Ye seem to look on me with asking eyes!Listen! and I will tell a fearful story!Since I remember aught about myself,A strange heart sickness almost like to death,A deep remorse for some unacted crime,For some impossible, nameless wickedness,Was on me—in its prophecy I lived;No wretch dragg'd on to executionE'er felt more horrid pangs than then stirr'd upMy spirit with remorseful agony.—John Wilson.
Ye seem to look on me with asking eyes!Listen! and I will tell a fearful story!Since I remember aught about myself,A strange heart sickness almost like to death,A deep remorse for some unacted crime,For some impossible, nameless wickedness,Was on me—in its prophecy I lived;No wretch dragg'd on to executionE'er felt more horrid pangs than then stirr'd upMy spirit with remorseful agony.—John Wilson.
Eighteen months had passed since the murder of Oswald Waring, and yet the murderer had not been apprehended. Though, upon the night of that fatal catastrophe, both the regular and volunteer police had turned out in great numbers, and scattered themselves over the neighborhood in pursuit of the criminal; though trained sleuth-hounds had been made to smell his clothing, and had been set upon his scent; though, thus with men and dogs, the authorities had hunted him throughout the State, and had offered the largest rewards for his betrayal or apprehension, this length of time had passed, and he had not been arrested.
Mr. Waring having died intestate, his property, according to the laws of that commonwealth, fell to the next of kin.
His childless widow inherited none of her late husband's wealth, but returned to New Orleans, and thence retired to the country, to live upon her own reserved patrimony.
The plantation fell into other hands, and the planter passed out of memory.
Valentine, with his crime and his fate, overlaid by newer excitements, was already sinking into oblivion. He was supposed to have escaped from the State. But there were three faithful friends who knew that, in all this time, the miserable young man had never left the neighborhood, or wandered five miles from the blood-stained floor of his crime.
Phædra was set free. The quadroons and mestizzas, with all their fiery vehemence of temperament, have perhaps less of real vital stamina than any other race. They cannot bear up under any great mental or physical pressure. Phædra, by the terrible blow that had fallen upon her, was crushed into premature age and decrepitude. And, as a useless old crone, she was suffered by her new master to retire to a lone cabin in the pine barrens above the cypress swamp, and, without being required to work, was supplied with rations of food and clothing upon an equal footing with the plantation laborers.
But this poor Naomi, in her desolation, had also her Ruth.
Fannie had almost miraculously recovered from the yellow fever; and, in the mental imbecility that had attended her convalescence, she had been long shielded from the knowledge of the calamity that had fallen upon them all; and at last so gradually did the facts of the catastrophe enter her mind that she could never after say when or how she first learned the sum of her misery; and thus she was spared the sudden shock that must certainly have proved fatal to her.
No one could look upon that fragile form and thin face, with its fair, transparent pallor, and large, mournful eyes, and not know her heart was breaking.
What kept her life power going?
Something that was not the love of her child, or of her poor, old mother! Something that occasionally varied that look of hopeless, incurable sorrow, with a wild and startled expression of extreme terror, suggestive of insanity. Some people thought it was insanity, but they were mistaken; her reason was sound, though her heart was broken.
Fannie kept a little thread and needle shop; she owed the little shop to the benevolence of Mrs. Waring; for, to the honor of that poor lady be it spoken, even in the midst of her own awful sorrow, she had remembered and succored her humble sister in adversity. Fannie's little shop thrived moderately, and afforded herself and child a decent living, and the means of alleviating some of the miseries and adding to the few comforts of her poor mother.
Early every Saturday evening Fannie would close her little shop and take her child and walk out to Phædra's cabin, to remain until Monday morning. And these seasons, spent in reading the Scriptures, in prayer, and in mutual consolations, were the least unhappy in these poor women's lives.
Phædra's decrepitude confined her closely at home.
But the brothers and sisters of her church did not leave her alone in her sorrow. They came frequently, they ministered to all her necessities, material and spiritual, as far as she had need, and they had power. They held a weekly prayer-meeting at her house.
And these Thursday evening meetings were sources of great comfort to the desolate woman.
Fannie was frequently present at them. And the old negro preacher, Elisha, was invariable in his punctual attendance. There was also another, a constant, though an unknown and unsuspected worshipper among them.
Valentine's name had long died off from every tongue, as his memory seemed to have expired from every heart. Even in comforting Phædra her friends never designated the nature of her grief; and, in praying for the Lord's mercy upon their "aged sister in her sore affliction," they never named that affliction's cause. And though the unhappy man was remembered in their petitions, it was in silence and in secrecy.
One Thursday evening, while the March winds were piping through the pine barrens, Phædra was holding a prayer-meeting in her cabin.
There were about twenty negroes, both men and women, present.
Among them was the old preacher, Elisha, who led the devotions.
Fannie was also present, with her child. And the look of wild anxiety that occasionally varied the heart-broken expression of her face seemed now fixed; her usually patient, suffering countenance was absolutely haggard with terror, and strong shudders shook her frame.
Phædra watched her with great uneasiness.
