University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE PRISONER.

On the following day, Arthur
Warren had an examination
before a magistrate, in
what suits our purpose to call
the town of Bertram, the seat
of the county in which the
fatal deed had been committed.

This examination
was conducted as privately as
possible; but the news of the
murder had spread far and
wide, and as the Warrens
were well known for miles
around, the sensation throughout
the country was immense,
and quite a mob gathered
about the office of the magistrate,
all eager to get a sight
of the prisoner. There were
several persons from Walde-Warren
present, and among
the rest the father of Arthur,
Mr. Waldegrave, and Nixon.
Arthur was pale and dejected,
though composed; but his
father was greatly bowed by
grief, and appeared ten years
older than when we saw him
last. To Arthur's eager inquiries
concerning his mother,
Mr. Warren shook his head,
and replied there had been no
change for the better. For a
few moments Arthur was
deeply affected at this sad
intelligence; but soon regained
his composure, and
taking his father's hand, said:

“Perhaps it is better thus,
for she is unconscious of her
misery. This event will kill
you both, father, and that is
my keenest pang. Were it
not so, I should care little
what becomes of me, for I am
sick of life.”

“Nay, my son, it grieves
me to hear you speak in this
manner,” replied Warren.
“What has come over you of
late to work this change?”

“I have learned that man
kind are false and hollow-hearted,”
answered Arthur,
bitterly; “for where I trusted
most, I have been most deceived—where
I hoped most,
I have been most disappointed.”

“If you refer to Marian in
these remarks,” said Mr. Waldegrave,
who stood by, “let
me assure you, Arthur, you
deeply wrong her, for she has
told me all.”

“I mentioned no names,”
rejoined Arthur, coldly, and
the subject dropped.

The examination of Arthur
elicited no new facts. The
principal testimony, of
course, was that of Nixon;
and that was proof convincing
to all minds that Arthur did
the deed. Even his warmest
friends, not excepting his own
father, believed him guilty of
killing Clifford; and the only
palliation of the crime they
could advance was, that he
did in a moment of temporary
insanity, and on the return
of reason, found himself
beside his gory victim. This
was improbable, it is true;
but they reasoned it was possible;
and his father clung to
it as his only stay against the
conviction that his son was a
homicide. Others thought the
two might have met, and
quarreled, and that Arthur
killed him in the heat of passion—it
might be in self-defence—and
were surprised he
should persist in denying it,
as an open acknowledgment

would do him less harm. Of
all that heard the details of
the case, not a single soul,
with the exception of poor
Marian, believed Arthur Warren
guiltless of the death of
Ernest Clifford; and she,
fondly loving, took counsel
of her heart rather than her
head.

For the question immediately
arose, if Arthur killed
not Clifford, who did? and for
what purpose. The day before
they had quarreled—
Ernest had struck Arthur—
Arthur had said the stigma
could only be effaced by blood
—had sought Ernest that
morning—had followed him
—had been followed by one
who naturally feared such a
catastrophe—had been found,
stained with the murdered
man's blood, beside the body,
with the knife that had done
the deed—his own knife, too,
as he himself admitted, in his
hands. Besides all this, Ernest
had only been dead a few
minutes at the farthest—for
both had been seen by Nixon
from the hill, at no great distance
apart—and the deceased's
watch, money, and
several valuable articles, had
been found untouched on his
person—showing that no robbery
had been committed—
the only motive it was supposed
any one else would
have in perpetrating the deed.
Added to all this, it was an
early hour in the morning,
when but few people were
stirring, and the very last
time to think of any one being
abroad for the purpose of
plunder. Could there be a
stronger case of circumstantial
evidence? Reader, you
to whom the heart of Arthur
Warren has in a degree been
exposed, have you a doubt
that his hand struck the blow
that deprived Ernest Clifford
of life?

And yet sweet Marian
Waldegrave believed him
innocent. Such is love.

Notwithstanding this formidable
array of circumstances
against him, it was
decided to admit Arthur to
bail—but the amount was
fixed at ten thousand dollars.
His father, rejoiced at the idea
of having him at liberty, at
once offered the necessary
securities; but to the surprise
of all, Arthur refused to be
set free.

