CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MURDERER AND THE MURDERED.
News of the horrid murder of poor Ellen Douglas, and the arrest of Acton Goldfinch for the crime, flew like wild-fire over the city, and created the wildest excitement and consternation—insomuch, that citizens of all professions left their business, and collected in groups at the corners of the streets, on the pleasure grounds, and in all public places, to talk the affair over in low, eager, mysterious tones, ex press their own opinions, and listen to comments from others. To fan the flame of popular excitement and put money in their own pockets, several of the daily journals issued extras, setting forth the affair in the wildest shape of exaggerated romance, and giving a minute and sicken-detail of how they supposed the horrid deed had been perpetrated; and though each differed essentially from every other, yet all were received and swallowed with eager credulity by an excited populace, ready to gulp down any thing that would strain their wonder and feed their morbid passions. And even had the press been silent, there was enough of the wild, startling and romantic in the affair, as it flew from ear to ear, to put the city in unusual commotion. In the first place, the father of the murderer, as a princely millionaire, was generally known by reputation, if not personally; and the murderer himself had moved a bright particular star in the highest circles of aristocracy and fashion. Connected with this, the story at once got abroad of how he had treacherously seduced poor Ellen, (who was now represented as all that was once lovely, pure, amiable and high-minded,) by a sham marriage, and that being on the point of alliance with one of the oldest, most respectable and opulent families in the city, and fearful of cxposure, had sought to hide his disgrace with the most heinous and damning of crimes. This the reader knows was not strictly correct—as Acton was aware the exposure he so much dreaded had taken place—but of this the mass was ignorant, and consequently surmised as nearly correct as the public generally does in such cases. With the majority of the citizens, or those inferior to him in point of wealth, Acton was destined to receive no sympathy—but, on the contrary, their most bitter curses; and so excited were the vindictive passions of the lower orders, that but for a doubly strong and well armed police, they would have mobbed the Tombs, broken into his cell, and dragged him forth, a victim to their wild fury. As it was, not only Centre street, but all the avenues leading to the Tombs, were blocked up at an early hour in the morning, by a furious multitude, eager to be present at his examination, or gain the first intelligence of what was taking place. Even the house of Madame Costellan was surrounded by a dense mob, of both sexes, all ages and colors—drawn thither by that same vile curiosity which leads persons to witness an execution—and in consequence,a strong body of police was required to be in constant attendance throughout the day, to protect the premises and guard the body of the deceased. It is not our intention to give a detail of either the examination or trial of Acton Goldfinch, as our space is limited, and other matters, more important to cur purpose, must be brought forward ere we close.— Let it suffice, then, that the former occupied two sittings of the magistrate, and that a large array of witnesses were summoned before the court, whose evidence, collectively, was sufficient to cause the prisoner to be indicted for willful murder. The Grand Jury, too, returned a true bill, and his not being a bailable case, Acton was remanded to prison, to take his trial at the spring term of the court of Oyer and Terminer. During the prisoner's examination, his half distracted father was present, and exerted his wealthy influence to the utmost to get him clear; but this was a case of too strong circumstantial evidence for his purpose; and he was forced to retire from the field—which he did, cursing his own natal hour and the impotence of his ill-gotten gains. It was the last desperate struggle in his wicked career, made on the very verge of his own terrible overthrow and ruin, of which more anon. Meantime, Edgar and his friends came forward and offered their services to consign to dust the mortal remains of the poor, ill-fated Ellen Douglas. Permission being granted by the authorities, they set about their mournful task; but so great was the excitement, and the desire, excited by curiosity, of hundreds of strangers to be present, that the police were forced to interfere, and it was judged advisable to bury her in the night—which was finally done—Edgar and Virginia accompanying the deceased as chief mourners, and dropping a tear upon her humble grave, at the recollection of her many kindnesses to them and the thought of her awful and untimely fate. It was a solemn sight, and powerful moral, to stand, with flaming torches, in the dead hours of night, around the open grave of this child of sorrow, cut down in the bloom of life, and behold her coffin lowered into the cold, damp earth, with which its frail tenant soon must mingle, dust to dust, to come forth never more till the sound of the Last Trump should summon it to another life and final judgment; and remember, withal, that she, erewhile, was as pure, and lovely, and happy as any present; and, but for one fatal error, less her fault, perhaps, than her misfortune, might even now be exulting in life, and pride, and hope, and joy—the admired and loved, extolled and honored of a wide and brilliant circle of light-hearted friends. It was a sad and dismal scene, and one calculated to impress itself on the beholder so deeply, that time, with all its events and changing circumstances, might never erase its solemn and awful vividness! "Alas!" sighed Morton, as, with his wife on one hand and his daughter on the other, he stood on the verge of Ellen's last earthly home, and heard the hollow sound of the earth rattling on her coffin: "Alas! what a creature is man!—here to-day and gone to-morrow—now in the joy, pride and exultation of happy life—now in the cold, dark embrace of death, with weeping friends around, taking the last parting look of all that was once so dear to them. How wise is the Great Infinite, in shutting from us all knowledge of the future, that we may the better live in and enjoy the present—or, with the shining shield of hope for our defence, do battle bravely against the `ills we have.' Poor Ellen!— poor, ill-fated, untimely Ellen Douglas!— child of misfortune `more sinned against than sinning'—little could she dream, in the flowery days of happy youth, that her first years of blooming maturity would find her thus! Oh! what a powerful and painful lesson, to guard us all, my friends, against the first fatal step from virtue and honor! She is gone, and thus we bury her forever from our sight, trusting to God's mercy she finds that happiness beyond the grave which sinful earth denied her. God help us all!—we know not whose turn it next may be to follow her! Let us go;" and slowly the small procession moved away and silently departed to their several homes.
