University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
CONCLUSION.

A week or so had passed
away after the trial, when one
day, as Arthur sat with his
mother—who, since his restoration
to her, had, as the physician
predicted, recovered her
reason—he heard the clatter
of horse's hoofs; and looking
out of the window, he espied
George Nixon, the son of the
inn-keeper, advancing up the
road with his horse on a keen
run. Almost the next moment
he reined up to the house,
sprang from the back of the
panting beast, and rapped on

the door. Apprehensive of
some new calamity, Arthur
sprung to and opened it, while
his mother's eyes assumed the
wildness of fear.

“The very person!” cried
the boy. “Quick! Mr. Warren—mount
that horse, and
ride to the White Deer, as fast
as you can!”

“What is the matter?”
gasped Arthur; “what has
happened?—my father—”

“No, no, nothing of the
kind. There's a man, a
stranger, there, that's dying,
they say, and he wants to see
you before he dies—that's all
I know.”

“Do not be alarmed, mother—I
will be back presently;”
and catching up his hat,
Arthur rushed out, mounted
upon the back of the horse,
and in less than two minutes
dismounted at the White
Deer.

“This way! quick, Arthur!”
cried Nixon, running
out to meet him; and the next
moment the two were ascending
the stairs, three at a time.

They entered a small bedchamber;
and there, stretched
out on the bed, Arthur beheld
a wan, haggard, miserable
looking object, with wild
bloodshot eyes, long matted
beard and hair, who seemed
by his convulsive gasps, the
nervous twitching of the muscles
of his face, and the
clenching and unclenching of
his hands, to be in the last
agonies of mortal suffering.
There were two or three persons
round the bed, gazing
upon the sufferer, who drew
back as Nixon and our hero
rushed in.

“This is Arthur Warren,”
said the former.

The dying man turned
quickly upon him, and gasped
forth, in a faint tone, which
he struggled to make strong:

“Do you know me?”

Arthur gazed upon him a
moment and then, with
strange emotions, which the
reader will readily understand,
cried, in a quick, eager tone:

“Yes! yes! you are the
man I saw in the wood, on the
day—”

“On the day a villain
spurned me with his foot,”
cried the stranger, interrupting
him with fierce energy,
while his face became livid
with rage. “But,” he added,
with a gleam of triumph, “I
got my revenge all in good
time, and so let him go. I did
you a service there, and an
injury too, for which I ask
your forgiveness. There, don't
interrupt me! my minutes
are numbered—and I have
not said all I would. I have
dragged myself hither, Arthur
Warren, at the last moment,
to see you once more, to do
you justice, and ask you to forgive
me. Bear witness all here
present, that a dying man,
with his last words, avows that
he alone killed Ernest Clifford,
and that Arthur Warren
is innocent of the crime! Yes,

it happened thus,” he continued,
fixing his eyes upon
Arthur. “After you were
gone, I found a knife lying at
my feet. I kept it for the
purpose of taking the life of
Clifford. I did not know it
was yours, and what trouble
it would bring upon you, or I
would not have used it. Well,
to be brief. I procured food,
and afterward took up my
abode on that mountain, in a
sort of cave that overlooks the
valley, there to wait my
chance to settle with the man
I hated. It was a long time
coming, but it came at last.
By chance, one morning, I
saw Clifford approaching the
pass, as you term it here, I
believe. Something whispered
me fate had sent him to
his doom; and I hastened
down, and took up a position
behind a tree, at the very spot
where he insulted me. I might
have killed him elsewhere
sooner, perhaps; but that
seemed the only place proper
to revenge myself upon him.
Well, he came up, and I made
quick work of it. Just as I
had drove the knife through
his heart, I heard steps, and
secreted myself down the
bank. There I overheard all
that passed between you and
the innkeeper here; and I
felt deeply troubled lest I had
ruined you. More than once
I was on the point of reappearing,
and confessing the
deed; but somehow, I could
not bear the thought of being
dragged before a bar of justice,
and I did not exactly want to
kill myself; and so I remained
secreted till you were gone,
and then went back to my
home on the mountain, determined
to stay about here till
you had had your trial; and if
convicted, I was resolved to
appear in time to save you.
You know the rest. With joy
I overheard some persons passing
along the road say that
you were acquitted. That
night I was seized with a fever,
and have been sick ever
since. Last night I thought
I was dying; but I struggled
not to die, till I had seen you,
and done you justice; and I
believe my will gave me new
strength, and chained my spirit
here a little longer. I dragged
myself hither this morning,
and here I shall end a miserable
existence. Do you forgive
me, Arthur Warren?”

“All that concerns myself
I forgive, as I hope myself to
be forgiven,” was Arthur's
magnanimous reply.

“Thank you!” replied the
stranger; “for the rest I must
take my chance.”

“But will you not tell us
who you are, and whence you
came?”

“No, my secret must perish
with me. I have seen better
days, and there are those
living whom news of me would
trouble. Suffice it, that I have
been a bold, bad man, with

few virtues and many crimes.
There, go your way, my end
has come.”

The stranger had all along
spoken with great difficulty,
and as he pronounced the last
words, he fetched a long, convulsive
gasp, and his dark
spirit was in the eternal world.

“Thank God!” said Arthur,
as he gazed upon him—
“the only stain upon my character,
is, by this confession,
removed.”

The fall passed away, winter
came and went, and on a
calm, pleasant spring day,
about a year from the date of
our story, a group of several
persons stood before the altar
of the village sanctuary of
Walde-Warren. Never did
Arthur Warren look more
noble and manly—never did
Marian Waldegrave appear
more sweet and lovely—than
as they stood before the sacred
desk, hand in hand, and took
upon them the holy vows
which made them one by the
covenant of marriage.

The parents of both parties
were present, as were most of
the villagers. When the ceremony
was over, Mr. Warren
grasped the hand of
his friend, the father of the
bride, and in a voice of deep
emotion said:

“Archer, the hour we have
both prayed for has come at
last. The night of wo is past
—the morning of joy is here
—and let us daily petition the
Great Ruler of the universe,
that the sun of our prosperity
and happiness may never
again set!”

“Amen!” was the heartfelt
response.

Many years have since
passed away, but the bright
sun of happiness still shines
upon the valley of Walde-Warren;
and Arthur and
Marian, blessed with worthy
descendants, are still happy
in the love and companionship
of each other.