Meantime the meeting went on in its services, and they sang, prayed and exhorted in turn. It was not what is technically called a "good" meeting. Few seemed to enjoy the privilege of prayer, or to possess the gift of exhortation. The very singing was tame and lifeless. There seemed to be some spell of heaviness cast over all. At last, toward the close of the evening, an aged brother arose, and began in a strain of such wild eloquence, as deep, earnest, fervid emotions confer upon untutored minds, to exhort his brethren and sisters of the church upon the subject of their apathy and lukewarmness. I can do no justice to that wild, eyrie style of oratory. It impressed, affected and strongly excited his hearers. He concluded withoutreexpressions and gesticulations:
"And why, my brethren, is this freezing spell of spiritual cold cast over us? Why can we not pray, or exhort, or sing, or take sweet counsel together? Why can we not love, or fear, or feel? Why will not the Spirit of God come down to us? Why will not the Lord inspire and accept our prayers? Is it because there is 'some accursed thing hidden' among us? Is there an Achan in our camp? I charge you, brother, sister, whoever you be, repent! speak! cast the foul sin from your soul!"
He was interrupted by a deep, hollow voice that proceeded from an obscure corner, where a seeming old woman sat crouching, her form enveloped in a long cloak, her head hidden in a deep sunbonnet.
"Yes! there is 'an accursed thing hidden' in your midst! and I am the Achan in your camp!" And the figure arose, and the cloak fell, and the bonnet was dropped, and the stranger stood revealed.
"Valentine! Valentine!" cried Fannie, in a voice of agony.
He crossed quickly through the astonished group, to the spot where she cowered. He stooped and spoke to her a few earnest words, and sat her down where she could drop her poor, young head upon the lap of the trembling, sorrow-stricken Phædra, while he stood up and gazed upon the crowd, who remained, stunned with consternation into silence.
Valentine was frightfully changed in the last eighteen months. His flesh had wasted from his bones, until it left him almost a walking skeleton; his skin had darkened, and his eyes had sunken, and concentrated their fires until they burned like two imbedded stars; his voice was cavernous. While the negroes present returned his gaze in silent awe, he spoke:
"A price is on my head! the Governor, or the State, will purchase and emancipate any man here who will deliver me up to death. It is written that 'a murderer shall hang on a tree!' It is every man's duty to deliver, if he can, a felon up to justice! It is every man's duty here to procure, if he can, his own freedom! Therefore, it is doubly some man's duty to take me into custody. I have determined to die for my deed! Doubtless, I could go at any time, and surrender to the authorities. But in that case I should not do the little good I am now desirous of doing. I should not in dying procure some one of you his freedom! Therefore, I wish that one of you take me in custody, and attend me to M——. Come, choose! elect, or cast lots for him who is to be the freeman. Brother Portiphar——"
Before Valentine could say another word the old preacher, Elisha, who had been gradually getting over his astonishment, and, recovering his self-possession climbed over stools and chairs and the crouching forms of women and children, and made his way toward Valentine, whom he embraced with his left arm, while he closed his lips by laying over them his right hand.
"Hush, Brudder Walley, hush! You don't know what you'se a-sayin' of. You'se a prophesyin' of de ole law 'stead o' de new gospel! 'Sides which, would you temp' any brudder here to sin an' slave his 'mortal soul, sake o' freein' of his poor, perishin' body? Hush, Brudder Walley, an' let me prophesy. Bredren and sisters, is der a man or a woman in de soun' o' my voice as 'ould 'cept his free papers on de terms as Brudder Walley offers—at de price of a brudder's life an' a sister's happiness? Which ob yer here 'ould buy his freedom wid the price ob Walley's blood, and Phædra's and Fannie's tears? Would you, Brudder Portiphar? or you, Sister Deely? or you? or you? No, not one ob you. Now, brudders an' sisters, I'se got a proposition to make. Fust, bolt dat door, Brudder Isaac, an' see to de fastenin' o' dat winder, Sister Hera; no knowin' who'se 'bout. Now, let's speak low. An' what I want to propose is dis yer: dat ebery brudder makes a pledge afore he leabes dis room to be silent as to which has happen here dis night. Let Brudder Walley no more be lef in de power an' temptations ob de enemy; let him feel hissef free to 'tend our prayer-meetin's here in peace an' safety, for all as is happened of to-night. Let us pray wid him, an' try to 'lieve his poor soul ob its load o' sin an' sorrow!"
Elisha would have spoken longer, but here Portiphar arose, and said, in effect, that he did not fully agree with Brother Elisha; that he doubted whether they should be doing right to conceal Valentine, especially when the conscience of the latter urged him to the expiation of his crime.
Elisha could scarcely wait for the other to finish his remarks before he arose in a hurry, and said, in effect, if not in these words, and with some vehemence also, that he was the last to make light of the guilt that Valentine had brought upon his own soul, but that he also knew, and no one else knew so well, the maddening provocation that had driven him to his crime. That he prayed the sin might be washed away by repentance and faith in the Redeemer; that, for this reason, he wished Valentine to feel safe in coming among them, to share their prayers, and hymns, and exhortations, and all their other means of grace; that, undismayed and undistracted by the worldly sorrows of imprisonment, trial and impending execution, he might have time to work out his salvation! That therefore he should shield his sinful brother until they could prove to him that the gallows was a means of grace, "which I don't believe it is," concluded old Elisha, as he sat down in quiet triumph, for he saw that every man and woman among the warm-hearted creatures present coincided in sentiment with himself, and that Portiphar was put down and silenced, if not convinced.