CHAPTER XXIV.
HYPOCRISY AND CRIME.
It was the fourth day from the arrest of his son for his last great crime, that Oliver Goldfinch sat beside the bed of his daughter, holding one of her hands in his, and gazing upon her features—now white as the driven snow, but seemingly composed— with a countenance haggard, and pale, and full of sorrow and anguish. "And how do you feel to-day, my child?" he asked, with a tenderness hitherto foreign to his nature. "Better, I thank you, father," was the low, calm reply. "I am rejoiced to hear it, Arabella; for since Acton is gone, you are my only solace." "O, I am so happy to know he came off clear of the foul charge; for I was fearful he had been led, in the heat of passion, to do some rash act; and when the sheriff came to arest him, I thought my brain would consume and fly from me, it felt so heated and light. But where think you he has gone, father?" "I do not know," replied the other, turning away his head to conceal his emotion— not so much for the deception he was practising, as for the deep regret that the story he had told his daughter could not be verified and Acton be at liberty. "But he will come back soon, father?" "I trust so, Arabella; though the excitement is still so great, on account of even suspicion attaching itself to him, that for the present perhaps he had better remain away." At this moment the negro Jeff entered the room, and handed Goldfinch a card. "Where is he?" asked the latter, as he glanced at the name. "In de parlor, Massa." "I will be down directly. Or stay— perhaps I had better invite him up here. It is our clergyman, Arabella—the Rev. Stephen P
arkhurst." "Show him up," answered Arabella— "I shall be pleased to see him." "I will do it myself," said Goldfinch to the negro; and he arose and left the room. In a few minutes he returned, in company with the reverend gentleman, a man of middle age, with gray hair, and a countenance somewhat remarkable for its placidity, and a sweet, benevolent smile which lingered over it. His appearance was very prepossessing, for his very look showed you he was at heart what he openly professed, a true Christian. He greeted Arabella warmly and kindly, and immediately entered into a conversation with her, which lasted some quarter of an hour, during which he gently urged upon her the importance of putting her trust in One who was able to support her through every and all trials that she might, in the course of human events, be called upon to undergo. "When most sorely afflicted," he said, in conclusion, "we should remember we are chastened by the hand of God for some wise purpose; and instead of weakening by doubt, we should rather strengthen our reliance by faith, that all is done for the best, and that He, in His mercy, will either safely deliver us from adversity in this life, or, what is of still more importance, bear us safely over the dark `valley of the shadow of death.' It is in our hours of trouble, when every thing seems conspiring to crush us, that we most feel the need of Divine aid; and I trust, my daughter, whatever may be your afflictions— and God only knoweth what they will be—you will rely solely upon Him, and come out in the end purified and sanctified, so as by fire, and fitted for that glorious Mansion beyond the shores of time, which he has prepared for all who love Him and keep His commandments." Saying this, Mr. Parkhurst turned to the father of Arabella, and drawing him aside, said, in a tone too low to reach the ears of the invalid: "My dear brother, I grieve to see you so sorely distressed. It is a terrible thing to have a beloved son, in whom the hopes of a fond father's heart are centered, arraigned at the solemn bar of man for a crime that makes humanity shudder; and deeply, from my very heart, do I sympathise with you in your awful affliction. But God alone, my brother, knoweth what is best; and I humbly pray He will send you Christian fortitude sufficient to carry you through all your terrible trials!" The scheming man of wealth groaned. "It is very hard to bear up, my dear brother," pursued the divine, in a consolitary tone, "when we see those we love snatched away from us by some fortuitous circumstance; but I humbly trust, in this, your trying hour, you will bring religion to your aid, and endeavor, through much prayer, to become reconciled to God's wise dispensation." Again the hypocrite groaned; and after looking upon him compassionately, a moment, the other went on. "But with you, my brother, it is different from those of the world, who have, in similar afflictions, no hope to depend on. You, I trust, are a Christian, and have the holy courage of those who passed through martyrdom unflinching. You have professed the holy religion of Jesus Christ—" "No more—no more!" interrupted Goldfinch with a groan, and a shudder that trembled through his whole frame; and covering his face with his hands, he kept it some moments concealed from the other. How did his hypocrisy stand him now? Where was the Christian resignation he had openly professed? Where the Christian hope on which he should have been relying? How stood his conscience in this trying moment? Was it perfectly at ease—or did he feel its remorseful stings? But Oliver Goldfinch was not yet changed at heart. His fears of the storm already gathered