immediately to the cabin," said Harry, "for without her we would be
unable to know whether the child is that of Alfred Wentworth or of
some other unfortunate soldier."
"Here, John!" called out Dr. Humphries after the retreating form of
the groom, "come here to me."
The boy turned back and returned to the side of the buggy.
"Tell Elsy to come here at once," said the Doctor.
The boy moved off to comply with his master's order, and in a few
moments returned, accompanied by Elsy.
"Do you go to the old woman's cabin," said Dr. Humphries, as soon as
she had reached the side of the buggy, "and wait there until I arrive.
There is no necessity to mention what I am going there for."
"Yes sah," replied Elsy, as she turned away to do her master's
bidding.
"And now," remarked the Doctor, "we will go on and find out who these
people are. But before we go, I had better purchase a few things that
will relieve the necessities of the child."
With these words the Doctor drove off, and on arriving in front of a
store, drew in the reins and, alighting, shortly after returned with
several packages, which he placed in the buggy and, re-entering it, he
drove to the cabin of the old slave. On arriving there the Doctor and
Harry found the old woman and the child seated in the room talking.
The boy appeared quite contented, now that his grief at the loss of
his sister and departure of his mother had subsided, and was laughing
merrily when they entered. He was dressed very cleanly and neatly by
the old slave, who had expended all her savings in purchasing suitable
cloths for him, and his appearance excited the remark of the Doctor
and his companion the moment they entered the threshold of the room
and saw him.
"Good day sah," said the old negro, rising and curtseying as soon as
the two gentlemen entered.
"God day, Auntie," said the doctor, "how are you getting on."
"Berry well," answered the old woman, and then added, "I'm mighty glad
you come here dis day, for I want to talk wid you 'bout dis here
chile."
"I have heard all about him, Auntie," said the Doctor, "and have come
here expressly for the purpose of learning something about his
parents."
"'Spose dat gal Elsy tell you," observed the old woman, snappishly,
nettled because she had not the opportunity of telling her master the
tale of Mrs. Wentworth and her children.
"Yes, Auntie," he replied, "Elsy told me, but not before I had asked
her all about those unfortunate people, so you must not be mad with
her."
"She might ha' waited till you see me befo' she say anyting about it,"
remarked the old woman.
"Never mind that, Auntie," replied the Doctor, who knew the old
woman's jealous disposition and wanted to pacify her. "Has Elsy been
here yet?"
"No sah," she replied, "I aint seen her since mornin'."
"She will be here directly, then," he remarked, and seating himself
the Doctor waited the arrival of Elsy.
"Come here my little man," said Harry, who had been sitting on the bed
during the dialogue between the old slave and her master.
The child walked up to him and placed his arms on Harry's knees.
"What is your name," enquired the young man, lifting the child up on
his knees.
"My name is Alf," he replied.
"Alf what?" asked Harry.
The child looked at him enquiringly, not understanding the question.
"What is your mother's name," continued Harry, perceiving that the boy
was unable to answer his question.
"My ma's name is Eva," he answered.
"And your sister's?" asked Harry.
"My sister is named Ella," replied the child, and then added,
mournfully, "but she is gone from here; they took her out in a little
box and put her in the ground, and Granny says she is gone to heaven;
and my ma," he continued, "some bad men carried away, but Granny says
she will soon come back--wont she?" and his innocent face looked up
confidingly in Harry's.
"Yes, my boy," he answered, "your ma will soon come back to you."
"There appears no doubt of the identity of this family," remarked
Harry to Dr. Humphries, after a short pause, "everything we have yet
discovered indicates that Alfred Wentworth's wife and children have
passed a fearful life since their expulsion from New Orleans."
"Poor woman and children," observed the Doctor, dashing away a tear,
"could I have known their penury, I should have been only glad to
relieve them, and even now, it is not too late for us to benefit this
child and his mother. As soon as Elsy arrives here I shall remove the
boy to my house and visit the mother in jail."
"I do not think it advisable to move the child until you have
succeeded in obtaining the release of Mrs. Wentworth," answered Harry.
"His father may chance to see him, and, under the circumstances, would
discover where his wife was; which discovery I desire to avoid as long
as possible. The best thing that you can do is to leave the boy here
for twenty-four hours longer, by which time bail can be procured for
his mother, and I shall endeavor to silence the charge, so that there
may be no necessity for a trial."
"May not Mr. Wentworth see the child and recognise him before we have
accomplished his mother's release," enquired the Doctor.
"I do not think it likely," he replied, "Alfred will not visit so
remote a vicinity, and the child need not be carried into the business
portion of the city."
"I shall leave him here, then, as you think it advisable," remarked
the Doctor; "it cannot injure him to remain in this cabin for a day
longer, while it might lead to unpleasant discoveries should he be
removed."
