University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Alternations there must be — shadow and sunshine — ebb
and flow — sorrow and joy — in the life of man; else would he
never know the consolation of change, the comfort of relief;
but counting on his own strength, if untroubled and prosperous,
he would go through the world rejoicing over the weakness of
others; wondering why they have not been as cool-headed, and
sagacious, and foreseeing, as himself; sympathizing with nobody
— and wholly unacquainted with the hearts of his fellow-men
— for who that has not had the cup of astonishment and trembling
held to his own lips, can sympathize with another? — who
that has not felt sorrow, can believe in sorrow, or trial, or bereavement?
— and what do we ever truly know of others, unless
they have need of us, or we of them?

“The heart is like the sky,” says the unhappy Byron, while
grouping blindfold, and wretched, and weary, among the shadowy
things that beset his path, and hedged him round against
all the good influences of better and wiser men, “and changes
night and day too, like the sky,” he adds, — and who will not acknowledge
the truthfulness of the parallel? And then, as with
a wail of despair — a cry like that of Esau, when he came to
himself, and saw that he had cast away his birthright, and for
a mess of pottage, an exceeding great and bitter cry — he finishes
the dark and terrible apostrophe with these portentous words —
a prophecy almost Hebraic in its awful earnestness: —

And is it not true? The tree of knowledge has never been
the tree of life — whether it be a knowledge of the world, or

the mysteries of man's nature, of science or learning. And we
need as much the cloud by day, while breathing an atmosphere
of sunshine, as the pillar of fire by night, while our wanderings
are through darkness and horror; else do we forget ourselves —
our fellow men — our heavenly Father — and our Saviour; to-day,
in our self-sufficiency, while saying to others, “Behold this
great Babylon, which I have builded!” and to-morrow, in our
despairing helplessness.

At times, during this day of trial, the unhappy man was upheld
by a calm and holy trust in the Lord, and then he wondered
at himself, that he should ever have felt otherwise — but anon — a
word, a look, a change of thought would fill him with dismay, and
oversweep all the crowded future with “darkness and destruction,
as on high.” Yet he had striven steadfastly, manfully, and hopefully,
through all these changing hallucinations — up to the very
last hour — when he found himself once more at home, with a
beloved sister watching over him, as he lay upon the sofa, in a
dim light, with his hands clasped, and his eyes shut, and tears —
ay, tears — filtering slowly, and drop by drop, through the
lashes; Julia leaning her forehead against the wall, at one end
of the sofa; and Arthur, in the deep shadow of a projection, at
the other. Nobody spoke — nobody seemed to breathe — and
the silence grew more and more oppressive.

“Dear brother,” said Elizabeth at last, “this will never do!
We must bestir ourselves. We must be hopeful — putting our
trust in the Lord Jehovah, in whom is everlasting strength.
Shall we not have a word of prayer together?”

“No word of prayer, I beseech you, dear Elizabeth — but
we may kneel together in silence, and our petitions may go up
together, and be translated by the Comforter with groanings
that cannot be uttered, and find acceptance.”

“With all my heart,” said Elizabeth. And straightway they
all came together, kneeling side by side, in a shadowy stillness
like that of the house of death; and all their faces were covered,
and there was the sound of low breathing and sobbing, and
the murmur of inward prayer, as if all their hands were interlocked,
and all their wishes were the same.

“I do not understand these alternations, my dear Elizabeth,”

said her brother, as they rose from prayer, and seated themselves
around the table; “nothing has happened to change the aspect
of my case — nothing unfavorable, certainly — nothing which I
had not foreseen and provided for; and yet, here am I — so
strong and hopeful but a few hours ago, now weaker than a
child! wishing it were all over, almost in any way — suspense
being more dreadful to me than almost any certainty — feeling
as if I would give the world for a few hours of quiet sleep, yet
afraid, absolutely afraid to be left alone.”

“Dear brother!”

“But for that mysterious fear, I should go to bed immediately,
knowing that if I could sleep, I should be so refreshed for to-morrow;
but sure, from the experience of the last week, that
I should lie awake, hour after hour, haunted by the most dreadful
and vague, and at the same time, the most unreasonable apprehensions
— vast, shadowy, and overwhelming; and of such
a nature, that, although I may rouse myself so far as to see how
empty and foolish, and wicked they are, after all the experience
I have had of our heavenly Father's kindness, and may shake
them off, and begin to breathe more freely and hopefully, it is
only to have them return, the moment I begin to lose myself,
like the multitudinous ocean, to overwhelm me afresh.”

