"The next step was not so difficult. I soon learned that he had a secret. In his ignorant way, he is a firm believer in the terrors of eternal punishment, and having become attached to me, I could see that he was debating in his own mind whether or not to confide it to me as a priest, and obtain absolution. I did not urge him; I did not even invite his confidence. But I continued faithful to him, and I knew that in time it would come. It did. You are right, Anne; he is the murderer.

"It seems that by night he is tormented by superst.i.tious fear. He is not able to sleep unless he stupefies himself with liquor, because he expects to see his victim appear and look at him with her hollow eyes.

To rid himself of this haunting terror, he told all to me under the seal of the confessional. And then began the hardest task of all.

"For as a priest I could not betray him (and I should never have done so, Anne, even for your sake), and yet another life was at stake. I told him with all the power, all the eloquence, I possessed, that his repentance would never be accepted, that he himself would never be forgiven, unless he rescued by a public avowal the innocent man who was suffering in his place. And I gave him an a.s.surance also, which must be kept even if I have to go in person to the Governor, that, in case of public avowal, his life should be spared. His intellect is plainly defective. If Miss Teller, Mr. Heathcote, and the lawyers unite in an appeal for him, I think it will be granted.

"It has been, Anne, very hard, fearfully hard, to bring him to the desired point; more than once I have lost heart. Yet never have I used the lever of real menace, and I wish you to know that I have not. At last, thanks be to the eternal G.o.d, patience has conquered. Urged by the superst.i.tion which consumes him, he consented to repeat to the local officials, in my presence and under my protection, the confession he had made to me, and to give up the watch and rings, which have lain all this time buried in the earth behind his cabin, he fearing to uncover them until a second crop of gra.s.s should be green upon his victim's grave, lest she should appear and take them from him! He did this in order to be delivered in this world and the next, and he will be delivered; for his crime was a brute one, like that of the wolf who slays the lamb.

"I shall see you before long, my dear child; but you will find me worn and old. This has been the hardest toil of my whole life."

Pere Michaux did not add that his fatigue of body and mind was heightened by a painful injury received at the hands of the poor wretch he was trying to help. Unexpectedly one morning Croom had attacked him with a billet of wood, striking from behind, and without cause, save that he coveted the priest's fishing-tackle, and, in addition, something in the att.i.tude of the defenseless white-haired old man at that moment tempted him, as a la.s.so-thrower is tempted by a convenient chance position of cattle. The blow, owing to a fortunate movement of Pere Michaux at the same instant, was not mortal, but it disabled the old man's shoulder and arm. And perceiving this, Croom had fled. But what had won his brute heart was the peaceful appearance of the priest at his cabin door early the next morning, where the fisherman had made all ready for flight, and his friendly salutation. "Of course I knew it was all an accident, Croom," he said; "that you did not mean it. And I have come out to ask if you have not something you can recommend to apply to the bruise. You people who live in the woods have better balms than those made in towns; and besides, I would rather ask _your_ help than apply to a physician, who might ask questions." He entered the cabin as he spoke, took off his hat, sat down, and offered his bruised arm voluntarily to the hands that had struck the blow. Croom, frightened, brought out a liniment, awkwardly a.s.sisted the priest in removing his coat, and then, as the old man sat quietly expectant, began to apply it. As he went on he regained his courage: evidently he was not to be punished. The bruised flesh appealed to him, and before he knew it he was bandaging the arm almost with affection. The priest's trust had won what stood in the place of a heart: it was so new to him to be trusted.

This episode of the injured arm, more than anything else, won in the end the confession.

EXTRACT FROM THE NEW YORK "ZEUS."

"Even the story of the last great battle was eclipsed in interest in certain circles of this city yesterday by the tidings which were flashed over the wires from a remote little village in Pennsylvania. Our readers will easily recall the trial of Captain Ward Heathcote on the charge of murder, the murder of his own wife. The evidence against the accused was close, though purely circ.u.mstantial. The remarkable incidents of the latter part of the trial have not been forgotten. The jury were unable to agree, and the case went over to the November term.