“No,” he said, “give me
the solitude of the prison—I
care not if it be a dungeon—
where no eye but that of God,
who knoweth the heart, can
behold me. I thank you,
friends—deeply thank you—
thank you from my heart, for
your sympathy; but I can
read in the eyes of all—ay,
even of you, father—the conviction
that my hand slew
Clifford—and I will not go
forth branded even with the
suspicion of being a homicide.
I wish to be tried, impartially
tried, by a jury of my countrymen;
and if they pronounce

me guilty, I will meet
my fate like a man. I can
die but once, and I prefer
even death to a life of disgrace.”

These few remarks made
a deep impression on those
who heard them, and did
more to convince his hearers,
that, if guilty of the death of
Ernest, he was innocent of
murder, than the strongest
reasoning which could have
been brought to bear upon
these subjects. In vain his
father urged, and plead, that
he would suffer himself to be
released from confinement;
he steadily refused; and finally,
to end the matter, declared,
in the most positive terms,
that if bailed, he would leave
the country; and turning to
the magistrate, concluded
thus:

“Sir, after what I have said,
you dare not accept securities
for my appearance.”

He was therefore remanded
to prison; and his father returned
to Walde-Warren, with
his friends, nearly heart-broken.

The case of Arthur being
laid before the grand jury, a
true bill for murder in the
first degree was found against
him, and his trial fixed for
the fall term of the circuit
court.

For several days Arthur
gave himself up to gloomy
meditations, refusing to see
any one but his father, his
counsel, and the jailor. He
became morose, misanthropic,
and what he said was tinged
with a certain bitterness that
was not always pleasant to
hear. After a time he began
to grow peevish, restless, and
his eyes assumed a peculiar
glare, that seemed to betoken
a gradual approach of insanity.
His father, who visited him
almost daily—though the distance
between Bertram and
Walde-Warren was some ten
miles, which he not unfrequently
rode in the night, for
he took such times as he could
best be spared from his afflicted
wife—became alarmed
lest the son should eventually
be like the mother; and called
in a very eminent physician,
who, after an hour's conversation
with Arthur, gave it as
his opinion, that the terrible
malady was advancing upon
him, caused by great disappointment,
and the continual
brooding upon one subject;
and said that unless his mind
could be diverted into another
channel, the loss of reason
must certainly follow.

In the prison Arthur enjoyed
unusual privileges; his cell
was the pleasantest, and best
ventilated; was carpeted, and
furnished with every comfort
—a good bed, table, and chairs
—and the walls were adorned
with pictures of a quiet and
cheerful nature; the best of
viands tempted his appetite,
and he was informed that he
could leave his cell and walk
in the prison yard at certain

hours of the day; but notwithstanding
all this, the change
we have spoken of had begun
to take place, and the physician
advised his father to try
him with books, as the only
remedy he could suggest. This
was a happy idea, Mr. Warren
thought, for Arthur had
always been fond of books;
and the next day a fine library
of poetry, romance, history,
and scientific works was
placed before him. Arthur
seemed surprised; and though
he said little, his father was
rejoiced to see his eye brighten
with something of its wonted
look.

From this time there was a
perceptible alteration for the
better; the gloom of his countenance
gradually lightened;
his moroseness gradually forsook
him; his language grew
more cheerful and less bitter;
and ere a month had rolled
away, Arthur seemed more
like himself than at any time
since the first week of Clifford's
arrival in Walde-Warren.
Still he retained much
of his misanthropical feelings,
and refused all visitors, save
such as came on business.

“Urge me not to see any
one,” he would say to his father,
“for my best company
is solitude and these books;
and should I be pronounced
innocent on my trial, of which
I have no hope, I think I shall
forsake the world and turn
anchorite. I have been grossly
deceived in mankind; and
though I still believe the
world contains good and honest
hearts, yet they are far
too few, and I would not
search a field of stubble for a
grain of wheat. These books,
my dear father, deceive me
not, for I expect no more from
them than I get. Besides,
they suit all my varying humors,
and their name is legion.
If poetically inclined, here
can I sit and converse with
the great masters of song; if
I want to increase my knowledge,
what better than these
works of science?—would I
dive into the shadowy past,
behold these chronicles of ancient
times; would I have life
pictured with its lights and
shades, see here is reality under
the title of fiction; and
last, though not least, when I
would turn my thoughts to a
better state of existence,
where none deceive nor are
deceived—where all see as
they are seen, and know as
they are known—behold the
Bible, God's blessed word of
truth, wherein is taught meekness,
patience, forbearance,
forgiveness, charity, benevolence,
long-suffering, and all
the nobler and holier attributes.
What need I more,
father?”

