He went--and the old man was found murdered. What more natural than such a consequence after penning such a letter? The spectators looked from one to the other: on every brow rested a cloud; every head was nodded in token of agreement; every one present, but Frederic Wildegrave, believed him guilty. He had retained no counsel, preferring to plead in his own defence.

He rose; every eye was fixed upon him, men held their breath, wondering what sort of defence could issue from the lips of the parricide.

He spoke; the clear, rich, mellow, unimpa.s.sioned tones of his voice rolled over that ma.s.s of human heads, penetrating every heart, and reaching every ear.

"My lord, and you gentlemen of the jury, I rise not with the idea of saving my life, by an avowal of my innocence, for the evidence which has been given against me is of too conclusive a nature for me to hope for that; I merely state the simple fact, that I am not guilty of the dreadful crime laid to my charge; and I leave it to G.o.d, in whose hands are the issues of life and death, to prove the truth of my words.

"The greater part of the evidence brought against me is true; the circ.u.mstances recorded against me really occurred; the letter just read was penned by my own hand; yet, in the face of these overwhelming facts, I declare myself innocent of the crime laid to my charge. I know not in what manner my father met his death. I am as ignorant as you can be of the hand that dealt the fatal blow. I confess that I sought his presence with the dreadful determination of committing murder; but the crime was against myself. For this I deserve punishment--for this I am content to die: to this charge, made by myself, I plead guilty. I look around me--in every face I see doubt and doom. I stand here a mark and scorn to the whole world; but, though all unite in my condemnation, I still fearlessly and distinctly declare my innocence. I am neither a parricide nor a murderer! and I now await my sentence with the calmness and fort.i.tude which a clear conscience alone can give."

Murmurs of disapprobation ran though the court.

"What a hypocrite!" muttered some, as the jury left the court to consult together about the verdict.

"Do you observe the striking likeness between the prisoner at the bar and his cousin, the second witness against him?" whispered a gentleman in the crowd to a friend near him. "By Jove, 'tis a fearful resemblance.

I would not be so like the murderer for worlds. 'Tis the same face."

"Perhaps," said his friend, "they are partners in guilt. I have my doubts. But 'tis unlawful to condemn any man."

"He's a bad fellow by his own account," said the other. "It was he who first led the prisoner to commit the theft. I think one of them deserves death as much as the other."

"Whist, man! Yon handsome rogue is the miser's heir."

"Humph!" said the first speaker. "If I were on the jury--"

"Here they come, there is death in their very looks, I thought as much, he is found guilty."

The judge rose; a death-like stillness pervaded the court during his long and impressive address to the prisoner. The sentence of death was then p.r.o.nounced, and Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone was ordered for execution on the following Monday.

"This dreadful day is at length over," he said as he flung himself on his pallet of straw in the condemned cell, on the evening of that memorable day. "Thank G.o.d it is over, and I know the worst, and nothing now remains to hope or fear. A few brief hours and this weary world will be a dream of the past, and I shall awake from my bed of dust to a new and better existence, beyond the power of temptation--beyond the might of sin. My G.o.d, I thank Thee. Thou hast dealt justly with Thy servant.

The soul that sinneth, it must die; and grievously have I sinned in seeking to mar Thy glorious image--to cast the life thou gavest me as a worthless boon at Thy feet. I bow my head in the dust and am silent before Thee. Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?"

His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the chaplain of the jail--a venerable Christian who felt a deep interest in the prisoner, and who now sought him to try and awaken him to a full sense of his awful situation.

"My son," he said, laying his hand upon Anthony's shoulder, "how is it with you this night? What is G.o.d saying to your soul?"

"All is well," replied Anthony. "He is speaking to me words of peace and comfort."

"Your fellow-men have condemned you--" he paused then added with a deep sigh, "--and I too, Anthony Hurdlestone, believe you guilty."

"G.o.d has not condemned me, good father, and by the light of His glorious countenance that now shines upon me, shedding joy and peace into my heart, I am innocent."

"Oh, that I could think you so!"

"Though it has seemed right in the eyes of the All-wise Sovereign of the universe that I should be p.r.o.nounced guilty before an earthly bar, I feel a.s.sured that He, in His own good time, will declare my innocence."

"Will that profit you aught, my son, when you are dust?"

"It will rescue my name from infamy, and give me a mournful interest in the memory of my friends."

"Poor lad, this is but a melancholy consolation; I wish I could believe you."

"What a monster of depravity you must think me, if you can imagine me guilty after what I have just said! Is truth so like falsehood, that a man of your holy calling cannot discern the difference? Do I look like a guilty man? Do I speak like a guilty man who knows that he has but a few days to live? If I were the wretch you take me for, should I not be overwhelmed with grief and despair? Would not the thought of death be insupportable? Oh! believe one who seeks not to live--who is contented to die, when I again solemnly declare my innocence."