And Phædra and Fannie ventured once more to raise their drooping heads and look about them. Alas, for their feeble hopes! Valentine, still standing, and still agonized, waved his hand for silence and attention, and then spoke.
He told them he had already repented, if that were the word to express the horrible remorse of blood-guiltiness that had long preyed upon his heart, and consumed his flesh and blood, and left him what they saw him. But did they, he asked them, suppose that he had repented only since the fatal deed? No, no! but for years and years before that catastrophe he had suffered with that uncommitted crime. Did they think that the act was premeditated, then? Yes, in one sense it was premeditated, although entirely unintentional, and so abhorrent that he would have gladly died to escape committing it. The deed was premeditated, inasmuch as it had long loomed up before him, a black mountain[2]in his forward path of life, from which it was impossible to turn aside; to which every breath and every step drew him nearer and nearer. That the first time he caught a glimpse of this awful phantom of his future was while he and Oswald were still boys. He had been provoked and exasperated to frenzy by his playmate, and, in his utter madness, had struck and tried to kill him. The reaction from that fit of passion had been terrible. The next occasion upon which arose darkly before him this inevitable doom was when his master and himself were youths. One night he was driving Oswald home. Both were intoxicated; they quarreled; his master threatened him with the lash; he lost his reason and his very eyesight, and all his senses, in a dark tempest and whirlwind of mad and blind fury, and struck with all his strength to destroy. By Heaven's mercy, that blow was not fatal. But the recovery of his own senses from that frenzy of anger was more horrible than anything he had ever before experienced. From that time he had never been able to exorcise the haunting presence of that black phantom, standing waiting for him at the terminus of his earthly path, from which he could not escape; to which every breath and every step drew him nearer and nearer! From that time he had felt in some baleful moment of extreme exasperation, some irresponsible moment of mad and blind passion, he should strike a fatal blow. Yet he said he agonized in soul to escape that black crime; he struggled to conquer his angry passions; he sought the grace of God, and hoped that he had possessed it; he swore off from alcohol, that stimulus might not be added to his other excitements to anger—to the inevitable provocations arising from his temperament, position and circumstances—provocations that were constantly exasperating his soul to madness. For years, he said, no eye but the Lord's had seen the desperate war his spirit had waged with the powers of evil within and around him, and waged successfully, until one trying season, when, in the utter prostration of sorrow and despondency, he had been tempted to place again the maddening glass to his lips—tempted by the sophistry that prescribed the moral poison as a medicine; then he lost the habit, and at last the power of self-control, and one fatal day, when amazed and bewildered with exceeding sorrow, and stung to frenzy with the sense of wrong-suffering and cruelty, he had struck the blow that laid his master dead before him.
"Heaven knows I was not thinking of doing it; in my deep sorrow of the preceding days the phantom of my predestined crime was exorcised. I had not even that to warn me; the hour was entirely unguarded. I struck in self-defense. He had intercepted and knocked me down, to prevent me from going to see my sick wife. Blind and giddy, and furious, I struggled to my feet, and seized the first weapon that offered, a three-legged stool, and struck with all my strength; but when I saw the leg crush through his eye and brain, one lightning thought told me that he was killed, and thenceforth all the world was against me, and I against the world; and then waves of blood and clouds of fire seemed to roll up around me, and rage in a horrible tempest; reason fled utterly, and I knew nothing more until near midnight, when I came to myself upon the floor of Fannie's room; and even then, in my vague remorse and horror of half-conscious blood-guiltiness, I seemed to be some other thing than myself—perhaps some lost soul in perdition! Brother Elisha, Heaven bless him, was bending over me. It was to him I owed the preservation of my life. It was by his counsel and assistance that I disguised myself in poor Fannie's clothing, which fitted me well enough for the purpose. He even crimped my hair and tied up my head in a woman's turban. And he found and thrust Fannie's free papers in my bosom, and then led me off to his own home. Well, in this disguise, and by keeping very close, I contrived to elude the vigilance of the police, until a surer place of safety was provided for me near this cabin. For eighteen months I have eluded the police; but think you, my brothers and sisters, that, for one moment, I have escaped the avenger of blood? No! no! After the crime he found me even in the first moments of my waking consciousness; his clutch has never been relaxed from my heart; it compresses now, even to suffocation; the death that you would save me from I die every hour of my life; I can bear it no longer; I must die once for all, and have done with it; I should have resigned myself into the hands of the law, and, in the final expiation, long since found rest, but for Fannie's grief and terror. But now, even her tears and prayers must not hinder me; even for her peace it is better I should give myself up to die, and have it over, for now she lives in the midst of alarms; hereafter, when all is over, she will at least have quiet."
