CHAPTER XXXIV.
UPON CHARGE OF MURDER.
Some hours later in that day Colonel Thornton was sitting, in his capacity of police magistrate, in his office at C——. The room was occupied by about a dozen persons, men and women, black and white. He had just got through with one or two petty cases of debt or theft, and had up before him a poor, half-starved "White Herring," charged with sheep-stealing, when the door opened and a young girl, closely veiled, entered and took a seat in the farthest corner from the crowd. The case of the poor man was soon disposed of—the evidence was not positive—the compassionate magistrate leaned to the side of mercy, and the man was discharged, and went home most probably to dine upon mutton. This being the last case, the magistrate arose and ordered the room to be cleared of all who had no further business with him.
When the loungers had left the police office the young girl came forward, stood before the magistrate, and raised her veil, revealing the features of Miriam.
"Good-morning, Miss Shields," said Colonel Thornton; and neither the countenance nor manner of this suave and stately gentleman of the old school revealed the astonishment he really felt on seeing the young lady in such a place. He arose and courteously placed her a chair, reseated himself, and turned toward her and respectfully awaited her communication.
"Colonel Thornton, you remember Miss Mayfield, and the manner of her death, that made some stir here about seven years ago?"
The face of the old gentleman suddenly grew darkened and slightly convulsed, as the face of the sea when clouds and wind pass over it.
"Yes, young lady, I remember."
"I have come to denounce her murderer."
Colonel Thornton took up his pen, and drew toward him a blank form of a writ, and sat looking toward her; and waiting for her further words.
Her bosom heaved, her face worked, her voice was choked and unnatural, as she said:
"You will please to issue a warrant for the arrest of Thurston
Willcoxen."
Colonel Thornton laid down his pen, arose from his seat, and took her hand and gazed upon her with an expression of blended surprise and compassion.
"My dear young lady, you are not very well. May I inquire—are your friends in town, or are you here alone?"
"I am here alone. Nay, I am not mad, Colonel Thornton, although your looks betray that you think me so."
"No, no, not mad, only indisposed," said the colonel, in no degree modifying his opinion.
"Colonel Thornton, if there is anything strange and eccentric in my looks and manner, you must set it down to the strangeness of the position in which I am placed."
"My dear young lady, Miss Thornton is at the hotel to-day. Will you permit me to take you to her?"
"You will do as you please, Colonel Thornton, after you shall have heard my testimony and examined the proofs I have to lay before you. Then I shall permit you to judge of my soundness of mind as you will, premising, however, that my sanity or insanity can have no possible effect upon the proofs that I submit," she said, laying a packet upon the table between them.
Something in her manner now compelled the magistrate to give her words an attention for which he blamed himself, as for a gross wrong, toward his favorite clergyman.
"Do I understand you to charge Mr. Willcoxen with the death of Miss
Mayfield?"
"Yes," said Miriam, bowing her head.
"What cause, young lady, can you possibly have for making such a monstrous and astounding accusation?"
"I came here for the purpose of telling you, if you will permit me. Nor do I, since you doubt my reason, ask you to believe my statement, unsupported by proof."
"Go on, young lady; I am all attention."
"Will you administer the usual oath?"
"No, Miss Shields; I will hear your story first in the capacity of friend."
"And you think that the only capacity in which you will be called upon to act? Well, may Heaven grant it," said Miriam, and she began and told him all the facts that had recently come to her knowledge, ending by placing the packet of letters in his hands.
While she spoke, Colonel Thornton's pen was busy making minutes of her statements; when she had concluded, he laid down the pen, and turning to her, asked:
"You believe, then, that Mr. Willcoxen committed this murder?"
"I know not—I act only upon the evidence."
"Circumstantial evidence, often as delusive as it is fatal! Do you think it possible that Mr. Willcoxen could have meditated such a crime?"
"No, no, no, no! never meditated it! If he committed it, it was unpremeditated, unintentional; the accident of some lover's quarrel, some frenzy of passion, jealousy—I know not what!"
"Let me ask you, then, why you volunteer to prosecute?"
"Because I must do so. But tell me, do you think what I have advanced trivial and unimportant?" asked Miriam, in a hopeful tone, for little she thought of herself, if only her obligation were discharged, and her brother still unharmed.