"I have seen men, Anthony Hurdlestone, who, up to the very hour of their execution, persisted in the same thing and yet, after all their solemn protestations, owned at the last moment that their sentence was just, and that they merited death."

"And I too have merited death," said Anthony mournfully. "G.o.d is just."

The chaplain started; though but a few minutes before he had considered the prisoner guilty, yet it produced a painful feeling in his mind to hear him declare it.

"Is self-destruction murder?" asked Anthony with an anxious earnest glance.

"Aye, of the worst kind: for deep ingrat.i.tude to G.o.d, and contempt of his laws, are fearfully involved in this unnatural outrage."

"Then my sentence is just," sighed Anthony; "I never raised my hand against my father's life, but I raised it against my own. G.o.d has punished me for this act of rebellion against His Divine Majesty, in rejecting, as a thing of no value, the life He gave. I yield myself into His hands, confident that His arm is stretched over His repentant creature for good; whether I die upon the scaffold or end my days peacefully in my bed, I can lay my hand upon my heart and say--'His will be done.'"

For about an hour the good clergyman continued reading and praying with the prisoner, and before he left him that evening, in spite of his pre-conceived notions of his guilt, he was fully convinced of innocence.

Sadly and solemnly the hours pa.s.sed on that brought the morning of his execution, "with death-bed clearness, face to face." He had joined in the sacred duties of the Sabbath; it was to him a day of peaceful rest--a forestate of the quiet solemnity of the grave. In the evening he was visited by Frederic Wildegrave, who had been too ill after the trial to leave his bed before. He was pale, and wasted with sorrow and disease, and looked more like a man going to meet death than the criminal he came to cheer with his presence.

"My dear Anthony," said Frederic, taking his cousin's hand, "my heart bleeds to see you thus. I have been sick; my spirit is weighed down with sorrow, or we should have met sooner."

"You do indeed look ill," replied Anthony, examining, with painful surprise, the altered face of his friend; "I much fear that I have been the cause of this change. Tell me, Frederic, and tell me truly, do you believe me guilty?"

"I have never for one moment entertained a thought to that effect, Anthony; though the whole world should condemn you, I would stake my salvation on your integrity."

"Bless you, my friend; my true, faithful, n.o.ble-hearted friend," cried Anthony, clasping the hand he held to his breast, "you are right; I am not the murderer."

"Who is?"

Anthony shook his head.

"That infernal scoundrel, Mathews?"

"Hush! Not him alone."

"G.o.dfrey?"

"Oh! Frederic; had you seen the triumphant smile that pa.s.sed over his face at the moment that my sentence was p.r.o.nounced, you could entertain no doubt upon the subject. I heard not the sentence--I saw not the mult.i.tude of eyes fixed upon me--I only saw him--I only saw his eyes looking into my soul and laughing at the ruin he had wrought. But he will not go unpunished. There is one who will yet betray him, and prove my innocence; I mean his hateful accomplice, William Mathews."

"And can nothing be done to convict them?"

"They have sworn falsely, and perverted facts. I have no proof of their guilt. Would the world believe my statements? Would it not appear like the wolf accusing the lamb? For my poor uncle's sake I am ready to suffer; and for this cause I employed no counsel to plead on my behalf; I would rather die myself than be the means of bringing to the scaffold the only son that he adored. Poor Algernon! I have paid a heavy debt for his generosity to me. Yes," he continued, more cheerfully, "I will leave G.o.dfrey to enjoy his ill-gotten wealth, nor waste the few hours which now remain to me on earth in vain regrets. How is it with the dear Clary? How has she borne up against this dreadful blow?"

Frederic's sole answer was a mournful glance at the sables in which he was clad. Anthony comprehended in a moment the meaning of that sad, sad look. "She is gone," he said--"she, the beautiful--the innocent. Yes, yes--I knew it would kill her, the idea of my guilt. Alas! poor Clary!"

"She never thought you guilty," said Frederic, wiping his eyes. "She bade me give you this letter, written with her dying hand, to convince you that she believed you innocent. Her faith towards you was as strong as death; her love for you snapped asunder the fragile threads that held her to life. But she is happy. Dear child! She is better off than those who weep her loss. And you, Anthony, you--the idol of her fond young heart--will receive her welcome to that glorious country, of which, I trust, she is now the bright inhabitant."

"And she died of grief. Died--because others suspected of crime the man she loved. Oh, Clary! Clary! how unworthy was I of your love! You knew I loved another, yet it did not diminish aught of your friendship, your pure devotion to me! Oh, that I had your faith--your love!"