"Quiet! yes, the quiet of death, for I never can outlive you, Valley!" said Fannie, in a low tone of despair.
He laid his hand fondly on her bowed head, but without comment resumed his discourse.
"I was about to surrender myself to the public authorities, when I reflected that, by giving myself up to my brothers in the church, I might confer the blessing of freedom upon some one among you, since that was one of the rewards offered for my arrest. Here I am! Which of you will make himself a free man to-night?"
He paused a moment, looking around upon the little assembly; and then fixing his eyes upon a handsome, intelligent-looking, young man, to whom the gift of freedom might well seem the most desirable of goods, he said:
"Brother Joseph, will you take me into custody?"
"May the enemy of souls take me in custody, and never let me go, when I do!" promptly replied young Joe.
"That's you, my boy! And may the same fate befall any one else who would do the like!" exclaimed old Elisha, emphatically.
A murmur of approbation ran around the little assembly and revealed the fact that the feelings of the majority were with the speakers.
"Brother Walley! you think yourself a very guilty man. But no one ever craved freedom more than you did, and yet you know you would never o' bought your freedom at the price o' any man's life, no matter how fur forfeit his life might be! An' now, Brudder Walley, please don't think us so much wus than yourself."
When the little assembly heard this, with one voice (and one exception) they declared that they would die before they would betray Valentine. And Elisha, to confirm their faith, went around with the Bible in his hand, and administered to each an oath of fidelity and silence upon the subject of Valentine and the transactions of that night.
But when he came to old Portiphar, the latter declared that he had a scruple against taking an oath on the Evangelists, but readily gave his promise to be secret.
Valentine, with grateful but troubled looks, regarded these proceedings, until Phædra and Fannie, taking advantage of the popular sentiment, came to him, and, one on each side, seized his hands, besought him, for their sakes, not to cast away his slender chance of safety.
What was to be done? Love was almost irresistible, and life, perhaps, even at the worst was sweet; he had come to the resolution to deliver himself up to justice; but that could be done at any time; and for the present it could be deferred. He embraced his mother and his wife, and bade them rest quietly, as he would proceed no farther in the matter now.
The meeting soon after broke up.
One by one the members of the little community took leave of Valentine, promising to guard his secret, and remember him in their prayers.
After all the others had departed old Portiphar still lingered. And when the room was quite clear, he called Valentine to the door and said:
"Brudder Valley, I'se a poor man, wid a fam'ly o' chillun, an' ef so be you'se 'termin' on gibbin' o' yourself up I wouldn' min' walkin' far as the squire's office wid you myself."
"Thank you, Portiphar; I will inform you when I need your services. Good-night," replied the young man, shutting the door upon him.
Portiphar had not proceeded half a dozen steps on his way before he felt himself seized by the shoulder, and he recognized as his assailant the strapping negro, young Joe, who, holding him tightly, said:
"See here, Daddy Fox! I thought what you was up to, so I stopped to give this 'vice! Ef Valley's took up, we shall all know who slipped the bloodhounds on him, an' then some dark night somethin' will happen to you so sudden you won't never know what hurt you! Tain't only me, but a great many more is a-watchin' of you!"
And with this brief and pithy exordium Joe released Portiphar, or rather spurned him forward, and went his own way. This threat put the old man in a cold sweat of terror. He knew the strong fellow-feeling among his own class; that, even in the dangerous number of twenty persons, it would keep Valentine's secret; that he himself was suspected as a traitor; that, if Valentine should now be arrested, his own life might not be safe with those of the meeting who were not professing Christians; and he resolved to guide himself accordingly.
Several weeks passed in safety to the wretched young man.
But, released from the awful solitude and silence of his own heavily-burdened soul, free to come among a few of his fellow-creatures, free to speak of the deep sorrow and remorse that consumed his heart, among those who pitied and shrank not from him, who prayed for and with him, Valentine's mind began to recover its healthy tone; he did not cease to mourn his crime, but he mourned no longer as one without hope; he was again received into the little brotherhood of the church, the simple ceremony being performed in the lone cabin; again he became the man of fervent prayer and eloquent exhortation; and powerful, far more powerful, was he now, through his terrible experiences and profound repentance, than ever he had been.
To his confidant brother, Elisha, he was accustomed to say:
"I know I shall not finally escape the earthly punishment of my crime. I know that sooner or later it must come; nor do I wish to avoid it; yet will I do nothing to hasten its arrival; but when it shall come, I will accept it."
To which Elisha would reply: "Our lives are in the hands of the Lord," or words to that purpose.
Weeks grew into months, spring ripened into summer, and summer waned into autumn, and still Valentine lived unmolested.
At length, however, near the last of September, a rumor got afloat that Valentine, the murderer of Mr. Waring, was concealed somewhere in the neighborhood of his late master's residence. How this report first got in circulation no one seemed to be able to tell; though how the secret, known to twenty people, had been guarded so long may be more of a subject for conjecture to many minds. Be that as it may, the peace of the unhappy little family was gone forever. Phædra's lonely cabin in the pine barrens and Fannie's humble home in the city were subject to sudden invasions and searchings by day and by night. Their weekly prayer-meetings were surprised and broken up. But no trace of Valentine could be discovered; as unexpectedly as he had appeared, so suddenly had he again disappeared. The earth seemed to have swallowed him.