"On the contrary, I think it so important as to constrain my instant attention, and oblige me to issue a warrant for the apprehension of Mr. Thurston Willcoxen," said Colonel Thornton, as he wrote rapidly, filling out several blank documents. Then he rang a bell, that was answered by the entrance of several police officers. To the first he gave a warrant, saying:
"You will serve this immediately upon Mr. Willcoxen." And to another he gave some half dozen subpoenas, saying: "You will serve all these between this time and twelve to-morrow."
When these functionaries were all discharged, Miriam arose and went to the magistrate.
"What do you think of the testimony?"
"It is more than sufficient to commit Mr. Willcoxen for trial; it may cost him his life."
A sudden paleness passed over her face; she turned to leave the office, but the hand of death seemed to clutch her heart, arresting its pulsations, stopping the current of her blood, smothering her breath, and she fell to the floor.
* * * * *
Wearily passed the day at Dell-Delight. Thurston, as usual, sitting reading or writing at his library table; Paul rambling uneasily about the house, now taking up a book and attempting to read, now throwing it down in disgust; sometimes almost irresistibly impelled to spring upon his horse and gallop to Charlotte Hall, then restraining his strong impulse lest something important should transpire at home during his absence. So passed the day until the middle of the afternoon.
Paul was walking up and down the long piazza, indifferent for the first time in his life to the loveliness of the soft April atmosphere, that seemed to blend, raise and idealize the features of the landscape until earth, water and sky were harmonized into celestial beauty. Paul was growing very anxious for the reappearance of Miriam, or for some news of her or her errand, yet dreading every moment an arrival of another sort. "Where could the distracted girl be? Would her report be received and acted upon by the magistrate? If so, what would be done? How would it all end? Would Thurston sleep in his own house or in a prison that night? When would Miriam return? Would she ever return, after having assumed such a task as she had taken upon herself?"
These and other questions presented themselves every moment, as he walked up and down the piazza, keeping an eye upon the distant road.
Presently a cloud of dust in the distance arrested both his attention and his promenade, and brought his anxiety to a crisis. He soon perceived a single horseman galloping rapidly down the road, and never removed his eyes until the horseman turned into the gate and galloped swiftly up to the house.
Then with joy Paul recognized the rider, and ran eagerly down the stairs to give him welcome, and reached the paved walk just as Cloudy drew rein and threw himself from the saddle.
The meeting was a cordial, joyous one—with Cloudy it was sincere, unmixed joy; with Paul it was only a pleasant surprise and a transient forgetfulness. Rapid questions were asked and answered, as they hurried into the house.
Cloudy's ship had been ordered home sooner than had been expected; he had reached Norfolk a week before, B—— that afternoon, and had immediately procured a horse and hurried on home. Hence his unlooked-for arrival.
"How is Thurston? How is Miriam? How are they all at Luckenough?"
"All are well; the family at Luckenough are absent in the South, but are expected home every week."
"And where is Miriam?"
"At the village."
"And Thurston?"
"In his library, as usual," said Paul, and touched the bell to summon a messenger to send to Mr. Willcoxen.
"Have you dined, Cloudy?"
"Yes, no—I ate some bread and cheese at the village; don't fuss; I'd rather wait till supper-time."
The door opened, and Mr. Willcoxen entered.
Whatever secret anxiety might have weighed upon the minister's heart, no sign of it was suffered to appear upon his countenance, as, smiling cordially, he came in holding out his hand to welcome his cousin and early playmate, expressing equal surprise and pleasure at seeing him.
Cloudy had to go over the ground of explanation of his sudden arrival, and by the time he had finished, old Jenny came in, laughing and wriggling with joy to see him. But Jenny did not remain long in the parlor; she hurried out into the kitchen to express her feelings professionally by preparing a welcome feast.
"And you are not married yet, Thurston, as great a favorite as you are with the ladies! How is that? Every time I come home I expect to be presented to a Mrs. Willcoxen, and never am gratified; why is that?"
"Perhaps I believe in the celibacy of the clergy."
"Perhaps you have never recovered the disappointment of losing Miss Le
Roy?"
