CHAPTER XXI.
THE INQUEST.
It was between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, that Edgar and Dudley, arm-in-arm, were strolling up Park Row towards Chatham street, in close conversation. "And could you not prevail on her?" asked Dudley, in connection with something that had gone before. "No," replied Edgar. "She said she could not bear the thought of mingling again with those, who, having no stain upon their characters, would withdraw from her their countenance, and point at her the finger of scorn." "But she sho uld go where she is not known." "So I urged her, but to no effect—she contending, that to feel her own degredation in such society, would be more than she could bear, and for which even death would be a glad substitute." "Poor girl! from my soul I pity her.— Such a noble, generous nature, to come to such disgrace and degradation! What should be done with the villain that so wrongs a woman, Edgar?" "He should serve out the balance of his days between the four walls of a prison." "So think I; for I look upon it as one of the worst of crimes—one of the grossest outrages of which a man can be guilty. And yet the law, Edgar, laughs to scorn our opinion, and holds the seducer innocent. Society, too, gives its sanction to the foul deed; and the pampered villain goes boldly through the world, in a gay, dissolute career, strewing his path with blasted names, broken hearts and ruined souls. We make laws for the poor, Edgar— for those, who, born in wretchedness, without hope above their birth, can, at the best, but eke out a miserable existence. We make laws for them, and we press them home closely—execute them with a diligence, eagerness and fidelity worthy a better cause. For them we make no allowance—they being supposed to inherit immaculate virtue, from which if they fall, they fall as Satan did from Heaven, without any temptation but their own evil passions. Born in degredation— schooled in vice and misery—debarred all the exalted enjoyments of learning and knowledge—scorned, oppressed and down-trodden by those, who, clothed in broad-cloths and silks, bow their souls to the shrine of Mammon, the while their knees press the richly carpeted floor of God's holy church—they are still supposed to know all the technicalities of the law—to be above all the vices and errors of mankind— to be, in short, the noble instruments whereby to exhibit the majesty, justice and righteousness of man's civil code: for let one suffer never so much, the law says it is right; let one starve himself, and see his poor family—his dear wife and little ones begging and dying for the bread which he has not to give— and the law says it is right; but let him, driven to desperation, maddened with famine and mental anguish—let him take so much as a handful of meal to protect his life and the lives of those dearer to him than his own—and then the majesty, and justice, and righteousness of the law says it is all wrong; that it is a heineous crime against community; and forthwith the offender is seized, dragged to prison, tried, convicted, and sent away, a condemned criminal, to serve out his term in a sink of hell's own vice; while his family starve, and die, and turn to dust, for the proud, the arogant, the pampered, the courted, the flattered, the almost lordly robber of female virtue to trample on with scorn! Oh, most truly is there "`Something rotten in Denmark."' "You draw a strong picture," replied Edgar; "and deeply I regret I cannot gainsay its truthfulness. But the world is daily progressing to a better state; and though we may not live to see it, the time will surely come, when man can live without taking what is not his own; and when the act we both so heartily condemn, will become a crime in the eyes of the law, with a penalty attached commensurate with its wickedness." Conversing thus, the two friends entered Chatham street; and continuing their course till they came to Mott, they turned down the latter to visit the unfortunate Ellen—Edgar with a view to cancel the debt he owed her, and also, if possible, prevail upon her to leave her present abode and retire forever from criminal associations. "What wretchedness exists on every hand!" said the latter, as slowly the two friends pursued their way along the narrow, squallid, and dimly lighted street.— "And yet," he added, with a sigh, "it is but a few days since my poor mother, my sister and myself were inhabitants of this gloomy region." "Oh, how you must have suffered!" replied Dudley, sympathetically. "I do not wonder your poor mother died--I only wonder you and your sister had nerve enough to bear up against so dark a fate. To those born and bred here—who have never known nor ever expect any thing better—it is a paradise, compared to the misery you experienced, from its contrast to those days when almost boundless wealth was yours. But, thank God! you have met with a happy deliverance, and soon, I trust, will be able to resume your proper station. There is an old adage, that `bought experience is the best, if we do not buy it too dear;' and your suffering here, may be of advantage to you