore,
he saw nothing distinctly; but
after having advanced some
half a dozen paces, he fancied
he beheld Arthur, about twice
that distance ahead of him,
bending over a dark object,
that lay upon the ground, on
one side of the road. Fearful
of, he scarcely knew what, he
quickened his pace; and as he
drew near, he found that his
conjecture as to Arthur was
correct, and that the object
under inspection was a man,
stretched at full length upon
the earth. Arthur was on his
knees, with his back toward
Nixon, and so disposed that
the latter could only see the
extremities of the person beneath
him—but from what he
did see, he doubted not it
was Clifford.

“What are you doing, Mr.
Warren?” inquired Nixon, in
a tone of slight alarm.

Arthur started up quickly,
for he had not heard the other's
approach, and turning to Nix
on, exhibited a face ghastly
and horrified.

“All merciful heaven!” he
cried—“look here!”

Nixon took a step or two
forward, and uttered an exclamation
of horror. At his feet
lay the bloody corpse of Ernest
Clifford.

“Oh! I feared this,” he
said, turning to Arthur, who
stood as one bewildered, his
fingers convulsively working
with the handle of a large
clasp-knife, whose sanguine
blade too clearly proclaimed it
the instrument with which the
awful deed had been performed.
“Oh, heaven! I feared
this, Arthur Warren,” he repeated:
“and I hastened after
you; but alas! I have come
too late.”

“Then you knew something
of it?” said Arthur, in a quick,
eager, excited tone.

“As I said before, I feared
it, Mr. Warren.”

“Then you have suspicion
of who has done it?” cried
Arthur.

“More than suspicion,” replied
Nixon, pointedly.

“Speak! quick! who is he?

name him!” and Arthur, in his
excitement, would have laid
his bloody hand on Nixon's
arm, but the latter drew quickly
back, with a shudder.

“I have no need to name
him, while he carries such
damning evidence of his
crime,” replied Nixon, pointing
to the other's hands.

Arthur looked down, with
an air of surprise, as if he
did not understand what
was meant; but the moment
his eyes rested on his hands
and the knife, both bloody, an
expression of the most appalling
horror swept over his
handsome countenance; and
letting the knife fall to the
ground, he fairly shrieked:

“Oh! what have I done! I
am lost! I am lost! ruined!
forever ruined! Oh, my father!
oh, my mother! this,
this will be a death-blow to
you both!” and he leaned
against a tree near-by for support.
But suddenly he started
up again, exclaiming with energy:
“No! no! why should
I think so? they cannot, they
will not, they dare not accuse
me! Sir,” he continued, addressing
Nixon, “appearances
are against me; but as God is
my judge, and as I hope for
mercy in another world, I am
not guilty of this deed!”

“I would I could believe
you, Arthur Warren,” returned
the other, with a sorrowful
shake of the head.

“And do you not? can you
believe me capable of so foul
a crime?” cried Arthur, with
passionate energy.

“When one is blinded by
rage, and a desire for revenge,
I believe one may be led to do
a deed, which, in his cooler
moments, he would shrink
from with terror,” was the reply.
“You say, Arthur Warren,
that appearances are
against you; and you say
truly; and whether I believe
you guilty or innocent, can in
no manner affect the past.
The man is dead, that is certain—killed—stabbed
in several
places—and I find you
here, bending over him, your
hands bloody, and a bloody
knife in your hands. What
must I infer? more especially,
when it is well known you and
the deceased quarrelled yesterday,
that you sought him this
morning, and that, on hearing
you had followed him, I followed
you both, lest, without
the interference of a third party,
something like this should
happen.”

“I see! I see!” groaned
Arthur, wringing his hands;
“circumstances have made me
a murderer. Oh, fate! thy
work is done, and I am lost!
But God, who sits above the
tribunals of man, and readeth
the heart, knoweth my innocence.
I did follow Clifford,
to chastise him for the blow
he gave me yesterday—that
is true—but I never contemplated
a deed like this. I
found him as you see him,
with the knife buried in his

heart. I was shocked, bewildered,
horrified; and scarcely
knowing what I did, I stooped
down to see if life were extinct.
My eye falling upon the knife,
I was struck with its resemblance
to one I had recently
lost; and instinctively, as it
were, without a thought of
the consequence, I drew it
forth, and, to my utter astonishment,
found it indeed was
my own. In this manner my
hands became bloody; and I
was examining it as you came
up and surprised me. This,
Mr. Nixon, is the real truth;
but I comprehend sufficiently
the position in which a chain
of circumstances has placed
me, to deem it useless to repeat
my tale.”

“You are right, Mr. Warren,”
was the rejoinder; “it
would be little better than useless
to repeat your story, for I
fear your best friends would
not believe it. Oh, heaven!
this is a sad business; and I
regret that I have any thing
to do with it; but I must back
to the village and report what
I have seen. An inquest must
be held upon this body before
it can be removed. But, Arthur,”
he continued, “I feel
for you deeply, and for your
family; it will be a terrible
blow for them; and whether
innocent or guilty, I for one
would not like to see you arraigned
before the bar of justice;
do you understand me?”