But this could not last forever; and upon the third of October Valentine was arrested under the following suspicious circumstances:
A police officer, stationed in concealment behind a hedge of Spanish daggers that bordered a lane crossing the highway at right angles, and running midway between the pine ridge and cypress swamp, saw what seemed a young negro woman coming down the lane. She was poorly and plainly clothed, and wore a long sunbonnet. There was nothing whatever in her manner or appearance to attract attention. Yet this police officer watched her closely. Presently, coming up the lane from an opposite direction, appeared the figure of an old negro. The policeman favored him also with a share of notice. Meeting the seeming woman, the old man laughed, held out his hand, and exclaimed, in a clear voice:
"Ha! Brudder Walley! Good-morning! Walking out to take a little air, eh?"
"Hush! for Heaven's sake, don't speak so loud or call me by name. Yes, I have stolen forth for a breath of fresh air."
"Glad to hear it. Which way is you walking, Brudder Walley?" inquired the other, raising his voice.
"For the Lord's sake, I beg you will not call me by my name, or speak so loud!"
"No danger at all, Brudder Walley; no one in sight!" exclaimed the old man, louder than ever. "Which way did you say you wer' goin', Brudder Walley?"
"I am going home."
"Well, Brudder Walley, let me go long wid you dis time. I'd like to see Sister Phædra," pleaded the old negro.
"Come along, then; but be careful."
They walked up the lane together, and then struck into the pines. The policeman followed them, and, himself unseen, keeping them in sight, traced them into the cabin of Phædra.
Then having, as it were, pointed his game, he ran back as fast as possible, sprang over the hedge, ran down the lane, crossed the highway, sprang over a second hedge dividing the road from Major Hewitt's plantation, hastened up to that gentleman's house, gave the alarm, procured the assistance of the overseer and the gardener, both Irishmen, and with this reinforcement hastened back to the scene of action.
They found Phædra's cabin quiet enough. To the knock of the policeman the old woman's voice responded, "Come in."
They entered, and found no one within except Phædra and the old negro preacher, Portiphar—no sign of Valentine. As the cabin contained but one room, with but one door and window, and no loft or outbuildings, the premises were easily searched. The little room was also very scantily furnished; a rag carpet concealed the rough floor, a rude bed stood in one corner, a cupboard in another, an oak chest in a third, a pine table in the fourth; a couple of chairs, a few stools, etc., completed the appointments. The cupboard was opened, the big chest ransacked, the bed and bedstead pulled to pieces, the chimney inspected, but no trace of the fugitive could be found.
Phædra was questioned; but she sadly shook her head and remained dumb.
The old negro preacher was examined, but he replied evasively, that he had just come, and knew nothing about it, while at the same time he kept his eyes strangely fixed upon the corner of the room occupied by Phædra's bed.
Yet, the policeman had pulled that bed to pieces and found nothing, and now did not know what to make of Portiphar's pertinacious gaze. At last a bright idea struck him. He took the poker and began sounding the floor. He went on sounding foot by foot until he approached the bed. Turning then, he saw Phædra's face haggard with the most frightful expression of terror and anxiety. Dragging the bedstead away by main force he began to sound the corner. The floor returned a hollow echo; he was satisfied.
It was but the work of a moment to turn up the carpet, to lift up a loose plank and to discover the mouth of the excavation below.
He knelt upon his knees and peered down into the cavern; the mouth only opened in the corner of Phædra's cabin; the cavern itself extended under and beneath the house. He peered down into the darkness for a few moments, and then called, in a not unkindly voice:
"Valentine, my poor fellow, you may as well come out; the game is up with you!"
A moment passed, and then Valentine, indeed, appeared above the opening.
"Give me time to change my dress, Mr. Pomfret," he said, for he was still in his woman's gown.
This was granted. The change was soon effected, and he came forth and gave himself up, only saying, as they took him away:
"Mother, tell my friends that the traitor at your side betrayed me to death!" And he regretted these words as soon as they were spoken.
Phædra had not heard them; she seemed praying—she had really fainted.
You few that love me,And dare be bold to weep for such as I—My gentle friends and fellows, whom to leaveIs only bitter to me, only dying—Go with me, like good angels, to mine end,And when the long divorce of death falls on me,Make of your prayers one most sweet sacrifice,And lift my soul to heaven.—Shakespeare.
You few that love me,And dare be bold to weep for such as I—My gentle friends and fellows, whom to leaveIs only bitter to me, only dying—Go with me, like good angels, to mine end,And when the long divorce of death falls on me,Make of your prayers one most sweet sacrifice,And lift my soul to heaven.—Shakespeare.
The news of the arrest of Valentine spread rapidly over the city and surrounding country, creating everywhere an intense excitement, and reviving all the deep interest that had been felt two years before, at the epoch of the crime.