One day Mr. Warren appeared
before his son, with a
more cheerful countenance
than he had exhibited since
the tragic event.

“Good news, Arthur!” he
said,—“good news! Your

mother is much better; and
Dr. Potter tells me, with
careful nursing, and the avoidance
of all exciting topics, her
reason may soon be restored;
there is a glimmering, as of
the dawning of intellect.”

“Well, for your sake, father,”
returned Arthur, “I
am rejoiced at this; though,
as I said before, I feel it is
better for her to be unconscious
of her misery.”

Arthur now, to the surprise
of his father, inquired
what was the general feeling
toward him in the village—a
question he had never asked
during his confinement—and
what is more, had strictly forbidden
the mention of a single
event, beyond what concerned
his mother, of the
world without.

“Why, my son,” answered
the other, “the feeling is all
in your favor; and thanks to
sweet Marian—heaven's blessing
on her!—there are many
who begin to think you may
be innocent after all.”

“Marian?” said Arthur,
with a touch of feeling,
and a quickening of the
blood: “does she then think
me innocent?”

“Yes, and has positively
declared it from the first.”

“Why have I not known
this?” said Arthur, with increased
emotion.

“Because you would not.
Did you not forbid the mention
of her name in your presence?
and when I bore her
earnest entreaty that you
would see her, did you not refuse
in terms of scorn and indignation?”

“I did, I did,” replied Arthur,
“for I believed her
false.”

“Oh! Arthur, cried his father—“how
have you wronged
that girl!—and oh! how
much has she suffered, in silence,
without a murmur!
Daily does she come to ask
after you—to know if you
once mentioned her name—
and daily goes she back weeping,
and almost broken-hearted.
Arthur, why have you
treated her thus?—how could
you think her false? You
must have been blind—wilfully
blind—not to have seen,
not to have known, not to
have felt, that her heart is
yours, wholly yours, and has
ever been! I am glad that
you have introduced the subject,
my son, that I may speak
freely. Oh! you know not
the anguish I have suffered on
her account, when to her daily
calls, I have had no kind message
to bear from you to her,
to revive her drooping spirits.
Arthur, do not be offended, if I
say I think you have been cruel
—very, very cruel—and if you
persist in the course begun,
she will not long be here to
trouble you—for I can see
her fading away, day by
day.”

“Oh, I am a wretch!” cried
Arthur, with a burst of emotion
he no longer tried to control.

“I am a wretch! I see
it all;” and he covered his
face and groaned. “If she
is true,” he continued—“if
she loves me, I have indeed
deceived myself; and the
fruit of my base, unmanly
suspicions and conduct, is all
the misery that has been
brought upon us. If she is
true, then is the world not so
bad as I have thought it.
Poor Marian! if I have
so wronged her, I shall never
forgive myself—but heavily
have I been punished already.
Ah! what strange mortals we
are! and how much of our
happiness or misery dates
with ourselves—finds its fountain
head in our hearts! Do
you think she will forgive me,
father?”

“You shall ask her that
question yourself, Arthur; and
after what has passed, it is no
more than right you should.”

“Father, I would see her
alone; will she come to me,
think you?”

“Do you then doubt her
still?”

“But I have so wronged
her.”

“She grieves, Arthur, but
harbors no unkind thought;
she would give her life for
your's, I am certain.”

“Say no more, father! say
no more! I cannot bear more.
Oh, bid her come to me to-morrow!
and I will make all
the reparation in my power:
alas! that is but little.”

“This will be the happiest
night she has known for many
a troubled week,” replied Mr.
Warren; “and I will hasten
home to glad her aching
heart.”

“Fly! father—fly! oh,
lose not a moment! Can it
be that the night of my adversity
is already breaking
into morn? Yes, it must be
so—else why does the bright
star of hope which I fain
would think precedes the
dawn of prosperity, shed its
mild and cheering rays upon
my heart? Fly! father—fly!
and say what you will—but
make happy the heart of dear
Marian!”

For more than an hour after
his father left him, Arthur
paced the floor of his cell in
great agitation; and then
throwing himself upon the
bed, gave vent to his feelings
in a flood of tears—the first
he had shed within the walls
of his prison.

Oh, tears! blessed tears!
happy are they who can weep;
for mighty griefs too oft make
dry the founts of the soul —
and burning thought, unquenched,
consumes the heart.