True womanhood a tale |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. | CHAPTER X. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
 | CHAPTER X. True womanhood |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
As Arthur was hurrying back for Julia, his attention was
attracted by low murmuring sounds in the passage-way, and as
he drew near, he found Julia just parting with the stranger, who
stood before her, with locked hands and a trembling earnestness
of manner, which convinced him that something serious had happened.
Julia was very pale, and she tottered in her step as she took
Arthur's arm; and thrusting a folded paper into her bosom,
said to the mysterious visitor, — “You shall hear from us the
moment we are settled. Any letter or message left for me at
the apothecary's shop, where you first saw me, will be safe.
Meanwhile, I beg of you to bear up, and put your trust in the
Lord.”
“Thank you, thank you, my dear young lady.”
“And be very patient and hopeful. The sickness of your
child may not be unto death, and I may be able to see her to-morrow,
or the next day, perhaps, at furthest.”
“God forever bless you! if the poor thing could only sleep, I
should feel encouraged; but to lie there night after night without
closing her eyes, or losing herself, so far as I can see, for a
single moment, is very alarming; and all the more, as she seems
to have lost all inclination for sleep.”
“And you, Madam, — I wonder you are not all worn out with
anxiety and watching.”
“Mothers are not easily worn out, my dear; and as I manage
to have a little rest every day, after we have got her up and put
the room in order, I do not feel my strength giving way, nor even
my courage,” — wiping a tear, and then dropping a low curtsy,
— “but I am detaining you.”
Julia touched her hand in reply, as Arthur hurried her off to
the dinner-table, wondering more and more at what he had just
heard and seen. To hear Julia cal her Madam, and the next
moment to see the woman drop a housekeeper's curtsy, puzzled
him exceedingly.
“Not a word of all this to Aunt Elizabeth, till I have had a
consultation with her,” said Julia, just as they entered the large
dining-hall. “Nor to Uncle George, — we may want your help
hereafter; and then you shall know, if not everything, at least
enough to satisfy you that Mrs. Archibald is no beggar, and no
impostor, but a gentlewoman who has seen better days, and well
deserves our sympathy.”
“Thank you, dear Julia, for your confidence in me; and may
I not add, for your kindness to that poor woman, after my harshness;
— and by the way, that reminds me of my promise to beg
her pardon; but you will do it for me, if you see her before I do,
will you not?”
“Certainly.”
As Julia took her place at the table, her aunt and uncle, who
sat opposite, looked up, and were about to ask a question; but
were prevented by a sign from Arthur, who had reason to fear
that listeners and eaves-droppers were about them; two or three
at the table, and one at least behind his uncle's chair.
Julia was very pale and silent, and though she tasted of whatever
was put before her, and allowed Arthur to choose for her,
whenever she was questioned, she ate nothing, and found it no
easy matter to swallow even two or three spoonfuls of the warm
soup. Her aunt was troubled, and poor Arthur hardly knew
which way to look, — for turn whither he would, he saw that all
eyes were upon poor Julia, with an expression of mingled wonder
and pity; and he heard, moreover, not a little whispering, and
saw signals interchanged above and below them, on both sides of
the table; and once, when he turned to speak to the waiter, he
caught him in the very act of passing a card which had been
placed in her napkin, with Mr. Pendleton's name upon it in pencil,
to another waiter, who handed it, after a few minutes had
gone by, to a person at the door, in the garb of a policeman.
Arthur had watched the whole procedure, and felt sure that he
a piece of impertinence — well meant or otherwise — should have
caused him a moment's uneasiness. That it had done so, — and
that he was uncomfortable, without knowing why, — he was soon
obliged to acknowledge to himself, not being able to swallow
another mouthful, after he saw the card passed over to the policeman.
There was little or no conversation at the table; and though
Julia was urged and entreated to take a little of this, and a very
little of that, as one dish after another went off untouched, and
especially, to try a glass of smooth old port, like mother's milk,
which would do her good, or at least a glass of champagne, that
“could hurt nobody,” she persisted in refusing altogether, or in
touching and tasting so daintily, that her aunt saw the reason to
be, not so much the headache, or the weariness, of which Arthur
had told her, as a downright heart-sickness, and sheer inability
to swallow.
As they left the table, and the waiters were bustling about,
setting back the chairs, and making way for them on both
sides, Arthur caught another view of the policeman, evidently
on the watch, just outside of the large door, and saw another
signal pass between two of the waiters, like a telegraph-message,
just as Major Pendleton led off, with Mrs. Maynard on his
arm.