This excitement prevailed all around Fannie, yet she knew nothing of it, or at least of its cause. There was no one found willing to carry this sorrowful intelligence to her, whom it most concerned; and she remained in total ignorance of the arrest of her husband until the next day, which being Saturday, she was looking forward, as usual, to an early closing of the shop, and a walk out into the country, to spend the night and the Sabbath with her old mother, and to comfort Valentine, when, unexpectedly, poor Phædra, recovered in some degree from the shock she had received, and accompanied by Elisha, arrived at her daughter's humble little home.
With all possible consideration and gentleness the old negro preacher broke the intelligence of Valentine's imprisonment to Fannie.
But, alas! if all fateful antecedents had not led her to anticipate this consequence, what further possible preparation could fit her to receive such intelligence? And, indeed, in any event, what preparation would soften such calamity?
Poor Fannie's frame was very delicate, and her heart by many blows had become physically feeble, and was, at best, a very imperfect instrument of her will. Had it not been so, the poor girl might have better borne up; as it was, she succumbed to the new blow, and a night of dangerous illness followed.
Yet, the next morning Fannie insisted on leaving her bed, and though apparently more dead than alive, and having to be supported between Phædra and old Elisha, she went to the prison to see Valentine.
All prisons are, of course, wretched places; but the jail of M—— was one of the most wretched of its kind. Comparatively small, shamefully overcrowded, close, ill-ventilated and pestilential, it insured nothing but the safe custody of the bodies of its miserable inmates. Evidently reform had not even looked upon its outer walls, far less opened one of its doors or windows.
For greater security Valentine had been confined in the condemned cell. A slight irregularity, but one of which no one had the right to complain. Although, under circumstances less tragic it must have seemed ludicrous to associate the graceful and almost girlish delicacy of poor Valentine's figure with danger to the security of bolts and bars and prison walls.
Howbeit, in the condemned cell Valentine was placed, and there Fannie and her companions found him.
Valentine received them with great composure, that was only slightly disturbed when Fannie, upon first seeing him, threw herself, with a cry of passionate sorrow, upon his bosom.
When the turnkey had left the cell, and locked them all in together, Valentine addressed himself to soothing Fannie. And after a while, favored by the exhaustion that followed her vehement emotion, he succeeded in quieting her.
After a little conversation, the old preacher invited all to join him in prayer, and, kneeling down, offered up a fervent petition for the divine mercy on the prisoner. Through the whole of the interview, all were impressed by the perfect composure and cheerfulness of Valentine. He seemed like a man who had cast a great weight from his breast, or in some other way had been relieved from a heavy burden. Though his manner was perfectly free from any charge of reprehensible levity, there was certainly an elasticity of spirit in all he said or did, that was as strange as it was entirely sincere and unaffected. Was this because he felt that he had nothing further to hope or fear, and trouble had ceased with uncertainty? Whatever was the cause, his mood happily influenced others, and they grew quiet and cheerful in his company.
"Dearest friends," Valentine said, afterward, to Elisha, "these things that have occurred were obliged to happen; no power on earth could have prevented them; and the power of Heaven never intervenes to perform miracles, or to avert evil at the expense of moral free agency. I am not a predestinarian, Brother Elisha, but I know that certain causes must produce certain effects, as surely as given figures produce known results. As I told you before, I always knew that this was to be my fate. From the first moment that I was provoked to strike Oswald Waring, I have seen this crime and this fate before me, like a horrible cloud. I would try to close my eyes to it—try to forget it. In vain—for even in my brightest moments it would fall suddenly like a funeral pall around me, blackening all the light of life. When poor Oswald Waring lay dead before me, I did not realize the crime more intensely than I had by presentiment a hundred times before. And when I shall stand, as I shall very soon do, upon the scaffold's fatal drop, with the cord around my neck, and the cap that is about to shut out the last glimpse of this world's sunshine from my eyes, descending over my face—even in that supreme moment, I know I cannot feel the situation more acutely than I have done prophetically a thousand times before!
"This prophetic feeling was the secret horror of my whole life. I dared not confide it to any one; therefore, it preyed upon my spirits, driving me at times almost to insanity. Yet, friends, there was nothing occult in this presentiment. It was but the swift and sure inference of certain effects from certain causes. It was rather a helpless foresight, than second sight. Well, the worst has come! I am calmer and happier now than I have been for many long, sad years. This fate is not nearly so horrible in reality as it seemed in anticipation. The only earthly trouble that I have is in the thought of my little family. Comfort them, Brother Elisha! Help them to bring all the power of religion to their support. Time and religion cures the worst of sorrows; it will cure theirs. Only, in the meantime—in the hour of their greatest trial, and the first dark days that follow it—watch over them, sustain and comfort them, and lift up their hands to God, Elisha."
"I will—I will, indeed, Brudder Walley," promised the old preacher.