"The accused, though not convicted, has not had the sympathy of the public. Probably eight out of ten among those who read the evidence have believed him guilty. But yesterday brought the startling intelligence that human judgment has again been proven widely at fault, that the real murderer is in custody, and that he has not only confessed his guilt, but also restored the rings and watch, together with the missing towel.

The chain of links is complete.

"The criminal is described as a creature of uncouth appearance, in mental capacity deficient, though extraordinarily cunning. He spent the small amount of money in the purse, but was afraid to touch the rings and watch until a second crop of gra.s.s should be growing upon his victim's grave, lest she should appear and take them from him! It is to ignorant superst.i.tious terror of this kind that we owe the final capture of this grotesque murderer.

"His story fills out the missing parts of the evidence, and explains the apparent partic.i.p.ation of the accused to have been but an intermingling of personalities. After Captain Heathcote had gone down the outside stairway with the two towels in his pocket, this man, Croom, who was pa.s.sing the end of the garden at the time, and had seen him come out by the light from the lamp within, stole up the same stairway in order to peer into the apartment, partly from curiosity, partly from the thought that there might be something there to steal. He supposed there was no one in the room, but when he reached the window and peeped through a crack in the old blind, he saw that there was some one--a woman asleep.

In his caution he had consumed fifteen or twenty minutes in crossing the garden noiselessly and ascending the stairway, and during this interval Mrs. Heathcote had fallen asleep. The light from the lamp happened to shine full on the diamonds in her rings as they lay, together with her purse and watch, on the bureau, and he coveted the unexpected booty as soon as his eyes fell upon it. Quick as thought he drew open the blind, and crept in on his hands and knees, going straight toward the bureau; but ere he could reach it the sleeper stirred. He had not intended murder, but his brute nature knew no other way, and in a second the deed was done. Then he seized the watch, purse, and rings, went out as he had come, through the window, closing the blind behind him, and stole down the stairway in the darkness. The man is left-handed. It will be remembered that this proved left-handedness of the murderer was regarded as a telling point against Captain Heathcote, his right arm being at the time disabled, and supported by a sling.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE REACHED THE WINDOW, AND PEEPED THROUGH A CRACK IN THE OLD BLIND."]

"Croom went through the gra.s.s meadow to the river-bank, where his boat was tied, and hastily hiding his spoil under the seat, was about to push off, when he was startled by a slight sound, which made him think that another boat was approaching. Stealing out again, he moved cautiously toward the noise, but it was only a man bathing at some distance down the stream, the stillness of the night having made his movements in the water audible. Wishing to find out if the bather were any one he knew, Croom, under cover of the darkness, spoke to him from the bank, asking some chance question. The voice that replied was that of a stranger; still, to make all sure, Croom secreted himself at a short distance, after pretending to depart by the main road, and waited. Presently the bather pa.s.sed by, going homeward; Croom, very near him, kneeling beside a bush, was convinced by the step and figure that it was no one he knew, that it was not one of the villagers or neighboring farmers. After waiting until all was still, he went to the place where the man had bathed, and searched with his hands on the sand and gra.s.s to see if he had not dropped a cigar or stray coin or two: this petty covetousness, when he had the watch and diamonds, betrays the limited nature of his intelligence. He found nothing save the two towels which Captain Heathcote had left behind; he took these and went back to his boat.

There, on the sh.o.r.e, the sound of a dog's sudden bark alarmed him; he dropped one of the towels, could not find it among the reeds, and, without waiting longer, pushed off his boat and paddled up the stream toward home. This singular creature, who was bold enough to commit murder, yet afraid to touch his booty for fear of rousing a ghost, has been living on as usual all this time, within a mile or two of the village where his crime was committed, pursuing his daily occupation of fishing, and mixing with the villagers as formerly, without betraying his secret or attracting toward himself the least suspicion. His narrow but remarkable craft is shown in the long account he gives of the intricate and roundabout ways he selected for spending the money he had stolen. The purse itself, together with the watch, rings, and towel, he buried under a tree behind his cabin, where they have lain undisturbed until he himself unearthed them, and delivered them to the priest.