"Ah! Cloudy, people who live in glass houses should not throw stones; I suspect you judge me by yourself. How is it with you, Cloudy? Has no fair maiden been able to teach you to forget your boy-love for Jacquelina?"
Cloudy winced, but tried to cover his embarrassment with a laugh.
"Oh! I have been in love forty dozen times. I'm always in love; my heart is continually going through a circle from one fit to another, like the sun through the signs of the zodiac; only it never comes to anything."
"Well, at least little Jacko is forgotten, which is one congratulatory circumstance."
"No, she is not forgotten; I will not wrong her by saying that she is, or could be! All other loves are merely the foreign ports, which my heart visits transiently now and then. Lina is its native home. I don't know how it is. With most cases of disappointment, such as yours with Miss Le Roy, I suppose the regret may be short-lived enough; but when an affection has been part and parcel of one's being from infancy up; why, it is in one's soul and heart and blood, so to speak—is identical with one's consciousness, and inseparable from one's life."
"Do you ever see her?"
"See her! yes; but how?—at each return from a voyage. I may see her once, with an iron grating between us; she disguised with her black shrouding robe and veil, and thinking that she must suffer here to expiate the fate of Dr. Grimshaw, who, scorpion-like, stung himself to death with the venom of his own bad passions. She is a Sister of Mercy, devoted to good works, and leaves her convent only in times of war, plague, pestilence or famine, to minister to the suffering. She nursed me through the yellow fever, when I lay in the hospital at New Orleans, but when I got well enough to recognize her she vanished—evaporated—made herself 'thin air,' and another Sister served in her place."
"Have you ever seen her since?"
"Yes, once; I sought out her convent, and went with the fixed determination to reason with her, and to persuade her not to renew her vows for another year—you know, the Sisters only take vows for a year at a time."
"Did you make any impression on her mind?" inquired Thurston, with more interest than he had yet shown m any part of the story.
"'Make any impression on her mind!' No! I—I did not even attempt to. How could I, when I only saw her behind a grate, with the prioress on one side of her and the portress on the other? My visit was silent enough, and short enough, and sad enough. Why can't she come out of that? What have I done to deserve to be made miserable? I don't deserve it. I am the most ill-used man in the United States service."
While Cloudy spoke, old Jenny was hurrying in and out between the house and the kitchen, and busying herself with setting the table, laying the cloth and arranging the service. But presently she came in, throwing wide the door, and announcing:
"Two gemmun, axin to see marster."
Thurston arose and turned to confront them, while Paul became suddenly pale on recognizing two police officers.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Willcoxen—good-afternoon, gentlemen," said the foremost and most respectable-looking of the two, lifting his hat and bowing to the fireside party. Then replacing it, he said: "Mr. Willcoxen, will you be kind enough to step this way and give me your attention, sir." He walked to the window, and Thurston followed him.
Paul stood with a pale face and firmly compressed lip, and gazed after them.
And Cloudy—unsuspicious Cloudy, arose and stood with his back to the fire and whistled a sea air.
"Mr. Willcoxen, you can see for yourself the import of this paper," said the officer, handing the warrant.
Thurston read it and returned it.
"Mr. Willcoxen," added the policeman, "myself and my comrade came hither on horseback. Let me suggest to you to order your carriage. One of us will accompany you in the drive, and all remarks will be avoided."
"I thank you for the hint, Mr. Jenkins; I had, how ever, intended to do as you advise," said Thurston, beckoning his brother to approach.
"Paul! I am a prisoner. Say nothing at present to Cloudy; permit him to assume that business takes me away, and go now quietly and order horses put to the carriage."
"Dr. Douglass, we shall want your company also," said the officer, serving Paul with a subpoena.
Paul ground his teeth together and rushed out of the door.
"Keep an eye on that young man," said the policeman to his comrade, and the latter followed Paul into the yard and on to the stables.
The haste and passion of Paul's manner had attracted Cloudy's attention, and now he stood looking on with surprise and inquiry.
"Cloudy," said Thurston, approaching him, "a most pressing affair demands my presence at C—— this afternoon. Paul must also attend me. I may not return to-night. Paul, however, certainly will. In the meantime, Cloudy, my boy, make yourself as much at home and as happy as you possibly can."