“Oh, my brother! my poor brother! how well do I understand
this form of suffering and temptation! But be of good
cheer! Put your trust in the Lord — wait patiently — and
there will come that perfect peace, after the trial of our faith,
which Thou hast promised, O Lord! to him, whose mind is
stayed on Thee!”

“I believe it, Elizabeth,” said her brother, rising and slowly
pacing the floor, and then stopping suddenly just in front of her,
as if he had something on his mind which he wanted, but
dreaded to communicate — and then taking a lamp, as if about
to withdraw.

“No, no — not yet, brother George! It is too early — if you
go to bed now, you will be sure of passing a sleepless night;
suppose you have a cup of chocolate, and try to eat something
— and then, if we can manage to sit up till the accustomed hour,
the chances for a quiet sleep will be much better.”

“Do, Uncle George — do!” said Julia, catching his hand to
her lips.

“Certainly, mother — to be sure!” added Arthur, in reply to
a questioning look, while he seized the other.

And then they led him back to the sofa, and seated themselves,
one on each side, still keeping hold of his hands, while Arthur
tilted back, with a sad, half-discouraged expression, and shut his
eyes, and appeared to be going over in thought all the unpleasant
occurrences of the day, for he grew suddenly pale — and then
his countenance flushed — and his brow gathered blackness, and
his mouth wrought, and his chin quivered, and at last, Julia, who
was watching him sideways, saw a tear gathering slowly on the
lashes, and she put forth her little hand, with a smile of encouragement,
which he saw, as he opened his eyes at the gentle
touch, and laid it lovingly upon his.

The mother saw it too, for there was no concealment; and
when Julia said to him, in a low, and sweet, though mournful
voice, “How is it with thee, my brother?” she understood her,
as if her whole heart had been that instant laid open to her for
the first time, and she saw nestling there, not the love that poor
Arthur had been hoping for, and believing in, but the love of a
sister, a dear, only sister — self-denying — unchangeable — and
patient; and she gathered the poor girl up to her heart, and
kissed her eyes, and her mouth, wet with tears, till Julia knew
that now, at least, if never before, she was understood by the
mother.

But her uncle did not appear so well satisfied. Notwithstanding
the heavy shadow that had settled upon his path, he was of
a nature so unselfish, that he could not bear to see a single ray
of sunshine or hope turned away from hers; and he appeared
for a moment rather uneasy, and then perplexed, and then disappointed.

And as for Arthur, he knew not what to think, nor which way
to look, nor what to say. If all the kindness Julia had shown,
— as if carried away by her feelings, and in the midst of her
severest trials that day — was, after all, nothing more than sisterly
kindness — then he had been self-deceived, and most cruelly,
and the work of months would have to be all gone over anew;

but if, on the contrary, notwithstanding all that had happened
between them before — and between her and Mr. Fay, since
their alienation — it was something more, and something different,
he felt as if he could throw himself upon his mother's
neck, and beseech her, in the presence of Julia herself, and
of his uncle George, not to give way to the delusion, however
strong, that he had nothing to hope for, but the love of a
sister.

Nothing was said of the trial — nor of what had happened
already — nothing of what was expected on the morrow. Their
hearts were too full — and after the exercises of the evening
were through, and they had committed themselves to the guardianship
of their heavenly Father, and cast all their burdens
upon Him who hath said, “Come unto me all ye that labor and
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,” they separated at the
usual hour, with words of unspeakable tenderness, and looks of
sorrowful encouragement, one for another, tranquillized and
assured, and patient, for the first time, knowing that all would
be finished on the morrow.

As they were parting, however, and the brother had just given
to the beloved sister the good-night kiss of peace, he stopped,
and setting down the lamp, took both of her hands into his, and
looking mournfully into her eyes, he said, — “After I leave you
to-night, my dearest of earthly treasures, I do not mean to interchange
another word with you, nor with the dear children, if it
can be helped, until the great question is settled — and forever;
and therefore, what I have to say, must be said now. I have
been debating with myself, hour after hour, whether I should
open my mouth upon the subject to any of you — and especially
to you, my dear Elizabeth — before it was all over.”