Hurrying forward, he was not a little astonished to see two
other odd-looking personages, evidently out of place and ill at
ease, lurking about the broad passage-way, and keeping up, as it
appeared to him, while the party were passing through, a constant
communication, by looks, at least, if not by signals, with
each other; and on turning his head, as they reached the bottom
of the nearest stairway leading to their apartments, he saw all
three of these very suspicious-looking gentlemen following in their
wake, but with a careless loitering air, and not as if they had anything
to do with one another; and yet the first wore a badge,
and the other two were evidently on duty.
As the Major entered the parlor, one of the two stepped forward,
as if to speak to him, but was instantly recalled to the
proprieties of the service by telegraph; and the last thing Arthur
main stairway, just as the parlor-door was shut upon all outsiders.
“Aunt Elizabeth,” said Julia, before they had time to be seated,
“can you give me a few minutes in your chamber?”
“Certainly, my love, or in yours; I am afraid, brother, we
shall not be able to get away to-night; you see how very ill poor
Julia looks.”
“No, no, dear aunt,” said Julia, almost wildly. “To-night,
to-night, — I beg of you! All my arrangements are made for
going home to-night.”
“Home, Julia!”
“And I would not stay here another night for the whole world,
Uncle George. That I am far from being well, dear aunt, I
acknowledge; and that is one reason why I am so very anxious
to get away, — it would never do for me to be taken ill here, you
know.”
“Right, my poor child,” said her uncle; “you want a home,
and a home you shall have this very night, God willing.”
At this moment somebody rapped at the door; and as it opened,
a waiter handed a card to Mr. Pendleton, — the very card which
had given Arthur so much uneasiness at the dinner-table. On it
something was written in pencil.
On reading it, and glancing his eye into the passage-way, —
where he must have seen all three of the policemen, if they were
policemen, — his countenance flushed, and then grew suddenly
pale, — pale as death. “Show them up to my chamber,” said
he to the waiter, “I will be there in five minutes.”
“The waiter delivered the message in a whisper; but the gentlemen
shook their heads, and begged the Major not to hurry
himself; they were in no hurry, and would rather wait for him
there.”
“Confound the fools!” cried Arthur, seeing through every
subterfuge the uneasiness Uncle George was trying to conceal;
“let me speak to them; I will pack them off about their business
in double quick time, if you say so.”
“Thank you, Arthur; but as we are going away to-night, and
they will not know where to find us to-morrow,” — here one of
“I may as well see them now, perhaps.”
At this moment another signal was interchanged, and Arthur
was quite sure that he heard a laugh, and then a low, half-smothered
giggle, as if others were on the watch, and not very far off.
His blood began to be troublesome; and all the more, when his
mother and Julia withdrew, — Julia more dead than alive, he remembered
afterwards, when she came suddenly upon the policeman
with the badge, and turned with such a piteous expression
of terror, to look at her uncle, and then at him, — perhaps the
poor child remembered what had happened just there to her
brother only a little time before; and it might be that her heart
died away within her at the recollection. Whatever it was, her
look haunted him for many a long day, and he never could think
of it afterward, without a shudder, and something of remorse and
shame that he had not understood her better.
“Now you may show them in here, if you please, waiter,”
said Mr. Pendleton. “And, Arthur, you may leave us together
awhile; but don't be out of the way when you are wanted.”
As the waiter delivered the message, two of the men stepped
forward together, and marching abreast, with the regular tramp
of a night-patrol, stopped in the passage-way, near the door,
while the foremost entered alone and shut the door after him.
Mr. Pendleton stood up with a steady serious look to receive
him, and the man faltered, as he handed him a folded paper without
speaking; which he opened hurriedly, glanced over, and then
threw upon the table, as one might a dinner-card.
“What am I to understand by this? that I am your prisoner,
I suppose?”
The man bowed.
“And the paper you have there in your hand, is what you
call your warrant, hey?”
The man bowed again, without speaking.
“Please read it.”
“Perhaps you had better run your eyes over it yourself, Sir;
there may be listeners.”
“Very true — thank you,” said Mr. Pendleton, looking at the
paper with dim eyes and shaking hands, yet speaking in a clear,
and who, whatever he may have expected, is always prepared for
the worst, and never to be taken by surprise. “But,” he added,
after a short struggle, “I desire to know whether I am to go
with you at once, or whether I may not answer the charge to-morrow,
as we have made arrangements for leaving the St.
Nicholas to-night, and are all going over to Long Island together.”