"Oh! don't mind me! Never make a stranger of me. Go, by all means. I wouldn't detain you for the world; hope it is nothing of a painful nature that calls you from home, however. Any parishioner ill, dying and wanting your ghostly consolations?"
"Oh, no," said Thurston, smiling.
"Glad of it! Go, by all means. I will make myself jolly until you return," said Cloudy, walking up and down the floor whistling a love ditty, and thinking of little Jacko. He always thought of her with tenfold intensity whenever he returned home and came into her neighborhood.
"Mr. Jenkins, will you follow me to my library?" said Thurston.
The officer bowed assent and Mr. Willcoxen proceeded thither for the purpose of securing his valuable papers and locking his secretary and writing-desk.
After an absence of some fifteen minutes they returned to the parlor to find Paul and the constable awaiting them.
"Is the carriage ready?" asked Mr. Willcoxen.
"Yes, sir," replied the constable.
"Then, I believe, we also are—is it not so?"
The police officer bowed, and Mr. Willcoxen walked up to Cloudy and held out his hand.
"Good-by, Cloudy, for the present. Paul will probably be home by nightfall, even if I should be detained."
"Oh, don't hurry yourself upon my account. I shall do very well. Jenny can take care of me," said Cloudy, jovially, as he shook the offered hand of Thurston.
Paul could not trust himself to look Cloudy in the face and say "Good-by." He averted his head, and so followed Mr. Willcoxen and the officer into the yard.
Mr. Willcoxen, the senior officer and Paul Douglass entered the carriage, and the second constable attended on horseback, and so the party set out for Charlotte Hall.
Hour after hour passed. Old Jenny came in and put the supper on the table, and stood presiding over the urn and tea-pot while Cloudy ate his supper. Old Jenny's tongue ran as if she felt obliged to make up in conversation for the absence of the rest of the family.
"Lord knows, I'se glad 'nough you'se comed back," she said; "dis yer place is bad 'nough. Sam's been waystin' here eber since de fam'ly come from de city—dey must o' fetch him long o' dem. Now I do 'spose sumtin is happen long o' Miss Miriam as went heyin' off to de willidge dis mornin' afore she got her brekfas, nobody on de yeth could tell what fur. Now de od-er two is gone, an' nobody lef here to mine de house, 'cept 'tis you an' me! Sam's waystin'!"
Cloudy laughed and tried to cheer her spirits by a gay reply, and then they kept up between them a lively badinage of repartee, in which old Jenny acquitted herself quite as wittily as her young master.
And after supper she cleared away the service, and went to prepare a bed and light a fire in the room appropriated to Cloudy.
And so the evening wore away.
It grew late, yet neither Thurston nor Paul appeared. Cloudy began to think their return unseasonably delayed, and at eleven o'clock he took up his lamp to retire to his chamber, when he was startled and arrested by the barking of dogs, and by the rolling of the carriage into the yard, and in a few minutes the door was thrown violently open, and Paul Douglass, pale, haggard, convulsed and despairing, burst suddenly into the room.
"Paul! Paul! what in the name of Heaven has happened?" cried Cloudy, starting up, surprised and alarmed by his appearance.
"Oh, it has ended in his committal!—it has ended in his committal!—he is fully committed for trial!—he was sent off to-night to the county jail at Leonardtown, in the custody of two officers!"
"Who is committed? What are you talking about, Paul?" said Cloudy, taking his hand kindly and looking in his face.
These words and actions brought Paul somewhat to his senses.
"Oh! you do not know!—you do not even guess anything about it, Cloudy!
Oh, it is a terrible misfortune! Let me sit down and I will tell you!"
And Paul Douglass threw himself into a chair, and in an agitated, nearly incoherent manner, related the circumstances that led to the arrest of Thurston Willcoxen for the murder of Marian Mayfield.
When he had concluded the strange story, Cloudy started up, took his hat, and was about to leave the room,
"Where are you going, Cloudy?"
"To the stables to saddle my horse, to ride to Leonardtown this night!"
"It is nearly twelve o'clock."
"I know it, but by hard riding I can reach Leonardtown by morning, and be with Thurston as soon as the prison doors are opened. And I will ask you, Paul, to be kind enough to forward my trunks from the tavern at Benedict to Leonardtown, where I shall remain to be near Thurston as long as he needs my services."