Valentine was not left alone in his trials. The friends of the Methodist church flocked around, and one or another was always with him. The clergymen of every denomination took a great interest in his situation and character. And the better Valentine was known, the deeper this interest grew. In advance of his trial, the press took up his case, and the papers were filled with accounts of visits that this or that gentleman had made him; conversations that one or another clergyman had held with him in his cell; and with descriptions of his good looks, graceful manners, intelligence, knowledge, conversational powers and eloquence—all "so remarkable in one of his race and station." It would seem, indeed, as if, unhappily, the good points of the unhappy young man had never been known or suspected, until crime had brought him prominently before the public. If there was anything to be regretted in the great sympathy that was felt for him, it was that the sympathizers kept up too much fuss around him for the good of one of his excitable temperament, and thus prevented the self-recollection and sobriety that befited the solemnity of his situation. Through the kindness of these friends, the best counsel that could be prevailed upon to take up his hopeless cause was retained, to defend Valentine in the approaching trial.
There was one affecting circumstance that occurred just before the sitting of the criminal court. Mrs. Waring had been subpoenaed to attend as a witness for the prosecution. She came up from Louisiana; and, soon after her arrival in the city, she sought out the poor, little, obscure wife of the prisoner, and gave her what comfort she could impart—telling her, that though she was the principal witness, her testimony would not bear hard upon Valentine, whom she felt persuaded was mad, and unconscious of his acts at the moment she witnessed them. And that she hoped his life might yet be spared, for she felt convinced that capital punishment was in no case a corrector or a preventor of crime. And that, if the trial should terminate unfavorably, she would petition the governor for a commutation of the sentence. And that her petition, under the circumstances, would be the most powerful that could be presented. These and other merciful promises and reviving hopes did the gentle-hearted widow infuse into the poor girl's sinking heart.
And, oh! how Fannie knelt, and covered the lady's hands with loving kisses, and bathed them with grateful tears. And Mrs. Waring, when she left her, went directly to the most eminent lawyer in the city—one who had indignantly repulsed a clergyman who wished to retain him for the prisoner—and, after telling him very much what she had told Fannie relative to the character of her own testimony, succeeded in retaining him to defend Valentine; for this gentleman seemed to think that the favorable opinion and testimony of Mrs. Waring would make a very great difference in the respectability, popularity and security of the cause that he no longer hesitated to embrace.
Of course, there was much diversity of opinion in regard to Mrs. Waring's course. All wondered at her, many censured her, while a few saw in her conduct the perfection of Christian charity. But, like all who have thought and suffered much, and profited by such experience, Mrs. Waring was indifferent to any earthly judgment outside the sphere of her own affections; and so, ignorant and regardless of popular praise or censure, the lady went calmly on her merciful course.
The day of the sitting of the court drew near, when, one morning, a bustle in the gallery leading to Valentine's cell attracted the attention of the latter, and he had just concluded that the officials were bringing in a new prisoner, when the noisy group paused before his own door, unlocked it, and introduced Governor, Major Hewitt's big negro. With a few parting words, the turnkey and the constable left him, went out, and locked the door.
Then, for the first time, Valentine recovered from his surprise, and spoke to the newcomer.
But Governor, standing bolt upright until his tall figure and large head nearly reached the low ceiling, looked the image of stupor, and answered never a word.
Valentine knew, of course, that he was in desperate trouble, or he would not be in that cell. Kindly taking his hand, he led him to the bed, and made him sit down upon it. He was as docile as the gentlest child, though seemingly more stupid than any brute. And it was hours before he recovered sufficiently to tell Valentine the cause of his arrest.
The story gathered from his thick and incoherent talk was this: He himself was a huge, black, unsightly negro, painfully conscious of his personal defects. He was married to Milly, a pretty mulatto woman, whom he loved with the idolatrous affection that often distinguishes his race, and who had loved him in return, for the wealth of goodness under his rude exterior.
And he had been very happy with his wife and two little girls, until the new overseer came.
This person was a young, unmarried man, and his name was Moriarty. He took a fancy to Milly; used to stop every day at the door of her cabin, to ask for a drink of water; then, after a while, he got into the habit of going into her cabin to sit down and rest, and was never in a hurry to go away.
If there was any work to be done in the overseer's house, Milly was always sent for to do it, and always detained a long time. Governor was dispatched to labor upon the most remote part of the plantation; and whenever a messenger was required to go upon a distant errand, Governor was selected.
Poor fellow! he was not acute enough to be suspicious, or bad enough to be jealous. On the contrary, he was very good-natured, stupid and confiding. And he might have gone on forever, without suspecting that there was anything wrong, had not Milly, upon every Sunday and holiday, appeared in finery better than any of her companions could sport, and so excited their envy, quickened their perceptions and stimulated their tongues.
And rudely enough were the poor husband's eyes opened, and from that time no more wretched man than Governor lived upon this earth. He expostulated with Milly, who tearfully confessed to receiving presents from the new overseer, and protested her innocence of everything but their acceptance. And it is probable that up to this time, and for a long time after, Milly, who sincerely loved the ugly, but good-hearted father of her children, was innocent of everything except vanity; and could she have been delivered from the power of the tempter, would have remained blameless.