hereafter, by bringing home to you forcibly the necessities of the poor, which are too apt to be overlooked by the wealthy. What a field is every where open to the opulent philanthropist, to give hope to the forlorn and happiness to the wretched; and how much more noble are his labors in the sight of God—how much more exalted should he be above his fellows—than he who rides the hero of an ensanguined field, and with his own arm carries death before him—makes the wife a widow, the child an orphan— and leaves mourning and lamentation to follow in his train! And when at last he is laid upon the bed of death, and feels his life slowly but surely ebbing away— knows that his spirit is about to separate from its mortal tenement, and take its flight to the eternal world, bearing with it all the deeds, good and ill, it has done in the body—how cheering and refreshing, to turn his eyes back upon the past, and behold the path, once full of thorns, that he has strewn with flowers, and think that the blessings and prayers of those he has rescued from destruction, will precede him to the Mercy Seat of the Most High and gain him pardon for the minor errors of frail humanity! O, if the rich did but know wherein lieth their true happiness, and would but give heed thereto, thousands upon thousands would be daily snatched from the dark haunts of misery, vice and crime, and sent upon their way rejoicing— the world would be redeemed to its pristine happiness—and the glorious Millenium, foretold of old, and for which all good Christians watch and pray, would truly come to make a second Heaven of earth!" "You are most eloquent in a good cause, friend Dudley; and I heartily concur in all the sentiments you have advanced, and sincerely trust the time is not far distant, when the philanthropist shall be considered the true hero—when nations shall settle their disputes by arbitration instead of battle—when the poor, oppressed, and down-trodden wretches that now every where exist, shall no longer be found, but in their stead happy and intelligent beings—and lastly, when the warrior, as an object of antiquity, shall excite more wonder than admiration.— But see! we have reached our destination. Yonder," added Edgar, in a faltering voice, pointing across the street with an unsteady hand: "Yonder it was, in that most wretched hovel, surrounded with the dregs of misery, my poor sainted mother took leave of all she held dear on earth!" As he spoke, he turned away to hide his emotion, and rapped loudly on the door of Madame Costellan's dwelling.— Almost immediately after, the rattling of chains and bolts was heard, and the door, as usual, opened but slightly—sustained in its position by a short, heavy chain, linking it to the casing, that the person within might have an opportunity of knowing the number and wants of those without before admitting them—and a female voice inquired who they were and what their business. Edgar replied by giving his name, and stating that he had called with a friend to see Ellen Douglas. "I think she's got company," was the rejoinder; "but I'll go and see;" and closing the door behind her, the two friends heard her hasty steps along the hall. Scarcely a moment, as it seemed to them, elapsed after this, ere they heard a piercing scream from the room above their heads, followed immediately by another and another, more wild and frightful still, and then by the noise of many feet, as of others rushing to ascertain the cause of alarm. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Edgar; "what can be the meaning of this?" "Something frightful, I fear, has happened," replied his companion. Presently the two friends heard an agitated rattling of the chains and bolts at the door, and then it swung wide open, and the sam
e female who had first given Edgar admission, now stood before them, pale, bewildered and terrified. "What has happened?" cried Edgar, as he sprang within. "Oh God! sir," gasped the attendant, with a look of horror, "poor—poor Ellen Douglas!" "Well, well—what of her?" "She's been foully murdered!" "Murdered?" fairly shouted Edgar.— "Murdered? Great God! poor Ellen murdered?" and he rushed up stairs in frantic haste, followed by Dudley. As they reached Ellen's apartment, they encountered some half-a-dozen females, among who was Madame Costellan herself, and two or three of the opposite sex, some half frenzied, and all looking bewildered and terrified. "Oh, gentleman," cried Madame Costellan, rushing up to Edgar and Dudley— "such a terrible thing to happen in my house! Look there, for God's sake!