University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
MR. BLESSING'S TESTIMONY.

On entering the court-room Mr. Blessing had gone to
Joseph, given his hand a long, significant grasp, and looked
in his face with an expression of triumph, almost of exultation.
The action was not lost upon the spectators or the
jury, and even Joseph felt that it was intended to express
the strongest faith in his innocence.

When the name was called there was a movement in the
crowd, and a temporary crush in some quarters, as the people
thrust forward their heads to see and listen. Mr. Blessing,
bland, dignified, serene, feeling that he was the central
point of interest, waited until quiet had been restored,
slightly turning his head to either side, as if to summon
special attention to what he should say.

After being sworn, and stating his name, he thus described
his occupation:—

“I hold a position under government; nominally, it is a
Deputy Inspectorship in the Custom-House, yet it possesses
a confidential—I might say, if modesty did not prevent, an
advisory—character.”

“In other words, a Ward Politician!” said Mr. Spenham.

“I must ask the prosecuting attorney,” Mr. Blessing
blandly suggested, “not to define my place according to his
own political experiences.”

There was a general smile at these words; and a very

audible chuckle from spectators belonging to the opposite
party.

“You are the father of the late Mrs. Julia Asten?”

“I am—her unhappy father, whom nothing but the imperious
commands of justice, and the knowledge of her
husband's innocence of the crime with which he stands
charged, could have compelled to appear here, and reveal
the painful secrets of a family, which—”

Here Mr. Spenham interrupted him.

“I merely wish to observe,” Mr. Blessing continued, with
a stately wave of his hand towards the judge and jury, “that
the De Belsains and their descendants may have been frequently
unfortunate, but were never dishonorable. I act in
their spirit when I hold duty to the innocent living higher
than consideration for the unfortunate dead.”

Here he drew forth a handkerchief, and held it for a
moment to his eyes.

“Did you know of any domestic discords between your
daughter and her husband?”

“I foresaw that such might be, and took occasion to warn
my daughter, on her wedding-day, not to be too sure of her
influence. There was too much disparity of age, character,
and experience. It could not be called crabbed age and
rosy youth, but there was difference enough to justify Shakespeare's
doubts. I am aware that the court requires ocular
—or auricular—evidence. The only such I have to offer is
my son-in-law's own account of the discord which preceded
my daughter's death.”

“Did this discord sufficiently explain to you the cause
and manner of her death?”

“My daughter's nature—I do not mean to digress, but
am accustomed to state my views clearly—my daughter's

nature was impulsive. She inherited my own intellect, but
modified by the peculiar character of the feminine nervous
system. Hence she might succumb to a depression which I
should resist. She appeared to be sure of her control over
my son-in-law's nature, and of success in an enterprise, in
which—I regret to say—my son-in-law lost confidence. I
assumed, at the time, that her usually capable mind was
unbalanced by the double disappointment, and that she had
rushed, unaneled, to her last account. This, I say, was the
conclusion forced upon me; yet I cannot admit that it was
satisfactory. It seemed to disparage my daughter's intellectual
power: it was not the act which I should have anticipated
in any possible emergency.”

“Had you no suspicion that her husband might have
been instrumental?” Mr. Spenham asked.

“He? he is simply incapable of that, or any crime!”

“We don't want assertions,” said Mr. Spenham, sternly.

“I beg pardon of the court,” remarked Mr. Blessing; “it
was a spontaneous expression. The touch of nature cannot
always be avoided.”

“Go on, sir!”

“I need not describe the shock and sorrow following my
daughter's death,” Mr. Blessing continued, again applying
his handkerchief. “In order to dissipate it, I obtained a
leave of absence from my post,—the exigencies of the government
fortunately admitting of it,—and made a journey
to the Oil Regions, in the interest of myself and my son-in-law.
While there I received a letter from Mr. Philip Held,
the contents of which—”

“Will you produce the letter?” Mr. Spenham exclaimed.