“I know not that I do.”

“Then in plain language, I
would advise you to fly while
opportunity presents; in all
probability, if you go now,
you will escape; I will not
lift a hand to detain you.”

“You mistake me,” said
Arthur, proudly; “though my
very life depended on taking
your counsel, I would not stir
a single step. No, I will abide
my fate, whatever it may be;
none but cowards and the
guilty flee. Come, let us away
at once; you shall tell your
tale, and I will confirm it.
There is a God above us all;
and if it be his decree that I
shall wrongly suffer, so be it;
I can die like a man, strong in
mine own innocence.”

“But think of your friends,
Arthur?”

“No more, Mr. Nixon,”
said Arthur, with stern resolution.
“I know you mean
me well, but you give bad
counsel. Come, there is no
time for delay.”

“You are a noble fellow,”
rejoined Nixon, “and it grieves
me to think of the trouble that
has come upon you. Come,
since you are resolved, let us
go.”

The two accordingly set off
toward the village, following
the road. Both were busy
with their thoughts, but
neither gave voice to them.
When he came opposite his
father's house, Arthur spoke
for the first time since quitting
the presence of the dead.

“By your leave, Mr. Nixon,”
he said, “I will be the one to

break this terrible news to my
parents. Go forward, and tell
your story; but do not reflect
upon me more than is necessary.
Say that I am here, and
voluntarily yield myself up to
the law.”

“I will do as you desire,”
was the answer, and the two
separated.

On reaching the house, Arthur
met his father at the door.

“Ah, I am glad you have
returned Arthur,” said the latter,
“for I was beginning to
grow uneasy at your absence.
It is only within a few minutes
I had learned you had left the
house, which, being unusual
with you at this hour, occasioned
me some surprise.
Whither have you been, my
son? you look pale and agitated.”

“Where is mother?” was
Arthur's only reply.

“In the kitchen, superintending
the breakfast.”

“Pray call her into the parlor!
I have sad news for you
both.”

“Ha! what has happened,
Arthur?”

“I must tell you both at
once. Go, father, hasten, and
call her! for this delay is torture
to me as well as you;”
and as his father departed, Arthur
repaired to the parlor,
and threw himself heavily
upon a seat.

When Mr. and Mrs. Warren
entered the room, they
found Arthur pale as death, his
eyes fixed on the ceiling, with
an abstracted gaze, and apparently
unconscious of every
thing around him. His father
spoke to him, but he did not
heed him; and advancing to
him, Mr. Warren took hold
of his arm, saying, in a tone
of some alarm:

“Arthur! Arthur! why do
you not speak to me?”

The latter turned upon his
father, with a kind of a spasmodic
start, and seemed at
first a little bewildered, as one
suddenly aroused from sleep:
then glancing to the pale face
of his mother, who stood in
anxious expectation, he uttered
a deep groan, and motioned
them to be seated.

“I have shocking news for
you,” he said; “prepare yourselves
for the worst!”

“Go on!” almost gasped his
father, while his mother sank
upon a seat, and fairly held her
breath.

“Ernest Clifford is dead!”
said Arthur, in an agitated
tone.

“Dead!” echoed both his
hearers in the same breath.

“Ay, my dear parents, he
has been murdered.”

“Murdered!” exclaimed
both, with a convulsive gasp of
horror.

“Yes, father—yes, mother
—murdered; and though innocent
as either of you, a chain
of circumstances fixes the horrible
crime upon me.”

“Upon you, Arthur?”
shrieked Mr. Warren, while
Mrs. Warren sank back in her

chair, with a fond mother's
cry of anguish. “Oh, God!
support us in this trying moment!”
pursued the agonised
father. “Oh! this is indeed
terrible news!—but if you are
innocent, Arthur, you can
prove yourself so—surely you
can prove yourself so!”

“Alas!” groaned Arthur—
“buoy yourself up with no
such hope, for it is better that
you be not deceived.”

“Speak! speak, my dear
boy! tell me all! give me all
the particulars, and then I can
judge for myself.”

“But my dear mother—I
fear she will not be able to
bear so much ill news at
once,” said Arthur with wild
emotion. “See! she faints!”

“No, no,” murmured Mrs.
Warren, faintly; “go on, Arthur;
I would know all; I
cannot bear suspense.”

Arthur then proceeded to relate,
in a hurried, excited tone,
much that is known to the
reader; but when he came to
speak of how he had been discovered
by Mr. Nixon beside
the corpse, with his own knife
in his hands, and his hands
red with the blood of the victim,
as they still were, Mrs.
Warren, unable to endure
more, uttered a deep groan,
and fell senseless to the floor.

“See! it has already killed
my dear mother!” he cried,
springing to her side.

Servants were called, and
Mrs. Warren was borne in a
state of unconsciousness to her
own room, and laid upon the
bed, where the usual restoratives
in such cases were applied,
but for a long time
without avail. Pete was sent
in all haste for the village
physician; but ere the latter
arrived, Mrs. Warren had recovered
from her swoom, only,
as it were, to show her afflicted
friends that another heavy
calamity had befallen them—
for, alas! her reason was
gone.