Harry and the old gentleman remained silent for some time, when Elsy
entered the room. No sooner did the girl see the boy than she
recognized her master's child, and taking him in her arms caressed him
with all the exhibitions of affection the negro is capable of.
"Dis am Mas Alfred own chile" she exclaimed to Harry and the old
gentleman, "and who would thought dat him would be libin' here."
"I supposed it was your master's child, my good girl," observed the
Doctor, and then added, as he rose from his seat, "you can stay here
with him until dark, when you had better return home; meanwhile, I do
not wish you to let Mr. Wentworth know that his wife and child are in
this city, nor do I wish you to take him out of this cabin. Come
Harry," he continued, "let us go now and see the mother; she will be
able to give us full details of her unfortunate life and to inform us
of the cause for which she is in prison."
Leaving the cabin, the two gentlemen re-entered the buggy and drove to
the Mayor's office. Finding him absent, they proceeded to his
residence, and, after briefly narrating the tale of Mrs. Wentworth and
her family, requested permission to visit her.
"Certainly, my dear sirs," replied Mr. Manship, such being the name of
the Mayor, "take a seat while I write you an order of admittance."
In a few minutes the order to admit Dr. Humphries and his companion in
the female's ward of the prison was written. Returning thanks to the
Mayor, the two gentlemen started for the prison, and on showing the
permit, were ushered into the cell occupied by Mrs. Wentworth.
"Good God!" exclaimed Harry, as he looked upon the squalid and haggard
form of the broken hearted woman, "this surely cannot be the wife of
Alfred Wentworth."
Mrs. Wentworth had paid no attention to the visitors when they first
entered, but on hearing her husband's name pronounced, rose from her
crouching position and confronted the speaker. The name of the one she
loved had awoke the slumbering faculties of the woman, and, like a
flash of electricity on a rod of steel, her waning reason flared up
for a moment.
"You spoke my husband's name," she said in a hoarse tone, "what of
him?"
"He is my friend, madam," replied Harry, "and as such I have called to
see you, so that you may be removed from this place."
"Thank you," she answered; "yours is the first voice of charity I have
listened to since I left New Orleans. But it is too late; I have
nothing now to live for. Adversity has visited me until nothing but
disgrace and degradation is left of a woman who was once looked upon
as a lady."
"There is no necessity for despondency, my good madam," observed Dr.
Humphries. "The misfortunes which have attended you are such as all
who were thrown in your situation are subject to. Our object in coming
here," he continued, "is to learn the true cause of your being in this
wretched place. Disguise nothing, but speak truthfully, for there are
times when crimes in some become necessity in others."
"My tale is briefly told," she answered. "Forced by the cruelty of a
villain to leave my comfortable home in New Orleans, I sought refuge
in the Confederate lines. I anticipated that refugees would meet with
a welcome from the more fortunate people of the South. In that I was
disappointed; for when my means gave out, and every endeavor to
procure work to feed my children had failed--when I had not a dollar
to purchase bread for my innocent babes, I applied for assistance.
None but the most dire necessity would have prompted me to such a
step, and, Oh, God! when it was refused--when the paltry pittance I
asked for was refused, the hope which I had clung so despairingly to,
vanished, and I felt myself indeed a miserable woman. Piece after
piece of furniture went, until all was gone--my clothing was next
sold to purchase bread. The miserable life I led, the hours spent with
my children around me crying for bread--the agonizing pangs which rent
my mother's heart when I felt I could not comply with their
demand--all--all combined to make me an object of abject misery. But
why describe my sufferings? The balance of my tale is short. I was
forced out of the shelter I occupied because I could not pay the owner
his rent. My oldest child was then ill, and in the bleak night wind,
canopied by heaven alone, I was thrust, homeless, from a shelter owned
by a man whose wealth should have made him pause ere he performed such
an act. With my sick child in my arms I wandered, I knew not where,
until I found she had fainted. Hurrying to a small cabin on the road,
I entered and there discovered an old negro woman. From the lips of a
slave I first heard words of kindness, and for the first time aid was
extended to me. Applying restoratives, my child revived and I waited
until next morning, when I returned once more to ask for aid. A paltry
sum was handed to me, more for the sake of getting rid of the
mendicant than to relieve my distress. I felt that the sum offered was
insufficient to supply the demands of my sick daughter and my starving
boy. I was turning in despair away when my eye lit upon a package of
money resting on the safe. For a moment I hesitated, but the thought
of my children rose uppermost in my mind, and, seizing the package I
hurried from the store."
"So you did take the money," said Harry.