Julia shuddered, and Arthur saw a shade of anxiety stealing
over the pale, serene forehead of his mother, as the ominous
words fell slowly — one by one — like tear-drops, from the overlaboring
heart of her brother.

“But I have made up my mind at last,” continued he, “that
you should all be prepared for whatever may happen; as I trust
I shall.”

“Go on, dear brother,” said Aunt Elizabeth; seeing him falter,
and grow pale.

“I have one question to ask — and then, a word or two of
warning, and perhaps of comfort and consolation to offer.”

“Well, dear brother, — why do you stop? why turn away
your face? why grasp my hand with such terrible earnestness?
— don't, brother, don't look at me so! you frighten me!”

“Elizabeth — answer me plainly. Is your confidence in your
brother still unshaken?”

“How can you ask such a question, my dear brother?”

“Answer it, nevertheless — what say you?”

“Unshaken? — Yes.”

“And yours, dear Julia? — and yours, Arthur?”

Julia and Arthur looked astonished; but both answered together,
— “Unshaken! — Yes!”

“And will you promise me — all of you — whatever may happen
to-morrow, to believe as you do now, that I am trustworthy,
and that whatever I have done — or may be obliged to do to-morrow
— there is nothing for you to be ashamed of, or sorry
for, in all these transactions, however they may appear for a
time.”

“We will! We do! We do!” they all answered together.

“One word more. If in this matter of life or death to me —
and therefore indirectly to you — I should be obliged to do what I
have been striving to avoid for months, and urged by the instinct
of self-preservation, should be driven to what may seem strange
to you — after all that has happened — may I not reckon upon
your love and trust, nevertheless?”

“Certainly you may.”

“And will you try to suspend your opinion — so far as it may
be possible, I mean — till we have an opportunity of conferring
together, face to face?”

“We will! We do!”

“Brother,” said Elizabeth, “I know not — and I care as little
as I know — what your plans and purposes are. I do not allow
myself to be anxious or troubled, however I may appear. I ask
no questions; I desire no information; for I have such absolute
faith in you, such unqualified, unchangeable trust in your goodness
of heart, your sound understanding, and your high religious
principle” — her brother groaned aloud — “though you have

not, I see — that, happen what may, I acquit you in advance —
and here — and now — of all blame, and of all unworthy purpose;
and so will these dear children, I am sure.”

Julia confirmed the words of her aunt with a loving kiss, and
Arthur with a hearty hug, and they all betook themselves to
rest.

And the long night wore away; a night of silent storm and
darkness; for while the heavens were bright with multiplying
stars, and the great pale moon went wandering on her way like
a huge phantom, and the sea and air, and all the wonders of both
were hushed into a stillness that grew oppressive and uncomfortable,
there was a deep darkness within the hearts of all these
watching and weary pilgrims; and so much of inward strife and
turbulent sorrow, that when they got up, as they all did many
times in the course of the night, and looked out upon the quiet
blue of the sky, and the unchangeable stars, for some sign of life
or motion, they were driven back with a feeling of utter self-abandonment
and loneliness to the beds they had left. It seemed,
as they all afterwards acknowledged, as if the night would never
end — as if the morning would never come; all persisted in declaring
that they had never passed such a night — so dreary —
and so dismal — and most of them, that they had not slept a
wink; and that, if they had lost themselves for a moment, it was
only to be scared by dreams, till they were obliged to spring out
of bed, and run to the window, and look out upon the substantial
things of earth, silent and shadowy though they were, to satisfy
themselves that they were yet in the land of the living, and that
the stars were not stayed in their courses, nor the great moon
delayed most unreasonably, on her everlasting errand of peace.

But the dreary night did go by, and the tardy morning did
appear; and the spectres vanished — and the heavy clouds were
lifted — and the sunshine broke forth anew, with the song of
birds — and the chirping and twittering of sparrows and swallows;
and when the family appeared at breakfast, though unrefreshed
with sleep, and pale, and slow in all their movements,
and in no humor for talking, there was an evident change for the
better, in the look of their eyes — a something of holy trust, if
not of cheerful expectation.