“It can be produced, if necessary. I will state nothing

further, since I perceive that this would not be admissible
evidence. It is enough to say that I returned to the city
without delay, in order to meet Mr. Philip Held. The requirements
of justice were more potent with me than the
suggestions of personal interest. Mr. Held had already, as
you will have noticed from his testimony, identified the
fragment of paper as having emanated from the drug-store
of Wallis and Erkers, corner of Fifth and Persimmon
Streets. I accompanied him to that drug-store, heard the
statements of the proprietors, in answer to Mr. Held's questions,—statements
which, I confess, surprised me immeasurably
(but I could not reject the natural deductions to be
drawn from them), and was compelled, although it overwhelmed
me with a sense of unmerited shame, to acknowledge
that there was plausibility in Mr. Held's conjectures.
Since they pointed to my elder daughter, Clementina, now
Mrs. Spelter, and at this moment tossing upon the oceanwave,
I saw that Mr. Held might possess a discernment superior
to my own. But for a lamentable cataclysm, he
might have been my son-in-law, and I need not say that I
prefer that refinement of character which comes of good blood
to the possession of millions—”

Here Mr. Blessing was again interrupted, and ordered to
confine himself to the simple statement of the necessary
facts.

“I acknowledge the justice of the rebuke,” he said. “But
the sentiment of the mens conscia recti will sometimes obtrude
through the rigid formula of Themis. In short, Mr.
Philip Held's representations—”

“State those representations at once, and be done with
them!” Mr. Spenham cried.

“I am coming to them presently. The Honorable Court

understands, I am convinced, that a coherent narrative, although
moderately prolix, is preferable to a disjointed narrative,
even if the latter were terse as Tacitus. Mr. Held's
representations, I repeat, satisfied me that an interview with
my daughter Clementina was imperative. There was no
time to be lost, for the passage of the nuptial pair had already
been taken in the Ville de Paris. I started at once,
sending a telegram in advance, and in the same evening arrived
at their palatial residence in Fifth Avenue. Clementina's
nature, I must explain to the Honorable Court, is very
different from that of her sister,—the reappearance, I suspect,
of some lateral strain of blood. She is reticent, undemonstrative,—in
short, frequently inscrutable. I suspected
that a direct question might defeat my object; therefore,
when I was alone with her the next morning,—my son-in-law,
Mr. Spelter, being called to a meeting of Erie of which
he is one of the directors,—I said to her: `My child, you
are perfectly blooming! Your complexion was always admirable,
but now it seems to me incomparable!'”

“This is irrelevant!” cried Mr. Spenham.

“By no means! It is the very corpus delicti, the foot
of Hercules,—the milk (powder would be more appropriate)
in the cocoa-nut!” Clementina smiled in her serene way, and
made no reply. `How do you keep it up now?' I asked,
tapping her cheek; `you must be careful, here: all persons
are not so discreet as Wallis and Erkers.' She was astounded,
stupefied, I might say, but I saw that I had reached
the core of truth. `Did you suppose I was ignorant of it?'
I said, still very friendly and playfully. `Then it was Julia
who told you!' she exclaimed. `And if she did,' I answered,
`what was the harm? I have no doubt that Julia
did the same thing.' `She was always foolish,' Clementina

then said; `she envied me my complexion, and she watched
me until she found out. I told her that it would not do for
any except blondes, like myself, and her complexion was
neither one thing nor the other. And I couldn't see that it
improved much, afterwards.'”

Mr. Pinkerton saw that the jurymen were puzzled, and
requested Mr. Blessing to explain the conversation to
them.

“It is my painful duty to obey; yet a father's feelings
may be pardoned if he shrinks from presenting the facts at
once in their naked—unpleasantness. However, since the
use of arsenic as a cosmetic is so general in our city, especially
among blondes, as Wallis and Erkers assure me, my
own family is not an isolated case. Julia commenced using
the drug, so Clementina informed me, after her engagement
with Mr. Asten, and only a short time before her marriage.
To what extent she used it, after that event, I have no
means of knowing; but, I suspect, less frequently, unless
she feared that the disparity of age between her and her
husband was becoming more apparent. I cannot excuse her
duplicity in giving Miss Henderson's name instead of her
own at Mr. Linthicum's drug store, since the result might
have been so fearfully fatal; yet I entreat you to believe
that there may have been no inimical animus in the act.
I attribute her death entirely to an over-dose of the drug,
voluntarily taken, but taken in a moment of strong excitement.”