“Well, Sir,” said the man, evidently struck with the bearing
of the Major, and with his great gentleness of manner, “although
you are my prisoner, and I am answerable for your appearance
to-morrow, I do not see why you may not be allowed to carry
out your arrangements for the evening, and get your family
settled, — and, perhaps, without allowing them to know a word of
the business, — if,” — eyeing him from head to foot, and literally
taking the measure of his magnificent proportions, inch by inch,
— “if we could be sure of you.”
“Sure of me! What mean you, Sir?”
“Why,” — with a wink, — “you might slip through our fingers,
you know, as a gentleman did here, not long ago; but if you
choose to go in a carriage with me and one of my friends, just
outside the door — the short man you see there — Sergeant Libbey,
Sir, — a perfect gentleman, Sir, I assure you, — I think we
might manage to accommodate you; and then, after your family
were safe, you might come back with us, you know.”
Mr. Pendleton was provoked; but seeing by the man's countenance
that what he said was all in good faith, and well meant,
he answered by touching the bell, and asking the waiter to go for
Mr. Maynard.
“Arthur,” said he, as soon as the startled young man appeared,
“you must take charge of the ladies; I have business that must
be attended to, and I beg of you to make my excuses, — you will
hear from me to-morrow; and you may say to Julia, if you
please, that what I foresaw has happened at last, though somewhat
sooner than I expected. Tell her to be of good cheer,
Arthur; and say to my dear sister, that `whom the Lord loveth,
he chasteneth.' Do not leave them, Arthur, till you hear from
me; and let nothing prevent you from getting them over to-night,
she must have; and you may tell them, too, that I have set my
house in order.”
There was something awful in the sound of his uncle's voice,
and something that Arthur never forgot, in the look of his eyes,
and in the working of his mouth, as he said these few words, —
“Tell them, too, that I have set my house in order,” and he began
to feel a foreboding he durst not acknowledge to himself, and
which it cost him a severe struggle to get over.
“Will you not see them, Sir, and say good-night, yourself,
before you go?”
“No, my dear boy. I have no time — no heart just now —
and they are in consultation above. Good-night, Arthur, — good-night!”
“Good-night, Uncle George! — but stay! why not leave them
both here to-night, and allow me to go with you?”
“No, Arthur. To-night, I insist on their leaving New York.
Dead or alive, they must go. The associations are too painful
here; and if Julia should be taken ill where we now are, I would
not answer for her life.”
“Enough. This night they shall go, as you desire — dead or
alive!”
Arthur had all sorts of misgivings; but he spoke cheerfully,
and lost no time, after his uncle went away, in completing all the
arrangements exactly as they had been projected, so that long
before midnight they were all at home — at home, like St. Paul,
“in their own hired house” — and happier than they had been
for months, not to say for whole years, notwithstanding the absence
of Uncle George, and the mysterious events of the evening.
Poor Julia! strong as her faith had been, that dreadful badge,
and the more dreadful expression of her uncle's eyes, when they
encountered hers, just as she was stealing away with her Aunt
Elizabeth, had shaken it more than she durst acknowledge to
herself. But she was not wholly disheartened — not altogether
hopeless. Of late, her good uncle had shown so steadfast and
cheerful a determination, that the more she considered the circumstances,
the better satisfied she was that he would not be
left nor forsaken. For this, in the midst of her anguish and
whenever she awoke. But she slept nevertheless, and, greatly
to her astonishment, found herself refreshed and tranquillized,
and wholly free from headache and nervous apprehension, and
from that sinking of the heart which had so long troubled her;
and when she entered the snug little breakfast-room, and found it
so comfortable, and looking so cheerful and pleasant, and saw
her aunt sitting by the fire, just as if she had settled at last into
what she had so long been hoping for — a home — she found it
no easy matter to control her feelings; and but for the sudden appearance
of Arthur, she would have thrown herself weeping into
the arms of her aunt, like an overwearied child. Yet she wondered
at herself; and when Arthur stopped short, and looked
first at her, and then at his mother, as if to satisfy himself that
she was really the same helpless creature he had lifted out of
the carriage the night before, and almost carried into the house,
there was an expression of mingled astonishment and joy on his
fine countenance which brought the color to her cheeks.
“Well, mother, how do you like your new home?” said he,
drawing a chair up to her side, taking her hand between both of
his, and kissing it.
His mother turned toward him with such a happy, quiet smile,
that he needed no other answer.
“And you, Cousin Julia, — how do you like it?”
“Like it, Arthur! — I have not felt so much at home for
years!”
“But Julia has not been over the cottage, as I have,” said his
mother. “She has only seen this dear little room, as we found
it last night after our long ride in the dark, with a pleasant fire
to welcome us, and the supper-table spread, — not for her, but
for others, poor child!”