They had been told to appear early in court; and their early
breakfast was needed, and what was more, enjoyed. Instead of
being played with, and then sent away untasted — it was received
with thankfulness, and brought with it a refreshing sense of God's
goodness to the children of sorrow; and being ended, no time
was lost — so that, half an hour before they were wanted, .
Fay found the whole party assembled at the appointed place of
meeting — with Mr. Bayard, Miss Wentworth, Miss Webb, and
Miss Archibald, waiting for them.

“Whom do you call first, my dear Sir?” asked Mr. Fay, turning
as he spoke to “friend William.” “I leave this part of the
case wholly with you — taking it for granted that you have your
reasons, good and sufficient, for keeping us all in the dark.”

“Well, Winthrop — thee does me, I think, no more than justice;
and after we are through, I hope to hear thee acknowledge
that I could not well have done otherwise. When thee has finished
thy opening, I propose to call our young friend Arthur to
the stand.”

“Ah! — then hadn't you better step with him into the lobby,
or into some by-place, and prepare him for what he may be required
to show?”

Friend William smiled; and nodding to Arthur, he said, “give
thyself no uneasiness, Winthrop, — we understand each other
pretty well, I think.”

“Up to a certain point, perfectly,” said Arthur; “but beyond
that, I am all at sea.”

“Well, well, my young friend; all in good time — these mysteries
have their use, in what are called courts of justice, if nowhere
else — and as I never let the cat out of the bag till she is
wanted — nor ever jump till I come to the stile, —”

“Why, my excellent friend! what spirits you are in, to be
sure!” said Mr. Fay. “Upon my word, I begin to feel quite encouraged.”

“Begin to feel encouraged, Winthrop! Why, what am I to
understand by that, after all the confidence we have heard thee
express in the final issue?”

“In the final issue, when the questions of law have to be
argued before a full bench, I grant you; but here — and just now

— and before the jury, when you do not allow me to see an inch
beyond my nose — I cannot say that I do not need some encouragement.”

“Well, well, take it then — for it is my belief, Winthrop Fay,
that no such thing as a law question will ever go up to a full
bench in this case; and that here — even here — and before the
jury, thy client will be safe.”

“I know you feel sure, my excellent friend; but — remember
— there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.”

Friend William replied with a shake of his white hair, and a
benevolent smile, which warmed the heart of young Maynard,
like living sunshine, and appeared to have a charming effect upon
his mother and Julia, if not upon his uncle, who stood aloof, without
hearing the conversation, and appeared lost in thought.

An officer now presented himself at the door, and the name of
Mr. Fay was called.

“Come,” said the counsellor — “we are wanted. Mr. Officer,
oblige me by seeing that all these ladies are provided with convenient
places for seeing, as well as hearing; and Mr. Maynard,
as you are to be the first witness called by my coadjutor” — nodding
to Mr. Bayard — “I must beg of you not to be out of the
way.”

As they entered the court-room, they heard the case called;
and in reply to a question from the bench, and another from the
government, Mr. Fay having answered that he was ready,
opened forthwith, and without a sign of trepidation, hurry,
or uneasiness.

After thanking the jury for their patience, and complimenting
the bench, for the indulgent courtesy they had experienced, he
entered upon the defence, by admitting all that had been charged
by the prosecution, — acknowledging, at the same time, that if
he had done so at first, as advised by a gentleman of large experience
in legal procedure, both at home and abroad — the gentleman
sitting by his side — here all eyes were turned upon the
venerable Quaker — it would have greatly abridged the labor,
and saved the time of the court, and might have been of no
real disadvantage to his client; although, to be sure, some facts
had been brought out upon the cross-examination, which might

not otherwise have appeared — unless by recalling the witnesses.

Having now prepared the way, and secured the attention of
all within hearing, he entered upon the past life and character of
the party charged, saying that if needful in his judgment, he
should put them both in issue before he got through. And here,
after glancing at the newspaper stories which had been so widely
circulated to the disadvantage of his client — excusing some
of the writers, while he charged others with wanton cruelty and
gross exaggeration, and wilful and long continued, if not malicious
misrepresentation — he rose to a lofty and serious, though
unimpassioned style of eloquence, deeply moving to all, so that
before he had finished this part of his opening, there were wet
lashes all about him, and Julia sat with clasped hands, looking
him straight in the face, and hardly breathing, while the bright,
large tears ran down to her lips, and fell upon the black velvet
she wore, and glittered like overgrown seed pearls, or spattered
quicksilver; and Miss Wentworth and Sallie, her niece, not only
wept, but sobbed, while, with their eyes fixed upon the lofty,
pale face of the “unfortunate gentleman,” as Mr. Fay called the
Major, they listened to the simple and touching story of his
life.