—oh, look there!" and she pointed towards the inner chamber, and hid her face in her hands. Edgar and his friend sprang forward, and soon beheld what froze their blood and sickened them with horror. Upon the bed, bathed in her own heart's blood, which had run down the snowy sheets and puddled on the floor, reposed the earthly remains of the beautiful Ellen—beautiful even in death—with her fair hands, all stained with gore, crossed on her bosom, as if to staunch the wound in her left breast, and her features calm and composed, and almost dazzling white, save where they were spotted here a nd there with the red current of life. On the floor, all sanguine from hilt to point, lay the fatal instrument used in this hellish work; and just beyond it a man's cloak, one slight portion of which was dabbled in the blood of the owner's victim. It was, all-in-all, a sight to pale the features and move the heart of a stoic, and make the sensitive soul sicken, shudder and recoil, and is too dark a picture for us to portray more vividly. "Great God!" ejaculated Edgar, shutting the horrid scene from his sight with his hands: "what a foul murder! Alas! poor, erring, but noble hearted Ellen Douglas— thy earthly misery is over now!" "Who hath done this damnable deed?" questioned Dudley, turning to those who pressed hard behind him. "Who was with the unfortunate deceased when this happened?" "As I hope for mercy, no one to my knowledge!" cried Madame Costellan, in wild agitation. "Oh, gentlemen," she continued, greatly alarmed for the consequences that might ensue to herself and household should the affair become public, and appealing to each and all—"for Heaven's sake! do not let the report of this get abroad, or I shall be ruined!" "Peace, woman!" rejoined Dudley, sternly. "You know not what you ask. As if we could be privy to a foul murder, and suppress the tale! Where is she who gave us admittance?" he continued, in a tone of authority. "Here—here—I—I—am, sir," stammered the terrified domestic, coming forward. "Who was here with poor Ellen Douglas but a few minutes since, of whom you spoke when we inqiured for her?" questioned Dudley. "Why—why—sir—I—I—" stammered the woman, sinking upon her knees before Dudley, in an attitude of entreaty, as if she fancied he had the power to pardon or condemn her: "I say—'pon my soul! if it's the last words I've got to utter—I— I—didn't think any harm, I didn't—I—" "Up, woman, and answer my question, or you will be suspected of having a hand in the murder yourself!" interrupted Dudley, sharply. "Well, sir—well, sir—" continued the other—"a man came to the door, and gave me this gold piece to let him in— and say nothing—and I—I—did it; but-- but without thinking the least bit of harm— 'pon my soul! if it's the last word—" "Who was the man?" interrupted Dudley again. "I couldn't see his face, sir, for the cloak which he held round it: but—but by his eyes, sir, I guessed it—it—was Acton Goldfinch." Both Dudley and Edgar uttered exclamations of surprise together, and gave each other a look, expressive more of bewildered belief than doubt. "Good God!" groaned Edgar—"this is more terrible still!" "O, you daring good-for-nothing!" cried Madame Costellan, now rushing forward to the still kneeling domestic and dealing her a blow on the head with her fist. "Out of my house, and get you gone forever! Oh, you have ruined me! you have ruined me!" "Peace, woman!" commanded Dudley, stamping his foot on the floor. And then to the domestic: "Stir not from here for your life! You shall not be harmed. Let some one hasten and summon the coroner immediately." "I will go," said Edgar, darting through the crowd, down the stairs and into the street, the door to which had been left unfastened by the agitated and frightened servant. In less than half an hour Edgar returned, bringing the coroner and his jury, who at once proceeded to hold an inquest on the body of the murdered Ellen Douglas. It is unnecessary for us to enter into farther particulars. On examination, it was found that the steel, striking upon one of her left ribs, had glanced and entered the heart of poor Ellen in an oblique direction, thus speedily terminating her existence. Each member of the ill-fated house was then closely interrogated, as were also Edgar and Dudley—but from none save the domestic, who gave her name as Sarah Farling, was there elicited any important evidence. She having now become somewhat calm, being assured by the coroner no harm could accrue to her, told her story in a straight-forward manner; and mainly from her testimony, the jury, after a short consultation, returned the verdict: "That the deceased came to a violent death, by means of a wound inflicted by a dagger, supposed to be in the hands of Acton Goldfinch." Ordering the remains of Ellen to be properly laid out and prepared for interment, and securing the cloak and dagger for farther evidence, the coroner, after an examination of the premises, especially where the open window showed the murderer had made his escape, quitted the house, accompanied by the jury, Edgar and Dudley. Proceeding to the nearest magistrate, a writ was sworn out against Acton Goldfinch and placed in the hands of an officer for his apprehension, while the two friends bent their steps homeward, with what feelings we leave the reader to imagine. [1] Pennsylvania has already come out boldly, and made seduction a criminal offence, punishable with heavy fine, and imprisonment in the penitentiary; and it is the ardent desire of the humble writer of these pages, to see every state in the Union follow her noble example.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE GUILTY IN TROUBLE.