“You forget my own little chamber; that also I have had
time to see, though I went into it half asleep, like a bird into
her nest, after a long and wearisome flight. O, how thankful
ought we to be!”
“But,” continued Mrs. Maynard, with a slight quiver in her
voice, “I should like to know where brother is, and when
we are to look for him. Do you know anything of the nature
strangely?”
As the inquiry was not directed to Julia, by name, — for
which, by the way, she was very thankful, — she began to busy
herself with the breakfast arrangements, leaving Arthur to
reply.
“No, mother,” said he; “but he will be with us, you may be
sure, the moment he can do so; and if prevented, we shall be
certain to hear from him.”
“Of course; but, between ourselves, Arthur, I did not much
like the behavior of that rough-looking man, who stood just outside
the door, as we went by.”
Arthur tried a faint laugh, but failed; and Julia had occasion
to go to the nearest window.
“No,” continued his mother, “there was an ill-bred, almost
insolent air, which it struck me that brother found somewhat
offensive, and was about to rebuke in the foremost of the three,
when he refused to go up stairs.”
Arthur found that his mother had seen more, and heard more,
than he had supposed, and was casting about in his mind for a
pretence to steal away, when a sudden exclamation from Julia
took him to the window.
“A carriage!”
“A carriage, Julia? I dare say it is brother.”
“No, it is a stranger, — he is beckoning to the girl, — and now
he gives her a note, — and now a card, upon which he has just
written something, — and now the horses' heads are turned away.
What can it mean?”
“Poh, poh! Julia! don't get nervous again, I beg of you.
I will go and see for myself.”
The carriage drove off, and Arthur soon returned with a note
in Mr. Pendleton's handwriting, and a card, which he handed to
his mother, without speaking.
Mrs. Maynard opened the note first, and after running her
eyes over it once or twice, read it aloud. It ran thus: —
“Dear Elizabeth, — I hope to be at home to-day. Be of
good cheer. The gentleman who hands you this — Mr. Winthrop
Fay — is my legal adviser just now. He may desire to
doing.
God. Believe also in me.'”
On the card of Mr. Fay was written: “You may look for me
within the hour; and it may be well for Miss Parry and Mr.
Maynard to be prepared for a short drive.
“How strange!” said Julia.
“Odd enough, to be sure,” added Arthur.
“What a pity we did not ask him in to breakfast,” said Mrs.
Maynard. “But we have no time to lose; come, come, — let
us be ready for him, if you please, children; for if he is the
man I think, he may be here within the hour.”
Breakfast over, and a chapter in the Bible read, and a word of
thanksgiving and supplication breathed, Julia and Arthur hurried
off to equip themselves for the ride.
By the time they were ready the carriage appeared, hurrying
very fast round the foot of a distant hill; and when it drew up,
the door was flung open, and a gentleman wearing a shawl and
a foraging-cap, and muffled up to the eyes, jumped out upon the
piazza, without waiting for the steps to be let down, and hurried
into the house.
After a word of greeting, he begged to see Mrs. Maynard by
herself, handing another card to Miss Julia, as she and Arthur
withdrew.
“Allow me, if you please, Madam,” said he, “to waive all ceremony,
and come at once to the point. Your brother assures
me that I may communicate freely with you. Shall I speak
plainly?”
“If you please.”
“Do you know what your brother is charged with?”
“Charged with! I do not understand you, Sir!”
“I am glad of it, Madam. Will you permit me to inquire if
you know what the business was, which took him away so unexpectedly
last evening, just as you were about to go away all
together from the St. Nicholas?”
“I have not the least idea, I assure you, Mr. Fay.”
“Have you no suspicion?”
“Suspicion, Sir!”
“That is — you will excuse me, my dear Madam, but I am
obliged to use the plainest language, so that I may not be misunderstood
— you will forgive my abruptness therefore.”
“Say no more, Mr. Fay. My brother's word is enough. You
are his legal adviser, and I am ready to answer all your questions,
and to do whatever you may advise.”
“But you have not answered my last question.”
“Indeed! what was it, Sir?”
“I asked if you had no suspicion of the business that took
your brother away.”
“None whatever.”
“Enough. I am satisfied. Allow me to see Miss Parry for
five minutes.”
“With all my heart, Sir; but have you nothing more to communicate?”
“Nothing more, at present. After talking with her, I may
have something to say, — not much however.”
Mrs. Maynard was very much struck with the gentleman's
bearing, and straightforward, business-like manner. Though
comparatively young for a professional man of such reputation
as he must have had, to enjoy the confidence of her brother at
such a time, there was a grave courtesy, and withal a sort of
peremptoriness in all he did or said, which betokened a large
experience in the weightier business of life; but there was no
time for further investigation; and she withdrew, promising to
send Julia immediately.