“And now, gentlemen of the jury — now that I have prepared
you in a measure for a right understanding of this high-minded
gentleman's true character, you will not be astonished to
find, that, from the very first hour when the charge was made,
up to this, there has never been a moment when he might not
have completely vindicated himself, and proved his innocence —
if, — mark me, gentlemen! and hold me to the proof hereafter, I
pray you — absolute and incontrovertible proof — if, I say —
if he would have consented to involve another, not here to answer
for himself.”

Here Julia turned suddenly away, and catching at Arthur's
hand, who sat nearest, she dropped her veil, as if — poor thing
— as if that other person so mysteriously alluded to by Mr. Fay,
could be no other than the absent Charles.

“But there are limits to self-sacrifice,” continued Mr. Fay —
“and although my client is fully persuaded that the party in

question is not blameworthy, and that, in some way — he knows
not how — has been egregiously duped, all which he might show
if he were living, —”

“If living!” whispered Julia, “God of all mercy! what does
he mean!”

“Hush, hush!” whispered Arthur, and her uncle made a sign
to her, which went to her heart like an arrow.

“And, therefore it is,” continued Mr. Fay, “that he has been
waiting, month after month, in the hope of being able to show,
not only that he himself is not blameworthy, but that the friend,
— the dearest friend he once had on earth — was equally innocent.
But, gentlemen of the jury, he can wait no longer. His
health is suffering — his very reason totters — and though we
might have obtained further delay, not being in my judgment
ready for trial, on account of the absence of material witnesses,
who are soon to be here, and whom we have used the greatest
diligence to obtain, still, we have concluded to come before you
with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and
take the consequences.”

Here the sobbing had become pretty general, and the whispering
troublesome; Mrs. Maynard's veil was down — Mrs.
Archibald's — Julia's — Miss Wentworth's, and all but Miss
Webb's. That reference to the dearest friend he once had on
earth — to one that was out of the way now, and no longer able
to answer for himself — to him who, if he were alive, might be
able to justify himself — had completely overwhelmed the whole
party, and set Arthur wondering, and his mother trembling, and
Julia weeping, they knew not why.

The prosecutor seemed greatly disturbed; and seeing the accused
cover his face with his hands, and lean forward with both
elbows on the table — his broad chest heaving, and his whole
frame shaking as with a tempest of inward emotion — a struggle
for life or death — as the eloquent gentleman dwelt upon his
high character, and past life — upon his unselfishness — and
above all, upon his patient forbearance, under overwhelming,
though undeserved reproach, and his great unwillingness to protect
himself, even at the last hour, by the introduction of most
conclusive and unquestionable evidence, which had been in his

possession from the first, and might have been produced at any
time, lest the character of a dear friend, no longer upon earth —
a man of the highest principle, and of unblemished reputation —
might suffer for a season, he began to look about him among his
brethren of the bar, and up at the bench for something of encouragement,
instead of what he saw in the countenances of all, a
deep and growing sympathy for the accused, and heartfelt commiseration
for the weeping women of the family.

The room had never been so thronged, nor so still. There
was no shuffling of the feet — no whispering — and the breathless
attention of all was continued, until Mr. Fay finished, with a
burst of natural earnestness, and solemn pathos, which had never
been surpassed even there, in that chamber of power.

“Call your witnesses, Mr. Fay,” said the judge.

“Arthur Maynard! — I pray your honor that this witness
may be sworn.”

“What!” suggested the judge — “only one at a time —
wouldn't it be better to have them all sworn at once?”

“We know not how many may be needed, your honor, and I
want to save the time of the court —”

The prosecutor smiled, and glanced at the judge.

“And although,” continued Mr. Fay, “I have another at my
elbow, whom I may be obliged to call, as he is a member of the
Society of Friends, and conscientiously scrupulous about taking
an oath, no time would be saved by administering the affirmation
now.”