over him and about to burst in fury, alone made him quail. Dissimilation was in his nature yet. It was his evil genius, which ever stood ready to prompt him wrongly. And it came to his aid now; for withdrawing his hands, he continued, meekly: "My dear Brother Parkhurst, what you have said is true. There is consolation for those who have proper faith in Divine mercy; but, at the same time, I must own, perforce, I am `of the earth earthy,' and in my worldly moments have doubtless committed many errors, for which I must atone by sincere repentance. Still I will endeavor not to despair in this trying hour, but rely upon the mercy of Him whom I have openly professed to serve, and trust, as you say, that I am chastened for a wise purpose." "We all have our errors," returned the other, "and must needs have our moments of repentance; but it truly rejoices my soul to see you bear up with so much Christian courage." He was on the point of proceeding farther, but the opening of the door, and the entrance of the negro in haste, with an anxious look on his countenance, interrupted him. Advancing at once to Goldfinch, the black whispered a few words in his ear. The other started, and turned deadly pale. Then rising from his seat, in some trepidation, he asked to be excused a few moments, and quitted the room, followed by the black. Some five or ten minutes elapsed, when the negro returned and whispered in the ear of the divine, who immediately rose, and saying to Arabella he would presently return, followed the messenger down stairs. In the parlor he found the host, pacing to and fro, with anxious looks and a trembling step, while at a little distance were seated two coarsely habited individuals, who seemed carelessly surveying the gorgeous furniture of the apartment and the splendid paintings adorning the walls. "My dear brother," spoke Goldfinch, in an agitated voice, drawing the clergyman aside, "misfortune, it seems, never comes alone. I am in trouble. By what mistake, or by what foul means, I know not, but I now stand arrested for the startling crime of forgery, and must perforce away at once and answer to the calumnious charge." "For forgery, say you, my dear brother?" exclaimed the other, in astonishment. "Even so." "But you are innocent?" "As you are, my worthy friend. I do not understand it. It is, probably, some base conspiracy of my enemies, if I have any—which I am not aware of—to seize me at a time when public opinion, on account of this dreadful affair of my son, is ready to go against me, and so blast my reputation and crush me, if not with proof, at least with vile suspicion, which is but little better. But I am innocent, and shall in the end come out triumphant—though, as I said before, I must away now and answer to the charge. Oh God!" he groaned, "what is to come next?" "This is very unfortunate," rejoined the clergyman, looking hard at the other, "and very mysterious. I am all bewilderment. What is the world coming to, surely, when man arrests and drags to prison his fellow man for a crime of which he is innocent! But fear not, my brother! Rely upon the strong arm of Jehovah, and you shall have justice done you." The hypocrite groaned again—perhaps at the thought that the last words of the other might be verified, and that he would have justice done him, which at present was what he most feared. "Come," spoke up one of the officers, "we can't delay any longer." "A moment," rejoined Goldfinch; and then turning to Mr. Parkhurst, he continued: "But poor Arabella!—the news of this would kill her. You must not let her know the real state of the case, till it becomes unavoidable; but tell her I have been called away on a matter of great emergency, and you know not how soon I may return. This you can do, without making a false statement, which of course I do not require nor expect. All knowledge of Acton must also be kept from her, till she is fully recovered; and, most important of all, my dear friend and brother, (and Goldfinch grasped the clergyman's hand, looked earnesrly and pleadingly in his eyes, while his voice became low, and tremulous, and very pathetic,) whatever may happen—and Heaven only knows what will—should, in fact, my enemies triumph, and I not be able to return—you will be kind to my daughter?—you will see that she does not suffer?—in a word, you will be a father to her, my brother?" "I will," replied the other, solemaly, while tears of sympathy started to his eyes: "I will. But, surely, you do not apprehend—" "Say no more!" interrupted Goldfinch, in an agony of mind that drew cold drops of perspiration to his forehead. "Say no more! Be kind to Arabella! God bless you! Farewell!" and giving the clergyman another heartly grip of the hand, he turned abruptly away, and signified to the officers he was ready to depart. With a firm step, and a countenance now composed and serene—though within the passion-fires were wildly consuming and ready to explode, like those in the bowels of the earth just prior to a terrible eruption—Goldfinch calmly led the way to a carriage in waiting, which he entered with the officers, and was driven away, to take his preliminary trial before a magistrate for one of the boldest and most ingeniously executed forgeries on record.
Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Page 20