Julia soon appeared, somewhat pale and anxious, and carrying
in her hand the open note which her aunt had received, to prepare
them, and the card from her uncle to her, on which he had
written, “Talk freely with Mr. F — as you would with me.
Have no concealments. Everything may depend on his knowing
all that you know. And then you will be safe, as I have told
Elizabeth, in following his advice.”
After handing a chair to Julia, and satisfying himself that
the door was both ear-proof and eye-proof, by turning down
“May I ask, Miss Parry, if you know the nature of the business
that took Major Pendleton away so suddenly last evening?”
“No, Sir.”
Mr. Fay looked surprised; but after a moment of consideration
he added, with a most encouraging smile, —
“Have you any suspicion of the truth, do you think?”
“I think I have, Sir.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“I should not answer such a question, you may be sure, Mr.
Fay, but for what my dear uncle has written here, upon this
card, which you have seen, perhaps.”
“Yes, it was written in my presence, read aloud to me, and
then put into my hands for you, that no time should be lost in
explanations or cross-questioning.”
“Well then, I must acknowledge,” — her voice trembled and
so did her eyelashes, and she no longer looked Mr. Fay in the
face, — “I must acknowledge that when I saw the policeman's
badge, and heard the whispering at the door as we left the dining-room,
and all the way up-stairs —”
“Come to the point, I pray you, Miss Parry; we have no time
to lose; I care not how you came to the conclusion, — I do not
want your reasons, — I only want the conclusion itself.”
Poor Julia! She half rose from the chair, and if the truth
must be told, the flutter of her heart stopped all at once, and her
eyes flashed fire. To be so questioned! and by a middle-aged
handsome man, as if they were in a court of justice and she
the merest simpleton; really, she had half a mind to bid him good
morning; but when she thought of her uncle, and saw the unchanging
— unchangeable — tranquility of the countenance before
her, she began to review the question.
“Well,” said he.
“Well, Sir, if you must have my answer, without my reasons,
be it so. You ask if I had any suspicions. I answer that I had;
you ask what they were, and I now answer that I then suspected,
and still suspect,” — breathing hurriedly — “that the business
which took him away so suddenly last evening related to
“Capital! — capital! what a memory you have, to be sure!
and if they are obliged to put you upon the stand, I will answer
for you, under any circumstances.”
“Upon the stand, Sir! What mean you? What on earth
am I to suppose?”
“No matter, just now. I have other questions to propound,
before submitting myself to a cross-interrogatory.”
Julia bowed.
“I desire to ask, whether you have now, or ever had, any record
of the numbers on the notes which you sent your brother
Charles?”
“No, Sir,” answered the poor girl, wondering what would come
next.
“Nor of those your uncle twisted up together, and burned in
your presence, not long ago?”
Julia gasped for breath.
“No, Sir,” she said at last, in a very faint low voice.
“Very well; so far, so good.”
“Anything more, Sir?”
“Not much; can you give me the date of your letter to your
brother, wherein you desire him to destroy those very notes, immediately,
and by the advice of your uncle?”
“No, Sir; but I can fix the date, if it should become necessary.”
“About how long ago was it?”
“It was the very day after the notes were burned in my
uncle's chamber.”
“Ah — indeed — that explains it!” rubbing his hands thoughtfully
and slowly, and knitting his brows, like a chess-player about
to throw aside all his past combinations, and checkmate in two or
three moves.
Julia began to feel a slight misgiving; but when she called to
mind how much he already knew which must have been communicated
by her Uncle George himself, and could not have
come from anybody else, her suspicions died away, and she began
to breathe more freely.
“The notes were burned on the very night of the terrible
snow-storm, were they not?”
“Yes.”
“Very well; and now for the rest of my errand.”
Here he drew up his chair directly in front of the poor child,
who began to be somewhat frightened, and sat facing her, for
several minutes, without speaking. Meanwhile he breathed hurriedly,
and his eyes grew larger and larger, and more luminous,
and the strong shapely hands, with which he grasped his knees,
trembled.
It is not to be denied that Julia was glad to see in the strange,
and hitherto imperturbable creature, who had been torturing her
so triumphantly, something of that weakness which had been so
troublesome to herself, and of which, to say the truth, she had
been very much ashamed; as if, poor thing! a woman were
nothing more than a man, — as if a Damascus blade were a
sledge-hammer, cleaving felt turbans and iron helmets, if worthily
managed, and shivering like glass, if handled ignorantly, or
presumptuously.