Arthur stood up — looking very calm and serious, though
very youthful, and there was a low murmur of approbation,
growing louder and louder, about the bar, and a rustle of drapery
among the female witnesses, distinctly audible to the prosecutor.

“Hold up your hand, Sir!” said the clerk, with a voice of
authority. Arthur obeyed.

“Please take the stand, Sir,” said Mr. Fay, as soon as the
oath was administered.

The rustling of papers, and a low whispering, followed — and
there was a moment of breathless anxiety, as Mr. Fay handed a
large sealed parcel to the prosecutor, begging him to satisfy himself

whether it had ever been tempered with, before he offered it
to the witness.

“What is it, Sir?” said the prosecutor, “and with what view
is it offered?”

“Please look at the seal and see if it appears to have been
meddled with — and then I shall desire the witness to open the
parcel; after which, and before it is read to the jury, it shall be
put into your hands, and then if our purpose be not sufficiently
clear, I shall endeavor to make it so.”

“The seal appears to be unbroken, Sir — and so far as I can
judge, the parcel does not appear to have been tempered with,”
said the prosecutor, handing it toward the witness, with an air of
great indifference —

“No, no, excuse me,” said Mr. Fay, — “before the parcel is
opened, I desire the court and jury to be satisfied.”

The judge took the parcel, and after a thorough examination,
passed it to the clerk, who handed it over to the foreman.

After the jury had satisfied themselves, and signified their
opinion by a look, which was well understood by the judge, who
assented, with a very thoughtful air — the packet was put into
Arthur's trembling hand.

“Please look at the handwriting of the address, and tell me
if you are acquainted with it?” said Mr. Fay.

Arthur grew paler and paler, as he fixed his eyes upon the
writing — trembled — and gasped for breath — and clutched
at the hand-railing, as if seized with a sudden faintness.

“Well, Sir,” continued Mr. Fay, after waiting for him to recover
— and lowering his voice to a sort of stage-whisper, which
filled the house, nevertheless, “what say you?”

“It is the handwriting of my father, Sir.”

In the dread stillness that followed, a faint scream was heard,
with the rustle of women's garments, gathering hurriedly about
Mrs. Maynard.

“Are you satisfied of the fact? I assume that you are well
acquainted with your father's handwriting; that you have seen
him write, and have had letters from him, but unless the government
require it, I shall pass over all such preliminary questions,
and come directly to the point.”

“My learned brother will proceed in his own way,” said the
prosecutor; “I waive all objections for the present.”

“Well, Mr. Maynard, — I ask you if you are satisfied, after the
examination you have made, that the handwriting you find there
is that of your father?”

“I am, Sir” — almost choking.

“When did you last see that parcel? — or rather — for I see
the government is prepared to object — have you any recollection
of ever having seen that parcel before?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“Please look at the seal, and say if you are acquainted with
it? and whose it is, if you know?”

“I am, Sir — it was the seal of my father.”

“Did he often use it?”

“Almost always — in sealing important papers, always.”

“Will you be so obliging as to examine the seal, and see if it
appears to have been meddled with?”

“I think it has not been meddled with, Sir.”

“Your father is not living, I believe?”

“No, Sir,” said Arthur, beginning to recover himself and
breathe more freely.

“When did he die?”

“Eighteen months ago — this very day.”

“Do me the favor to open that parcel now, and see what it
contains.”

Arthur broke the seal; and after tearing off another envelope,
he answered with a voice that thrilled every heart, while his
hand shook, as with a palsy — “It appears to be a list of a —
of a —”

“Stop there, if you please. I desire the government may have
nothing to complain of. Pass the papers to the prosecutor, if
you please, Mr. Officer.”

The prosecutor took them — puzzled over them awhile —
turned them inside out — glanced at the backs, and then, as he
handed them to Mr. Fay, he observed, that “inasmuch as he did
not well understand why they were introduced, he should make
no objection, till that appeared; but would allow them to go into
the hands of the witness at present, though not to the jury, with

the understanding that if they should appear irrelevant, or improper,
in the progress of examination, they should be ruled out.”

Mr. Fay bowed — and the judge assented.

“Do you know this handwriting?” continued Mr. Fay, stepping
toward the witness-box, and holding up to Arthur and the
jury, a long paper, closely written, and covered with columns of
figures.