It was far advanced toward midnight, and in her own handsomely furnished apartment, with a book in her hand, which she seemed intently perusing, sat Arabella Goldfinch. The lamp, on a center-table by her side, was already growing dim, and barely served to relieve the more obscure portions of the chamber from utter dark ness; but, faint as it was, its pale beams seemed to gain additional strength as they fell upon the white, marble-like countenance of the haughty beauty. At length Arabella paused in her reading, let her book fall listlessly in her lap, and resting her elbow on the table and her forehead in the hollow of her hand, appeared to be absorbed in deep thought. While thus occupied, she heard a gentle tap on the door; and supposing it to be her waitingmaid, she said: "Come in!" Her surprise was great, therefore, when, instead of the person she expected, her brother entered and hurriedly shut the door behind him. There was something frightful in his look and manner; for his features had assumed a ghastly, almost livid hue—his lips were ashy and tremulous, though compressed—his eyes strained, bloodshot and rolling—his step eagar, stealthy, frightened and uncertain—his voice harsh, sepulchral and fearful—as, advancing toward her, he glared cautiously but wildly around, and, seizing her arm with a grip that drew from her an exclamation of pain, said: "You are alone, sister?" "To be sure I am, Acton," she replied, starting to her feet in alarm. "For God's sake! what has happened, to make you look and act thus, like one demented?" Acton did not reply; but he gave her one awful look of agony—such an expression as one would expect to behold on the faces of the damned—and then staggering to a seat, sank down, buried his face in his hands, and uttered a groan that seemed to wrench his very soul. "Great God! what is the meaning of this?" cried Arabella, greatly terrified. "Speak, Acton!—speak! and tell me what has happened?" "The earth has become an ocean of blood!" groaned rather than spoke her brother, with his face still hid in his hands. "Speak understandingly, or I shall doubt your sanity!" "Do! do!" shouted Acton, starting to his feet suddenly, and revealing his face, now awfully distorted and haggard. "Do doubt it, Arabella!—say I'm mad!—swear I'm mad!—for I am mad—mad as the maniacs men cage! My brain—my poor brain burns with
fire unquenchable—my eyes see blood—and my ears ring with the words of mortal forgiveness, and the curses of a conscience whose torments shall be forever and ever!" "Merciful God!" screamed Arabella: "his reason has deserted him truly!" And seizing the cord connecting with a bell in her waiting-maid's room, she was about to ring, when Acton, springing forward, grasped her hand, saying, in a low, eager, emphatic tone: "Call no one here, as you value your life!" "What means this strange manner of yours?" Arabella now asked, in a clear, distinct, unfaltering tone, fixing her dark eyes steadily upon his, in the way she had understood maniacs were the most completely subdued. "It means," he groaned, "that I have a hell in my breast, and a hell in my brain?" "Speak! I charge you, Acton!—what have you done? Ha! see!" she added, almost wildly, "there is blood upon your hands! Oh! Acton, my brother—Acton, my brother—for God's sake, relieve me of this suspense, and say you have done no farther crime!" "Where do you see blood?" cried Acton, fiercely, looking wildly upon his hands, which he turned over and over, rubbing each hard against the other. "Where do you see blood, Arabella?" he continued, now holding them out for her examination. "I do not see it now—it is gone," she replied. "Ha! ha!" he laughed hysterically; "it is gone, is it?—gone from your eyes, but not from mine: I see an ocean of it!" At this moment the street bell was rung violently, accompanied by a heavy rap on the door. Acton heard it, and for a moment stood as one petrified with horror. Then bounding forward, he seized both the hands of Arabella, pressed them hard, and cried piteously: "Save me! save me! Quick, quick, dear Arabella—save me! They come to drag me to prison!" "You are guilty of some foul crime, then?" gasped the other. "That blood— that blood—" And sick with horror, she could utter no more, but sank, half fainting, upon a seat. "Ha!" cried Acton, "I hear voices. They are coming: they inquire for me. For the love of Heaven and eternal mercy, tell me what I must do, Arabella!" The latter started to her feet, gave her brother a strange, peculiar look, in which shame, horror, fear, pity, pride and resolution confusedly mingled—the two last being the last in ascendancy—and then stamping her foot to make her words impressive, exclaimed firmly: "Be a man! Seat yourself—be calm— and, if guilty, let not your looks betray you! Sit down!—there is a book—read!" "They are coming," faltered Acton, as he tremblingly complied with the instructions of his sister. Arabella seated herself and listened. She heard steps upon the stairs, and confused speaking. Presently she could distinguish her father's voice in what seemed angry expostulation. "I tell you this is uncivil rudeness, to disturb my house at this time of night, in this manner. Acton has, I presume, been abed and asleep these two hours." "We must do our duty, nevertheless," was the reply; "and the sooner we find him, the sooner we leave you. Is this the room?" "No, yonder—this is my daughter's," replied Goldfinch. "Go you to that, then," said the other, apparently addressing a third person. "I see a light here and will examine this;" and as he spoke, there came a loud rap on the door. "Be calm!" whispered Arabella to her terrified and half-distracted brother; and rising, she walked boldly to the door and threw it open. "I beg pardon!" said the sheriff, (for he it was,) as he met the calm, cold, haughty stare of Arabella; "but I am seeking Acton Goldfinch." "Yonder he sits, sir," nodded Arabella, as if displeased at so unceremonious an interruption. "It is my unpleasant duty," said the sheriff, advancing to the side of him he sought, and placing a hand on his shoulder, which fairly quivered at the touch, "to arrest you for the crime of murder!" "Murder?" screamed Arabella, staggering against the wall, no longer able to mask her feelings. "Murder?" echoed her father, clinging for support to the casing of the door. "Oh God! can this be so?" he groaned. "Oh, Acton, why do you not contradict it?