At last, the gentleman spoke, but with a manner so deferential,
and in a voice so changed, that she could not help looking at him
with some degree of amazement.
“Your uncle, Miss Parry, I have been acquainted with personally
but for a few weeks. I need not say perhaps, that notwithstanding
appearances — and rumors and reports — I have
the highest opinion of him.”
“Notwithstanding appearances, and rumors, and reports, Mr.
Fay!”
“Bear with me, if you please; hear me through, and then
judge for yourself. Your uncle tells me that you are a woman
to be depended upon — that I need not fear to communicate
freely with you — that you are upheld by a strong and earnest
religious feeling — in a word, that you may be trusted, in a matter
of life and death.”
“I am exceedingly obliged to my dear uncle, Sir — but —”
“A moment, if you please. When I say you are to be trusted
in a matter of life and death, I mean it — and so did he.”
Another long pause, with growing agitation. At last, after
doors, he seated himself in front of her again, though somewhat
nearer.
“Miss Parry,” he said at last, with visible effort, and with
something of emotion. “Your uncle's life — not his character
and standing only, but his life — may depend upon you.”
“Merciful Father!”
“Be calm, I pray you. Whatever you do must be done
quickly, and with a full knowledge of the consequences. By the
laws of England, forgery is no longer a capital offence, though,
to a man of high standing and lofty purposes, a conviction would
be certain death, and this whether innocent or guilty, — and
what is more, a lingering death. I believe him to be innocent;
and I believe, too, that while appearances are all against him, it
will turn out hereafter, if we are allowed time to get in our
proof, that he has been the victim of a foul conspiracy, and that
in his fixed determination to save others he may be led to sacrifice
himself.”
“Does he say this?”
“No indeed! not he. About all the circumstances I have
mentioned, he speaks freely; but beyond that, he refuses to be
questioned, so that I am feeling about in the dark.”
“Does Uncle George say, in so many words, that he is innocent
— wholly innocent?”
“He does.”
“Then I am satisfied. Only tell me in what way I can be of
use to him, — tell me what to do, and I will do it, come what
may!”
“Just what I expected! And now that you may understand
how much depends upon you, allow me to state the facts which
will be in evidence against him on the trial. And first, as to
what they can prove without your help.”
“Without my help! I do not understand you!”
“Be patient, and I will try to make myself understood.”
“Go on, Sir.”
“Be more composed, I pray you, or I cannot go on. You are
dreadfully agitated.”
“Go on — go on — I beseech you.”
“The facts, then, briefly, are these. About six or eight months
ago, it was discovered that forged Bank of England paper, to a
very large amount, — nobody knew how large, indeed, for all
parties had an interest in keeping that a secret, lest the good
notes should be discredited throughout the world, — had been
executed by a new process, and with astonishing accuracy, and
put in circulation throughout large portions of Europe, and in
two or three of our cities on the very same day. A body of the
Bow Street police were sent over to this country, and measures
were taken throughout our whole confederacy, and through all
the British possessions; but after a few weeks, nothing more was
heard of the story, — it seemed to die away of itself, or to have
been hushed up.”
“Well, Sir; and what then?”
“Perhaps you saw an account in the papers of the partly
consumed notes which were lately found in Broadway, near the
Metropolitan?”
Julia bowed; but her heart was too full for speech. The
dreadful truth began to loom up in a new shape, — vast, shadowy,
and overwhelming.
“Well,” continued Mr. Fay, “it so happened that the numbers
and other marks were legible upon three of these burned
notes; and by a most extraordinary chance, the Superintendent,
on reading the paragraph, and following up the search, happened
to remember certain Bank of England notes, which were found
in the possession of a hotel-thief, who was taken to the watchhouse
the same night with your brother, whom, it appears, he
had followed from the St. Nicholas. These notes were traced to
you, and at last returned to you, after the fellow was convicted,
— were they not?”
“Yes.”
“While they were in the custody of the law,” — looking her
straight in the eyes, and speaking very slowly, — “the numbers
and marks were registered.”
Julia was overwhelmed, — not so much by the fact mentioned,
however, as by the appalling solemnity of Mr. Fay, when he
said this; for she, poor child! saw little of its bearing upon the
dread result.
“On seeing the paragraphs in the paper, as I have said before,
the Superintendent, who is not a man to be misled or hoodwinked,
thought of looking at the record of these notes, and, to
his great consternation, — and I might say sorrow, perhaps, —
the numbers and marks were found to agree with the printed
list!”
“Well, Sir, of course they did. It could not be otherwise.”