“Yes.”

“And whose do you say it is?”

“The papers are all in the handwriting of my cousin Charles
Parry.”

The Major started, and looked up, in amazement; and Julia
drew closer the thick veil about her face and learned back upon
the shoulder of her aunt Elizabeth, and waited for the issue, as
for judgment of death.

“Are you well acquainted with his handwriting?”

“Perfectly — we were brought up together.”

“And whose signatures are these I find at the bottom?”

“They are his and mine — and this, you see here, is my
father's. We were called in as witnesses.”

“Have you any recollection of the circumstances attending
this transaction?”

“Yes — I remember them all now, as if they had happened
but yesterday.”

“Please turn toward the jury, and state them in the order
they occur to you, and in your own way, without being questioned.”

Arthur trembled from head to foot — and while he foresaw
the terrible consequences — and felt the solid earth giving way
underneath his feet, and a great gulf opening, yet he persisted,
and shutting his eyes to the danger, and breathing a silent prayer,
that he might be strengthened for the work before him, and that
his faith might fail not — seeing at the same time that his mother
and Julia were both praying with him, and for him — for their
hands were clasped and their heads bowed — and that his dear
uncle had his calm steady eyes fixed upon him, full of encouragement
and hope, and warning and sorrow, he answered, —

“It was a little time before my father's death — about a month,

I see by the date here. My cousin Charles and I were called
out of bed, to compare the list I hold here, with the numbers and
dates of certain Bank of England notes lying upon the table.
The list had been made out before.”

“Well — did you compare them?”

“We did.”

“How did you manage? and what was the result?”

“We compared the whole, note by note; and having found
them all correct, my father asked us to verify the list, and affix
our signatures as witnesses, and then to see them enclosed.”

There was a sound here, as of a low half-smothered wailing —
a moan of broken-hearted, hopeless misery. Poor Arthur was
afraid to look that way — or even to move — and expected every
moment to hear that somebody was carried off into the open air,
— either his mother or Julia — and he longed to cry out, with
a voice of agony, throw up the windows! but still he forbore —
and God strengthened him.

“Did you see them enclosed?” continued Mr. Fay.

“I did, Sir.”

“Did you see the seal affixed?”

“I did, Sir.”

“And the address written?”

“No, Sir; when we left the parcel in the hands of my father,
as I have stated, there was no address on it.”

“Did he say for whom it was intended — either then, or afterward?”

“Never to me, Sir.”

“To anybody else? — within your knowledge?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“Did you at the time know for whom the parcel was intended?
Or have you in any way since, come to that knowledge?”

“No, Sir.”

“You may take the witness, Mr. Attorney.”

“Thank you for nothing,” said the prosecutor. “I do not well
see what these papers have to do with the case, your honor, and
I might well object, if it were not for losing more time than we
should save.”

“Allow me to explain,” said Mr. Fay. “My brother misunderstands
our purpose. The forged notes being brought home to
the possession of my client, beyond all controversy — our object,
as the court will see, if Mr. Attorney does not, is to account for
that possession.”

“Any questions for the witness, Mr. Attorney?” said the
judge.

“Not a question,” your honor.

“The witness may step down,” said the judge, rising as he
spoke, and withdrawing. “Be prepared to call your next witness
on my return,” he added, as he passed out.

Arthur left the stand with a cheerful and assured look; and
but for Mr. Fay, would have taken the hand of his uncle in passing;
but that wary gentleman, who appeared to be always on
the watch, interposed, just in time.

Arthur understood the look, and obeyed the touch upon his
elbow, and passed on with a low bow toward a group of mourning
women, who were huddled away, just within the door of an
adjoining room, and clinging together very much as if they had
all but just escaped from shipwreck, and been washed ashore by
a miracle. They must have heard his step — they may have
felt his approach — but nobody spoke — nobody moved — nobody
looked up — and there was nothing to show that he was
understood, but a low subdued murmuring, and the silent pressure
of hand after hand, followed by the rustling of black veils,
and a slight change of position, as they sat closer and closer together,
Julia leaning her head upon the shoulder of her aunt
Elizabeth, and something shadowy, whose face could not be seen
through the encumbering drapery, and whose shape could not be
guessed at, clinging to Julia; and Charles standing sentry over
them.