God, in his mercy, has provided
different ways for us to
bear up under the inflictions
he in his wisdom sends; and
one among the rest, is a kind
of stupefaction, which not unfrequently
succeeds to great
and overwhelming griefs. This
was the case with Arthur and
his father. To have judged
merely from their appearance,
as they moved listlessly about
the chamber of the invalid,
one would have pronounced
them indifferent spectators, or
persons under the somniferous
influence of opiates.

On the arrival of Dr. Potter,
who reported the village in
a state of the greatest excitement,
Arthur, in a quiet tone,
said:

“I can no longer be of any
use to my dear mother—therefore
I will retire to my own
room. Save you, father, I
will see no one till the officer
comes to arrest me. I know
my doom, and shall try to
meet it with fortitude, relying
solely upon mine own

innocence and the mercy of
God.”

Arthur had scarcely gained
his own apartment and locked
himself in, when Mr. Waldegrave,
his wife, and Marian
arrived at the house of affliction,
to condole with the now
truly miserable occupants.

“Alas! we know not what
an hour may bring forth,”
were the solemn and impressive
words of Mr. Warren,
as he seized the hand of his
more than brother. “One
hour since, Archer, I was a
happy husband and father.
Now look! the partner of my
bosom lies there, a maniac;
and he, the offspring of my
sunny days—our prop—our
hope—is doomed to worse
than death. Pity me, Archer!
I am wretched.”

“I do, Horatio—I do from
my heart. But cheer up!
all may not be so bad as it
seems. Surely, you did not
think Arthur guilty?”

“I trust in God not; but
the evidence against him will
convict him—of that I feel
certain.”

“Oh! no! no! say not
that!” cried Marian, who
stood by and heard the words;
“say not that! He must, he
shall be saved!”

“Blood for blood! that's
the Mosaic law, and Moses
was a great law giver,”
shrieked the maniac-mother,
starting up in bed.

An icy shudder pervaded
the frame of every one who
heard that awful and seemingly
prophetic denunciation.

“Oh, God! support me!”
groaned Warren.

“I must caution you to be
exceedingly careful of what
is said in the presence of the
patient,” admonished the
Doctor.

Waldegrave, Warren, and
Marian, now quitted the room
together, leaving Mrs. Warren
in the charge of the physician,
Mrs. Waldegrave, and one or
two servants. Mr. Warren
now repeated Arthur's tale to
his friend, and both agreed
that there was little hope of
his being cleared by an intelligent
jury. Marian took
exceptions.

“I know he is innocent,”
she said: “Oh, I would stake
my life on his being innocent!
Would I could see him! oh,
I must see him, if only for a
few minutes.”

A message was accordingly
dispatched to Arthur, to this
effect; but he returned for
answer, that he would see no
one but his father.

“Ah! he is cruel,” said
Marian; and she retired to
give vent to her emotions in
private.

We must now pass briefly
over the events of the day.
A coroner was sent for, and
an inquest held on the body
of the murdered Clifford.
Nixon gave in his testimony,
and the verdict of the jury
was rendered in accordance
with the facts—“That the

deceased came to his death
by means of wounds, inflicted
by a knife, supposed to be in
the hands of Arthur Warren.”

A warrant for the apprehension
of the latter was
accordingly issued; and a
little before night, the sheriff
of the county himself appeared
with it at the house
of Mr. Warren. To some it
may seem a little singular,
that Arthur was not sooner
taken into custody; but the
truth is, he was so universally
known and beloved, his father
stood so high in the esteem
of the community, that no
one cared to act in the matter
with more haste than the law
actually compelled; and had
Arthur taken the advice of
Nixon, and fled, he would
have escaped without difficulty.

The dread officer of the
law was shown to the room
of Arthur by the afflicted
father, and on entering, he
said:

“I have come on an unwelcome
errand, Mr. Warren.”

“You must do your duty
—I have been long expecting
you,” was Arthur's reply.
“I have only one request to
make—that you will hurry
me through the village in a
close carriage—for at present
I am not prepared to see even
my friends.”

“I have anticipated your
desire,” rejoined the sheriff,
“and a covered vehicle is at
the door.”

Arthur now embraced his
agonised father, bade him
remain with his mother, and
giving the sheriff his arm,
hurried down to the carriage.
Quite a crowd was collected
to see him as he appeared;
and Marian stood by the door
through which he passed,
hoping at least he would
speak to her, if only to say
farewell. But she was disappointed;
he did not even
seem to see her; with his
eyes on the ground, looking
neither to the right nor left,
he pressed forward to the
vehicle, which, immediately
on his entering it, was put in
rapid motion.

“And thus the friend of
my youth, my old playmate,
is borne away a prisoner, accused
of a horrible crime!”
cried Marian, with a burst of
grief she could not control.

It was a mournful day in
Walde-Warren—a day long
to be remembered.