"For this notable confession was obtained by the influence of one of a body of men vowed to good works, a priest of the Roman Catholic Church.

Croom was of the same faith, after his debased fashion, and in spite of his weak mind (perhaps on account of it) a superst.i.tious, almost craven, believer.

"The presence of this rarely intelligent and charitable priest in Timloesville at this particular time may be set down as one of these fortunate chances with which a some what unfortunate world is occasionally blessed. Resting after arduous labor elsewhere and engaged in the rural amus.e.m.e.nt of fishing, this kind-hearted old man noticed the degraded appearance and life of this poor waif of humanity, and in a generous spirit of charity set himself to work to enlighten and instruct him, as much as was possible during the short period of his stay. In this he was successful far beyond his expectation, far beyond his conception, like a laborer ploughing a field who comes upon a vein of gold. He has not only won this poor wretch to repentance, but has also cleared from all suspicion of the darkest crime on the record of crimes the clouded fame of a totally innocent man.

"Never was there a weightier example of the insufficiency of what is called sufficient evidence, and while we, the public, should be deeply glad that an innocent man has been proven innocent, we should also be covered with confusion for the want of perspicacity displayed in the general prejudgment of this case, where minds seem, sheep-like, to have followed each other, without the asking of a question. The people of a rural neighborhood are so convinced of the guilt of the person whom they in their infallibility have arrested that they pay no heed to other possibilities of the case. _Cui bono!_ And their wise-acre belief spreads abroad in its brightest hues to the press--to the world. It is the real foundation upon which all the evidence rested.

"A child throws a stone. Its widening ripples stretch across a lake, and break upon far sh.o.r.es. A remote and bucolic community cherishes a surmise, and a continent accepts it. The nineteenth century is hardly to be congratulated upon such indolent inanity, such lambent laxity, as this."

CHAPTER XL.

"Who ordered toil as the condition of life, ordered failure, success; to this person a foremost place, to the other a struggle with the crowd; to each some work upon the ground he stands on until he is laid beneath it.... Lucky he who can bear his failure generously, and give up his broken sword to Fate, the conqueror, with a manly and humble heart."--WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

When set at liberty, Ward Heathcote returned to New York.

The newspapers everywhere had published similar versions of Pere Michaux's agency in the discovery of the murderer, and Anne's connection with it was never known. To this day neither Mrs. Blackwell, Mrs.

Strain, nor Mr. Graub himself, has any suspicion that their summer visitors were other than the widow Young and her niece Ruth from the metropolis of Washington.

Heathcote returned to New York. And society received him with widely open arms. The women had never believed in his guilt; they now apotheosized him. The men had believed in it; they now pressed forward to atone for their error. But it was a grave and saddened man who received this ovation--an ovation quiet, hardly expressed in words, but marked, nevertheless. A few men did say openly, "Forgive me, Heathcote; you can not be half so severe on me as I am on myself." But generally a silent grip of the hand was the only outward expression.

The most noticeable sign was the deference paid him. It seemed as if a man who had unjustly suffered so much, and been so cruelly suspected, should now be crowned in the sight of all. They could not actually crown him, but they did what they could.

Through this deference and regret, through these manifestations of feeling from persons not easily stirred to feeling or deference, Heathcote pa.s.sed unmoved and utterly silent, like a man of marble. After a while it was learned that he had transferred Helen's fortune to other hands. At first he had tried to induce Miss Teller to take it, but she had refused. He had then deeded it all to a hospital for children, in which his wife had occasionally evinced some interest. Society divided itself over this action; some admired it, others p.r.o.nounced it Quixotic.

But the man who did it seemed to care nothing for either their praise or their blame.

Rachel asked Isabel if she knew where Anne was.

"The very question I asked dear Miss Teller yesterday," replied Isabel.

"She told me that Anne had returned to that island up in the Northwest somewhere, where she used to live. Then I asked, 'Is she going to remain there?' and Miss Teller answered, 'Yes,' but in such a tone that I did not like to question further."

"It has ended, then, as I knew it would," said Rachel. "In spite of all that display on the witness stand, you see he has _not_ married her."