But there was no such deliverance for her. And now commenced the most troubled life that could be imagined for the husband. He felt that Milly still loved him with undiminished fidelity, but he knew, also, the power of temptation and of example. How many virtuous women were there on that or any other plantation? Why, virtue was not taught them—was not expected of them; and if they were born with the instinct, it was soon lost among a class where licentiousness was the rule and integrity the exception. The generality of this misfortune among his fellow-slaves did not make it any the less painful to this poor man to see his beloved Milly tempted from his bosom.
And he saw, with increasing anguish, that Milly, notwithstanding her penitence and tearful declaration that she would be faithful to Governor forever and forever, could not prevent the daily calls of the overseer at her cabin, and dared not disobey his commands, when he summoned her to work in his house.
Governor was still and ever kept at work upon the most distant parts of the plantation, and the overseer still and ever appropriated as much as he possibly could of Milly's time and services. There was no help for them.
Major Hewitt, in many respects a kind master, had, for his peace, long closed his ears to complaints of the slaves against their overseer, and Governor knew full well that his master would hear not one word against Mr. Moriarty.
Why lengthen a sad story? All the women of the plantation knew that, sooner or later, Milly would have no right to look down from her pride of integrity upon them. Yet it was some time—more than a year—before she was numbered among the frail ones.
And then, as guilt is so much more circumspect than innocence, poor Governor was deceived into a fool's paradise of confiding love, and led to believe that the overseer had entirely abandoned the persecution of Milly.
This blind confidence lasted until one day, when one of those sudden little breaks of water, so small that its surface might be covered with two hands, yet, withal, the herald of that terror of the Gulf planters, a devastating "crevasse," appeared in the midst of a valuable field, and it became necessary to arrest its progress at once.
A party of negroes was dispatched to the spot, and Governor was sent with them. In the course of a few hours, the crevasse had made dangerous progress, and they had to work until very late at night. But it was early when the overseer left them.
It was between eleven and twelve o'clock when a young negro from the quarters came down to the works, and, taking Governor aside, whispered something in his ear.
Down went the man's shovel, and away he sprang, and—all on fire with rage and jealousy—a man no longer, but an unreasoning brute—ran and leaped, bounding over everything that came in his way, and taking a bee-line to his cabin, the door of which he burst open.
A moment and the overseer lay dead, slain by the hand of the injured husband.
Governor did not hurt a hair of Milly's head; even in his mad and blind rage he had spared her, still so beloved. Neither did he attempt to save himself by flight, but lay moaning and groaning upon the cabin floor until he was taken into custody.
This was the substance of the story related to Valentine.
"I'se sorry I killed him, Brudder Walley! dough I hardly knowed what I was a doin' of. I'se sorry, dough it was all so tryin' from fuss to las'. Yes! I is berry sorry, dough it ain't no use to say it, 'cause I knows how, ef it wur to do ober agin', I should be sure to do it ober agin'! so, what's de use o' pentin'?"
Valentine pressed his hand in silence, scarcely knowing what to reply just then, sadly thinking of the many thousands whose positions were just as false, as trying, as maddening, as his own and Governor's had been.
About noon that day, Major Hewitt came into the cell to see his slave. The Major was very much overcome at the sight of Governor, and spoke with great feeling.
"Oh, Governor! my heart bleeds for you, and for what you have done, my poor fellow! Oh! Governor, why, why did you take your revenge in your own hands, in this horrible manner? Why did you not, long ago, complain to me? I would have seen you righted."
"Ah, Marse Major, you never would hear no 'plaints we-dem made against the oberseer. It's been tried often, and you never would!"
"Yes, but my poor fellow! in such a case I would have listened to your complaint. I would have protected your family peace at every cost. If necessary, I would have discharged Moriarty. Yours was an exceptional case, and I would have attended to it."
"Ah, Marse Major, honey! I dessay you think you would now, as it has come to dis yer! But you wouldn't o' done it, Marse Major, honey! 'deed you wouldn't, 'cause you see it has been tried afore, an' you never would listen to nothin' 't all 'bout de oberseer. It's on'y 'cause it's come to dis yer you thinks different," said Governor, sadly, but respectfully, and even affectionately.
Major Hewitt did not reply; perhaps he felt that the slave had spoken the truth, for he looked extremely distressed, and told him that he would engage the best counsel to defend him; that no cost should be spared, even to the half of his estate, to save him.
And Major Hewitt kept his word, and hastened to secure the best legal aid to be had for Governor.
The day of the trial was at hand. It was known that two were to be tried for similar offenses. But every one was interested in Valentine, and no one, except his master, seemed to care one farthing for Governor. Those who saw him said he was "an ill-looking fellow," and there left the subject.
Valentine was the first arraigned. When his case was fully investigated, it was obvious to all minds that on the fatal encounter in which Mr. Waring fell, Valentine had struck only in self-defense—only after his own blood had been drawn, and he had been once felled to the floor. But then the blow had been fatal. And though he was well and ably defended, yet the verdict rendered against the prisoner was "Willful Murder." Valentine heard the verdict, and afterward received his sentence quietly, as a matter of course. At its conclusion, he bowed gravely, and was conducted from the court-room.