“God help you, dear child! do you not see that this fact
brought home the forged paper to your possession; and that
if you should not clear yourself, by convicting somebody else,
nothing could save you?”
“Me! — why, what had I to do with it?”
“You had received the notes from your uncle, had you not?”
“Certainly.”
“Then — look at me, I pray you, and be prepared —”
“I am prepared, Sir.”
“Then, my dear young friend, one of two things must follow;
you must either convict your uncle, by taking the stand against
him, if allowed to testify; or you must take all the consequences
upon yourself, — the forged paper being found in your possession.
I do not wonder you are terrified; but allow me to finish,” he
added, as poor Julia sat wringing her hands in silence.
“While the Superintendent and the Bow Street officer were
in consultation, — for it seems the search had never been intermitted,
though the story had been allowed to die away, — the
officer put into his hands your letter to your brother, containing
some of these very notes.”
Julia fell back in the chair, and covered her face with her
hands.
“In that letter, it so happens that you tell your brother where
you got the notes; and this, I may venture to say, saved you,
while it went to make the case all the stronger against your
uncle.”
“How did my letter come into the hands of the Bow Street
officer, — can you tell me?” said Julia, as soon as she could get
her breath.
“It went to the Canadian dead-letter office; and on being
opened, the money was about being returned to you at New
to think of comparing the numbers, and it was found that
they corresponded with a part of the printed description lodged
in the mayor's office months before, and wholly forgotten. That
letter was instantly forwarded to the Bow Street officer here.”
“I see! I see! Heaven help my poor uncle!”
“From that moment, you and your uncle, and even your aunt
and young Mr. Maynard, were watched literally, night and day.
There are no acknowledged spies in the St. Nicholas, but there,
as everywhere else, in our own houses, information may always
be had for the asking — with a fee.”
“Proceed! why do you stop?”
“And when you sent the last letter to your brother, telling
him to destroy the notes, at the desire of your uncle, that settled
the business; the letter was intercepted; a friend of mine, who
is a friend of your family, and well knew your father, saw it, and
read it.”
“Who was that friend, if you please?”
“No, no, excuse me. I am not allowed to mention his name
yet. By and by you will know him. He has about promised
to appear, when most wanted.”
“Well —”
“That letter, you now see, fixes the charge upon your uncle;
and he must account for the possession of the forged notes, or
take the consequences.”
“I see! I see! Oh, I shall go distracted! My poor aunt!
She knows nothing of this, I hope!”
“Not a word, — nor does her son. Perhaps they never will,
if we manage wisely.”
“God, in his mercy, grant! It would kill her!”
“But everything may depend upon you.”
“Upon me, Sir! — and how, pray?”
“You have not wholly misunderstood me, I am sure; and yet
I find it necessary to be very plain with you.”
“If you please.”
“Well, then, as you are the only witness against your uncle,
if you withhold your testimony, they cannot convict him.”
This being suggested in a very low, quiet voice, Julia was not
and trying to understand it, she happened to lift her eyes to his,
and straightway she began to falter and shrink; and when she
would have answered, her speech was inarticulate, and like that
of a dreamer moaning in her sleep. At last, after two or three
efforts, while he fixed upon her his large, deep, tranquil eyes, till
she trembled all over, she said, —
“But how am I to withhold my testimony, if I am questioned?”
“That will depend upon how you are questioned, and where,
and by whom. If you are once put upon the stand, it will be
too late.”
“Upon the stand, Sir! Surely, you have no idea of making
me a witness against my poor uncle, by putting me upon the
stand, as you call it? Why, Sir, the very thought of such a
thing, — to be questioned and cross-questioned in public, as I
know people sometimes are, however honest and truthful they
may be, — would frighten me out of my senses.”
“No such thing, my poor child.”
“Poor child!” thought Julia. “How durst a man of his age,
— not so very old, neither, — how durst he treat me as a mere
child!”
“We, of course,” he continued, “have no idea of calling you;
but the prosecutor must; and when you are once under oath, of
course everything must come out, as you are sworn to tell the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“Certainly.”
“Of course, then, if your uncle is to be saved, you, as the only
witness to be feared, must be put out of the way.”
“Put out of the way! And how?”
“O, leave that to me. We can manage that with some friend
of your family.”
“And this, then, is what I am to understand by withholding
my testimony?”
Mr. Fay bowed.
“Yet you profess to believe that my dear uncle is not only
guiltless, but blameless.”
“Precisely.”
“Mr. Fay, allow me to ask you if you believe in God, — in a
God of justice and truth, — in a God, who has declared that he
will never leave nor forsake them that put their trust in him?”