"He could not marry her very well at present, I suppose," began Isabel, who had a trace of feeling in her heart for the young girl.

But Rachel interrupted her. "I tell you he will never marry her," she said, her dark eyes flashing out upon the thin blonde face of her companion. For old Mrs. Bannert was dead at last, and her daughter-in-law had inherited the estate. Two weeks later she sailed rather unexpectedly for Europe. But if unexpectedly, not causelessly.

She was not a woman to hesitate; before she went she had staked her all, played her game, and--lost it.

Heathcote had never been, and was not now, a saint; but he saw life with different eyes. During the old careless days it had never occurred to him to doubt himself, or his own good (that is, tolerably good--good enough) qualities. Suddenly he had found himself a prisoner behind bars, and half the world, even his own world, believed him guilty. This had greatly changed him. As the long days and nights spent in prison had left traces on his face which would never pa.s.s away, so this judgment pa.s.sed upon him had left traces on his heart which would not be outlived. As regarded both himself and others he was sterner.

Anne had returned with Miss Lois to the island. From New York he wrote to her, "If I can not see you, I shall go back to the army. My old life here is unendurable now."

No letters had pa.s.sed between them: this was the first. They had not seen each other since that interview in the Multomah prison.

She answered simply, Go.

He went.

More than two years pa.s.sed. Miss Teller journeyed westward to the island, and staid a long time at the church-house, during the first summer, making with reverential respect an acquaintance with Miss Lois.

During the second summer t.i.ta came home to make a visit, astonishing her old companions, and even her own sister, by the peculiar beauty of her little face and figure, and her air of indulgent superiority over everything the poor island contained. But she was happy. She smiled sometimes with such real naturalness, her small white teeth gleaming through her delicate little lips, that Anne went across and kissed her out of pure gladness, gladness that she was so content. Rast had prospered--at least he was prospering now (he failed and prospered alternately)--and his little wife pleased herself with silks that trailed behind her over the uncarpeted halls of the church-house, giving majesty (so she thought) to her small figure. If they did not give majesty, they gave an unexpected and bizarre contrast. Strangers who saw t.i.ta that summer went home and talked about her, and never forgot her.

The two boys were tall and strong--almost men; they had no desire to come eastward. Anne must not send them any more money; they did not need it; on the contrary, in a year or two, when they had made their fortunes (merely a question of time), they intended to build for her a grand house on the island, and bestow upon her an income sufficient for all her wants. They requested her to obtain plans for this mansion, according to her taste.

Pere Michaux was at work, as usual, in his water parish. He had succeeded in obtaining a commutation of the death sentence, in Croom's case, to imprisonment for a term of years, the criminal's mental weakness being the plea. But he considered the prisoner his especial charge, and never lost sight of him. Such solace and instruction as Croom was capable of receiving were constantly given, if not by the priest himself, then by his influence; and this protection was continued long after the wise, kind old man had pa.s.sed away.

Jeanne-Armande returned from Europe, and entered into happy possession of the half-house, as it stood, refurnished by the lavish hand of Gregory Dexter.

And Dexter? During the last year of the war he went down to the front, on business connected with a proposed exchange of prisoners. Here, unexpectedly, one day he came upon Ward Heathcote, now in command of a regiment.

Colonel Heathcote was not especially known beyond his own division; in it, he was considered a good officer, cool, determined, and if distinguished at all, distinguished for rigidly obeying his orders, whatever they might be. It was related of him that once having been ordered to take his men up Little Reedy Run, when Big Reedy was plainly meant--Little Reedy, as everybody knew, being within the lines of the enemy, he calmly went up Little Reedy with his regiment. The enemy, startled by the sudden appearance of seven hundred men among their seven thousand, supposed of course that seventy thousand must be behind, and retreated in haste, a mile or two, before they discovered their error.

The seven hundred, meanwhile, being wildly recalled by a dozen messengers, came back, with much camp equipage and other booty, together with a few shot in their bodies, sent by the returning and indignant Confederates, one of the b.a.l.l.s being in the shoulder of the calm colonel himself.