The feeling of relief from suspense, not only among
Joseph's friends, but throughout the crowded court-room,
was clearly manifested: all present seemed to breathe a
lighter and fresher atmosphere.

Mr. Blessing wiped his forehead and his fat cheeks, and

looked benignly around. “There are a hundred little additional
details,” he said, “which will substantiate my evidence;
but I have surely said sufficient for the ends of justice.
The heavens will not fall because I have been forced
to carve the emblems of criminal vanity upon the sepulchre
of an unfortunate child,—but the judgment of an earthly
tribunal may well be satisfied. However, I am ready,” he
added, turning towards Mr. Spenham; “apply all the engines
of technical procedure, and I shall not wince.”

The manner of the prosecuting attorney was completely
changed. He answered respectfully and courteously, and his
brief cross-examination was calculated rather to confirm
the evidence for the defence than to invalidate it.

Mr. Pinkerton then rose and stated that he should call
no other witnesses. The fact had been established that
Mrs. Asten had been in the habit of taking arsenic to improve
her complexion; also that she had purchased much
more than enough of the drug to cause death, at the store
of Mr. Ziba Linthicum, only a few days before her demise,
and under circumstances which indicated a desire to conceal
the purchase. There were two ways in which the manner
of her death might be explained; either she had ignorantly
taken an over-dose, or, having mixed the usual quantity before
descending to the garden to overhear the conversation
between Mr. Asten and Lucy Henderson, had forgotten the
fact in the great excitement which followed, and thoughtlessly
added as much more of the poison. Her last words
to her husband, which could not be introduced as evidence,
but might now be repeated, showed that her death was the
result of accident, and not of design. She was thus absolved
of the guilt of suicide, even as her husband of the
charge of murder.

Mr. Spenham, somewhat to the surprise of those who
were unacquainted with his true character, also stated that
he should call no further witness for the prosecution. The
testimonies of Mr. Augustus Fitzwilliam Case and Mr. Benjamin
Blessing—although the latter was unnecessarily ostentatious
and discursive—were sufficient to convince him
that the prosecution could not make out a case. He had
no doubt whatever of Mr. Joseph Asten's innocence. Lest
the expressions which he had been compelled to use, in the
performance of his duty, might be misunderstood, he wished
to say that he had the highest respect for the characters of
Mr. Asten and also of Miss Lucy Henderson. He believed
the latter to be a refined and virtuous lady, an ornament to
the community in which she resided. His language towards
her had been professional,—by no means personal.
It was in accordance with the usage of the most eminent
lights of the bar; the ends of justice required the most
searching examination, and the more a character was criminated
the more brightly it would shine forth to the
world after the test had been successfully endured.
He was simply the agent of the law, and all respect of persons
was prohibited to him while in the exercise of his
functions.

The judge informed the jurymen that he did not find it
necessary to give them any instructions. If they were
already agreed upon their verdict, even the formality of
retiring might be dispensed with.

There was a minute's whispering back and forth among
the men, and the foreman then rose and stated that they
were agreed.

The words “Not Guilty!” spoken loudly and emphatically,
were the signal for a stormy burst of applause from

the audience. In vain the court-crier, aided by the constables,
endeavored to preserve order. Joseph's friends gathered
around him with their congratulations; while Mr.
Blessing, feeling that some recognition of the popular sentiment
was required, rose and bowed repeatedly to the crowd.
Philip lad the way to the open air, and the others followed,
but few words were spoken until they found themselves in
the large parlor of the hotel.