"God bless you, Cloudy! I myself wished to accompany him, but he would not for a moment hear of my doing so—he entreated me to return hither to take care of poor Fanny and the homestead."
Cloudy scarcely waited to hear this benediction, but hurried to the stables, found and saddled his horse, threw himself into the stirrups, and in five minutes was dashing rapidly through the thick, low-lying forest stretching inland from the coast.
Eight hours of hard riding brought him to the county seat.
Just stopping long enough to have his horse put up at the best hotel and to inquire his way to the prison, he hurried thither.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and the street corners were thronged with loungers conversing in low, eager tones upon the present all-absorbing topic of discourse—the astounding event of the arrest of the great preacher, the Rev. Thurston Willcoxen, upon the charge of murder.
Hurrying past all these, Cloudy reached the jail. He readily gained admittance, and was conducted to the cell of the prisoner. He found Thurston attired as when he left home, sitting at a small wooden stand, and calmly occupied with his pen.
He arose, and smilingly extended his hand, saying:
"This is very kind as well as very prompt, Cloudy. You must have ridden fast."
"I did. Leave us alone, if you please, my friend," said Cloudy, turning to the jailor.
The latter went out and locked the door upon the friends.
"This seems a sad event to greet you on your return home. Cloudy; but never mind, it will all be well!"
"Sad? It's a farce! I have not an instant's misgiving about the result; but the present indignity! Oh! oh! I could—"
"Be calm, my dear Cloudy. Have you heard anything of the circumstances that led to this?"
"Yes! Paul told me; but he is as crazy and incoherent as a Bedlamite! I want you, if you please, Thurston, if you have no objection, to go over the whole story for me, that I may see if I can make anything of it for your defense."
"Poor Paul! he takes this matter far too deeply to heart. Sit down. I have not a second chair to offer, but take this or the foot of the cot, as you prefer."
Cloudy took the foot of the cot.
"Certainly, Cloudy, I will tell you everything," said Thurston, and forthwith commenced his explanation.
Thurston's narrative was clear and to the point. When it was finished Cloudy asked a number of questions, chiefly referring to the day of the tragedy. When these were answered he sat with his brows gathered down in astute thought. Presently he asked:
"Thurston, have you engaged counsel?"
"Yes; Mr. Romford has been with me this morning."
"Is he fully competent?"
"The best lawyer in the State."
"When does the court sit?"
"On Monday week."
"Have you any idea whether your trial will come on early in the session?"
"I presume it will come on very soon, as Mr. Romford informs me there are but few cases on the docket."
"Thank Heaven for that, as your confinement here promises to be of very short duration. However, the limited time makes it the more necessary for me to act with the greater promptitude. I came here with the full intention of remaining in town as long as you should be detained in this infernal place, but I shall have to leave you within the hour."
"Of course, Cloudy, my dear boy, I could not expect you to restrict yourself to this town so soon after escaping from the confinement of your ship!"
"Oh! you don't understand me at all! Do you think I am going away on my own business, or amusement, while you are here? To the devil with the thought!—begging your reverence's pardon. No, I am going in search of Jacquelina. Since hearing your explanation, particularly that part of it relating to your visit to Luckenough, upon the morning of the day of Marian's death, and the various scenes that occurred there—certain vague ideas of my own have taken form and color, and I feel convinced that Jacquelina could throw some light upon this affair."
"Indeed! why should you think so?"
"Oh! from many small indexes, which I have neither the time nor inclination to tell you; for, taken apart from collateral circumstances and associations, they would appear visionary. Each in itself is really trivial enough, but in the mass they are very indicative. At least, I think so, and I must seek Jacquelina out immediately. And to do so, Thurston, I must leave you this moment, for there is a boat to leave the wharf for Baltimore this morning if it has not already gone. It will take me two days to reach Baltimore, another day to get to her convent, and it will altogether be five or six days before I can get back here. Good-by, Thurston! Heaven keep you, and give you a speedy deliverance from this black hole!"
And Cloudy threw his arms around Thurston in a brotherly embrace, and then knocked at the door to be let out.
In half an hour Cloudy was "once more upon the waters," in full sail for
Baltimore.