—say it is not true?" But Acton made no reply; and the other officer entering at this moment, the sheriff bade him come with them, as they had no time for delay. Acton arose, partly reeled forward, and then seeming to gather new courage, passed out of the room without speaking. As soon as he was out of sight, Goldfinch moved slowly forward to a seat, where he sunk down with a groan of mental anguish— a groan wrung from the very soul of one who had made others suffer the like without the slightest compunctions of conscience. And oh! what terrible thoughts were now passing through the mind of this dark man, loaded as he was with hidden crime, but who had thus far appeared to the world at large as the true embodiment of all that was noble and virtuous! And what schemes of proud ambition did he feel were now dashed to the earth, by one fell, annihilating blow! His son—in whom so much of the pride, ambition and fondness of even a mercenary father centered— to be dragged to prison, from his own stately roof, and there tried like a common felon—perhaps be condemned and executed for a heinous crime, which he tacitly acknowledged by not openly refuting! And then the disgrace—the lasting disgrace—that would attach to even himself, as the father of a murderer! Would not men shun, rather than court his company, and, with all his wealth to support his dignity, point him out as an object more worthy of commisseration than emulation? And then that wealth—the all he had to rely on--that wealth, so basely gained, and which, by having supported his son in a dissolute career of vice, was already bringing upon him its own retri bution—how soon might that be snatched away by the strong arm of right and justice, and he himself be left pennyless, and friendless, to his own guilty thoughts, in the cell of the criminal! Fortune, so ever propitious before, now seemed to frown darkly, and tell him his outwardly brilliant, but inwardly dark career, was about to close in ignominy! In his pride of wealth and position, he had boasted he would make his money save him; but now, since so many of his plans had failed—since those he hated and had striven to crush had escaped his snares and were soaring above him--now he felt how impotent was the boast; and that so far from saving, his ill-gotten gains might prove a mill-stone round his neck to drag him down the dark gulf of perdition! Oh, harrowing to the soul, and black as the midnight cells of Erebus, were these thoughts, as they rapidly chased one another through his heated and half-maddened brain! And well mayest thou doubt, and tremble, and lose confidence in thy own dark resources, thou vain, proud, scheming hypocrite! for already the sharp sword of Justice hangs over thy guilty head, soon to fall and sever the last hope that supports thee! For some minutes Goldfinch remained buried in his own reflections, and then starting suddenly to his feet, called Arabella. But all unconscious of the call, or even of her own existence, Arabella, partly resting against the wall and partly extended on the floor, lay in a death-like swoon. Alarmed for his daughter, Goldfinch now rang the bell and shouted for his domestics. In a short time all the occupants of the house rushed into the chamber, their faces the picture of excitement and dismay; and crowding round the suffer, some chafed her hands, some her temples, and some applied salts, while others looked on bewildered. Perceiving signs of returning animation, Goldfinch ordered her to be placed in bed, to have the family physician sent for immediately, and all to withdraw save her own waiting-maid. At length Arabella slowly opened her eyes, and giving her father and maid a stare of wonder, suddenly raised herself, and glancing eagerly round the apartment, in a low, eager voice exclaimed: "Acton—my brother—where is he?" "He has just stepped out," replied her father, making an effort to appear composed. Arabella looked at him steadily a moment, with the expression of one endeavoring to recall something that has slipped the memory. Then her features gradually assumed a look of heart-touching anguish; and placing her hands to her throbbing temples, she slowly fell back on the pillow, and murmuring, "Oh, my God! my God!" sunk into a state of apathy bordering on unconsciousness. When the physician came and examined her, he shook his head dubiously, and, to the anxious inquiries of her father, replied that hers was a case beyond the science of medicine, and that he could only recommend the most careful nursing and the avoidance of all topics productive to her of excitement. "Her reason," he concluded, "totters on its throne, and quiet for a few days will either restore or make her a confirmed maniac." On hearing these words, Goldfinch, without trusting his voice in reply, rushed almost franticly to his own apartment, and l
ocking the door against all intrusion, there passed an hour of such agonizing wretchedness, as might, in some measure, atone for his guilty career.
Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Page 19
