A Changed Heart: A Novel

by May Agnes Fleming

Charley smiled coldly, contemptuously.

"I am quite aware, sir, every circumstance tells very much against me. Nevertheless, I refuse to answer that and any other question I choose."

"The boy is either mad," thought Val Blake, "or else guilty. In either case, his doom is sealed!"

The coroner now explained to his court how the letter came into the hands of Doctor Leach, and read it aloud, handing it over to the jury for their inspection when he had finished. The allusion to his taking state-rooms for them both puzzled all who knew of the girl's departure for Greentown; but was set down by them, as it had been by Val, as a blind to deceive her friends.

Ann Nettleby was next called, and, in a state of great trepidation, related Charley's call at the cottage and inquiry for Cherrie. Informed the coroner, in reply to his question, that Mr. Marsh was "after" Cherrie, a constant visitor at their house, and had asked Cherrie not long before to run away with him to the States. Had not heard from her sister since her departure, but supposed she was up in Greentown.

One or two other witnesses were called, who had nothing to relate concerning the murder, but a good deal about Mr. Marsh's late dissipated habits and gambling-debts. When these witnesses were gone, Mr. Marsh was called upon, and requested, if he had anything to say in his own behalf, to say it.

Mr. Marsh had but little to say, and said that little with a recklessness that quite shocked the assemblage. The secret of his bitter tone and fiercely-scornful indifference they had no clue to, and they set it down to the desperation of discovered guilt. He informed them, in that reckless manner, flinging his words at them like a defiance, that Ann Nettleby's testimony was correct, that he had called at the cottage between eight and nine on the night of the murder, and on leaving her had gone straight to the old house, and remained in the grounds until discovered by Midge and Rob Nettleby. What had taken him there, what his motive in lingering, was what Cherrie meant in her note, and all else concerning his motives and actions he refused to answer. He was a drunkard, he was a gambler, he was in debt—"his friends" with sneering emphasis, "have given his character with perfect correctness. But for all that, strange as it might seem, incredible as he knew they would think it, he had neither robbed nor murdered his sister's benefactress. Further than that he had nothing to say."

He returned to the window again, flashing fierce defiance on every hand, and the coroner summed up the evidence. He was an old man, and had known Charley Marsh since he was a pretty little fair-haired, frolicsome boy, and he would have given a good round sum in hard cash to be able to find him innocent. But he could not, and justice must be done. He recapitulated his irregular conduct on the evening of the murder, as related by his own mother, his lingering in the grounds from dark until discovered by Priscilla Short and Robert Nettleby, confessed by himself; his glove found at the bedside, as if dropped in his haste and alarm; his knowledge of the large sum of money paid the deceased that afternoon by Mr. Oaks; his knowledge, also, of the house, as proved by his entering the back-window, found open, and of its lonely and unprotected state; and lastly, this note of Cherrie Nettleby's, with its distinct allusion to the money of Mrs. Leroy, to benefit him. It was a pity this girl was not here—but she soon would be found; meantime, the case was perfectly clear without her. It was evident robbery, not murder, had been the primary instigation; but the unfortunate woman awakening, probably, had frightened him, and in the impulse of the moment he had endeavored to stifle her cries, and so—strangled her. Perhaps, too, his sister being her heiress, and inheritrix of all she possessed, he had persuaded himself, with the sophistry of guilt, that he had some right to this money, and that he was only defrauding his own sister, after all. His debts were heavy and pressing, no way of paying them open, and desperation had goaded him on. He (the coroner) trusted that the sad case of this young man, once so promising, until he had fallen into evil habits, would be a warning to others, and an inducement not to stray away from the path of rectitude into that broad road whose end was disgrace and ruin. The money stolen had not been found, but there had been ample time given him to conceal it. He begged the jury to reflect on the evidence they had heard, consult together, and return a verdict according to their conscience.

The jury retired from the room, and in the awful silence which followed, you might have heard a pin drop. Charles Marsh, in this supreme crisis of his life, still stood looking out of the window. He neither moved nor spoke, nor looked at any one, nor betrayed the slightest sign of agitation; but his teeth were rigidly locked, and the palm of his strong right hand was bleeding where he had clenched it, in that silent agony, until the nails had sunk deep into the flesh. He had been reckless and defiant, and braved it out with a high hand; but Charles Marsh had had the misfortune to be born with a keenly sensitive heart, and a pride that had lain latent under all his careless life; and what he felt in that hour of disgrace and degradation, branded as a thief and a murderer before the friends who knew him all his life, was known only to Heaven and himself.

The jury were not long away. Evidently, his case had been settled in their minds before they had left their seats. And in that dread silence the foreman, Mr. Blair, with a grave, sad face, stood up to announce their verdict. It was only one word—the terrible word, "Guilty."