Mr. Blessing had exchanged some mysterious whispers
with the clerk, on arriving; and presently two negro waiters
entered the room, bearing wine, ice, and other refreshments.
When the glasses had been filled, Mr. Blessing lifted his
with an air which imposed silence on the company, and thus
spake: “`Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh.' There may be occasions when silence is golden,
but to-day we are content with the baser metal. A man in
whom we all confide, whom we all love, has been rescued
from the labyrinth of circumstances; he comes to us as a
new Theseus, saved from the Minotaur of the Law! Although
Mr. Held, with the assistance of his fair sister, was
the Ariadne who found the clew, it has been my happy lot
to assist in unrolling it; and now we all stand together, like
our classic models on the free soil of Crete, to chant a pæan
of deliverance. While I propose the health and happiness
and good-fortune of Joseph Asten, I beg him to believe that
my words come ab imo pectore,—from my inmost heart: if
any veil of mistrust, engendered by circumstances which I
will not now recall, still hangs between him and myself, I
entreat him to rend that veil, even as David rent his garments,
and believe in my sincerity, if he cannot in my discretion!”

Philip was the only one, besides Joseph, who understood

the last allusion. He caught hold of Mr. Blessing's hand
and exclaimed: “Spoken like a man!”

Joseph stepped instantly forward. “I have again been
unjust,” he said, “and I thank you for making me feel it.
You have done me an infinite service, sacrificing your own
feelings, bearing no malice against me for my hasty and
unpardonable words, and showing a confidence in my character
which—after what has passed between us—puts me to
shame. I am both penitent and grateful: henceforth I shall
know you and esteem you!”

Mr. Blessing took the offered hand, held it a moment, and
then stammered, while the tears started from his eyes:
“Enough! Bury the past a thousand fathoms deep! I can
still say: foi de Belsain!”

“One more toast!” cried Philip. “Happiness and
worldly fortune to the man whom misfortunes have bent but
cannot break,—who has been often deceived, but who
never purposely deceived in turn,—whose sentiment of
honor has been to-day so nobly manifested,—Benjamin
Blessing!”

While the happy company were pouring out but not exhausting
their feelings, Lucy Henderson stole forth upon the
upper balcony of the hotel. There was a secret trouble in
her heart, which grew from minute to minute. She leaned
upon the railing, and looked down the dusty street, passing
in review the events of the two pregnant days, and striving
to guess in what manner they would affect her coming life.
She felt that she had done her simple duty: she had spoken
no word which she was not ready to repeat; yet in her
words there seemed to be the seeds of change.

After a while the hostler brought a light carriage from the
stable, and Elwood Withers stepped into the street below

her. He was about to take the reins, when he looked up,
saw her, and remained standing. She noticed the intensely
wistful expression of his face.

“Are you going, Elwood,—and alone?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said eagerly; and waited.

“Then I will go with you,—that is, if you will take me.”
She tried to speak lightly and playfully.

In a few minutes they were out of town, passing between
the tawny fields and under the russet woods. A sweet west
wind fanned them with nutty and spicy odors, and made a
crisp, cheerful music among the fallen leaves.

“What a delicious change!” said Lucy, “after that
stifling, dreadful room.”

“Ay, Lucy—and think how Joseph will feel it! And
how near, by the chance of a hair, we came of missing the
truth!”

“Elwood!” she exclaimed, “while I was giving my testimony,
and I found your eyes fixed on me, were you thinking
of the counsel you gave me, three weeks ago, when we
met at the tunnel?”

“I was!”

“I knew it, and I obeyed. Do you now say that I did
right?”

“Not for that reason,” he answered. “It was your own
heart that told you what to do. I did not mean to bend or
influence you in any way: I have no right.”

“You have the right of a friend,” she whispered.

“Yes,” said he, “I sometimes take more upon myself
than I ought. But it's hard, in my case, to hit a very fine
line.”

“O, you are now unjust to yourself, Elwood. You are
both strong and generous.”

“I am not strong! I am this minute spoiling my good
luck. It was a luck from Heaven to me, Lucy, when you
offered to ride home with me, and it is, now—if I could only
swallow the words that are rising into my mouth!”

She whispered again: “Why should you swallow them?”

“You are cruel! when you have forbidden me to speak,
and I have promised to obey!”

“After all you have heard?” she asked.

“All the more for what I have heard.”

She took his hand, and cried, in a trembling voice: “I
have been cruel, in remaining blind to your nature. I resisted
what would have been—what will be, if you do not
turn away—my one happiness in this life! Do not speak—
let me break the prohibition! Elwood, dear, true, noble
heart,—Elwood, I love you!”

“Lucy!”

And she lay upon his bosom.