“I do indeed, my dear young friend, but —”
Julia rose with a dignity that awed the man of law, and stood
with her calm serious eyes fixed on him, till he turned away and
appeared somewhat abashed.
“One question more, Mr. Fay. Does my dear uncle desire
me to withhold my testimony; or, in other words, to run away
and secrete myself, and cast off all dependence upon our heavenly
Father?”
“No; he leaves the whole question with you. He gives no
advice, he urges no argument, no entreaty, no expostulation.
After hearing all I might have to say, you were to decide for
yourself.”
“I thank my dear uncle for this, and I thank you for your
great plainness of speech; but my mind is made up, — I shall
not fly, I shall not hide myself, I shall not withhold my testimony,
come what may!”
The only reply Julia received to this exceedingly solemn
assertion of her trust in God, — come what might, — was a look
of unqualified admiration, which brought the color into her cheek,
and sent a thrill to her finger-ends; of which, when left to herself,
she afterward thought, with a mixture of astonishment and
terror. What could it mean? And why did she feel no more
indignation?
“Just what I expected,” said Mr. Fay, moving towards the
table, and taking up his hat. “Just what your uncle told me,
when I proposed to see you, before I took another step in the
business. Perhaps you would not be unwilling to know just
what he said?”
Julia bowed in silence; all power of speech was gone. She
trembled from head to foot; and her flushed countenance, and
the shadow in her eyes, betrayed a feeling she would not have
acknowledged for the world, — even to herself. The strangest
man! she thought; and then, how steadfast, and calm, and self-possessed,
while doing his errand of death!
“He said,” my dear young lady, “with a look I never shall
man, — it was what I should have looked for in the face of a
dying martyr, — he said, at my suggestion, — which, give me leave
to say, was strictly professional, and coming under what we men
of the law understand to be our professional duty, — we are to
be faithful to our client. I understand the questioning of your
eyes. You wonder if we are to be more faithful to our client
than to ourselves? or, perhaps, to God? Very well, I am not
ashamed to answer you, that in what is called our faithfulness to
a client, we are often most unfaithful to ourselves, and to God.”
Julia shook her head, mournfully.
“But,” continued Mr. Fay, “at this rate, I shall never come
to what your uncle said of you. He said —; are you fully prepared?”
“I am, I believe.”
“He said I might see you, and welcome; that he would say
nothing to influence you, but that you were one of the last women
in the world to be turned a single hair's breadth from what you
might believe to be your duty; — and I have found it so.”
Julia could hardly stand.
“Yet more. Though I did not quite believe your uncle, — for
I never failed before in all my life where I had such an object in
view,” — smiling, — “I insisted on his giving me a line to you,
which would be sure of engaging your confidence; and then, —
you will excuse me, my young friend, — I felt quite sure of prevailing.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, indeed! but you have triumphed, and I am heartily
glad of it; and what is more,” taking her hand, “I sincerely beg
your pardon for having so misunderstood you.”
At this moment the door opened, and Arthur was entering
with a hurried careless air, when the position of the parties, and
their looks all lighted up, and glowing with signs of the deepest
emotion, as they stood together, — Julia trembling, with downcast
eyes, and Mr. Fay holding both her hands in his, — made
him stop, and he would have stolen away, if he could have done
so without being seen; but it was too late.
“I beg ten thousand pardons,” dear Julia, said he, blushing
still a stranger, you know, I mistook the door.”
“I am glad you have come, Sir,” said Mr. Fay, without a sign
of trouble or embarrassment. “I have been trying to persuade
your cousin to do something unworthy of her, — you'll excuse
me, Sir.”
Arthur's brow grew dark.
“But she has baffled me at every turn, and this, without human
help or counsel, in the strength of her own lofty nature; and I
have abandoned the field. She will communicate with you, according
to her own pleasure; but I want you to go with me; —
nothing is left for us now but to have as private an examination
as possible, or rather, to waive an examination, and give bail.”
“Bail, Sir! Examination! You forget, perhaps, that I know
nothing of the business you have come hither about; nor does my
mother.”
“Very true; but your cousin here will give you and your
mother, in due time, I dare say, all the information you require.
On our way, too, I can book you up in a measure. Meanwhile,
we have not an hour to lose; — and in fact, all we want is time.
But I must not delay. Good morning, Miss Parry. My respects
to your aunt. I hope to see you both again to-morrow.”
And, saying this, he took Arthur's arm, and hurrying off to
the coach, rode as fast as the horses could go, on his way back to
the city.
| CHAPTER X. True womanhood | |