"Yes," she replied, "but it did me little good, for when the doctor
was called he pronounced my daughter beyond medical skill. She died
that evening, and all the use to which the money was appropriated, was
the purchase of a coffin."
"Then the--the--" said Harry, hesitating to use the word theft, "then,
it was not discovered that you had taken the money until your child
was dead and buried."
"No," she said, "listen--my child lay enrobed in her garment of death,
and the sun was fast declining in the west, when Mr. Swartz and two
constables entered the room and arrested me. On my bended knees I
appealed to him not to tear me from the body of my child. Yes," she
continued, excitedly, "I prayed to him in the most abject manner to
leave me until my child was buried. My prayers were unavailing, and
from the window of this cell I witnessed a lonely hearse pass by,
followed by none other than my infant boy and the kind old negro. Oh
God! Oh God!" she went on, bursting into tears and throwing herself on
the wretched pallet in the cell, "my cup of misery was then full, and
I had drained it to the very dregs. I have nothing more to live for
now, and the few days longer I have to spend on earth can be passed as
well in a prison as in a mansion."
"Not so," interrupted Dr. Humphries, "I trust you will live many, many
years longer, to be a guardian to your child and a comfort to your
husband."
"It cannot be," she answered sadly. "The brain, overwrought, will soon
give way to madness, and then a welcome death will spare me the life
of a maniac. I do not speak idly," she continued, observing the look
they cast upon her; "from the depths of my mind, a voice whispers that
my troubles on earth will soon be o'er. I have one desire, however,
and should like to see it granted."
"Let me know what that is," remarked Dr. Humphries, "and if it lies in
my power it shall be accorded to you with pleasure."
"Your companion spoke of my husband as his friend; does he know where
he is at present, and if so, can I not see him?"
"I promise that you shall see your husband before many days. Until you
are removed from this place I do not think it advisable, but,"
continued Harry, "I shall, on leaving this place, endeavor to secure
your release."
Mrs. Wentworth made no answer, and, speaking a few words of
consolation and hope to her, the two gentlemen left the prison. The
next morning Harry called on the Mayor and asked if Mrs. Wentworth
could be bailed, but on his honor mentioning that her trial would come
off the next day, the court having met that evening, he determined to
await the trial, confident that she would be acquitted when the facts
of the case were made known to the jury. On the same day he met Alfred
Wentworth, who informed him that he was more strongly impressed than
ever in the belief that the pretended Englishman was a spy.
"I will inform you of a plan that will prove whether you are right or
not," observed Harry, when he had concluded. "Tomorrow at about three
o'clock in the evening persuade him to visit the Court House. I will
be present, and if he is really the spy you imagine, will have full
evidence against him."
"What evidence?" enquired Alfred.
"Never do you mind," he replied, "just bring him and there will be
plenty of evidence found to convict him if he is a spy. By the way,"
he continued, "you said you suspected him to be the same man who
caused your wife to be turned out of New Orleans?"
"Yes," Alfred answered, "but why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing in particular," he replied, "only in the event his being
Awtry, you will have a double motive in finding out whether he is a
spy or not."
"You are right," observed Alfred, "but whether he is Awtry or not, I
should deem it my duty to the Government to ferret out the true status
of that man, and to have him brought to justice if he is really a spy.
Your request to carry him to the Court House is a strange one, and I
will cheerfully comply with it, although I cannot see how his being
there will enable us to make the discovery."
"Leave that to me," answered Harry, "and content yourself with
believing that I am certain it will prove whether he is an Englishman
or a Yankee."
With that the two friends departed and Harry returned home much
perplexed at the manner he had arranged for the husband and wife to
meet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH.
TRIAL OF MRS. WENTWORTH--THE ADVOCATE.
The morning for the trial of Mrs. Wentworth arrived, and at the hour
of ten she appeared in the court. Her appearance was changed since we
last saw her. The kind hearted daughter of Dr. Humphries had visited
her the day before with a supply of clothing, and though her features
retained their haggard and care-worn expression, none who looked upon
her as she entered the court room could have failed to perceive that
she was a lady and unlike a majority of females brought before a jury
to answer grave charges. Her case did not excite any notice until she
appeared, when the pinched and sharp face presented to the spectators,
and the evidence her lady-like demeanor gave of her being a different
subject from that usually presented, awoke a feeling of interest in
the crowd, and many enquiries were made of the nature of the charge
made against her. None, however, could inform the inquisitors, and
they awaited the reading of the charges.
As Mrs. Wentworth entered the room she cast a look at the jury box,
and a shudder came over her as she perceived Mr. Elder sitting among
the jurymen. She knew that he would not favor the dismissal of the
case; but a gleam of hope presented itself in the person of Dr.
Mallard, who she believed to be a good man, notwithstanding his abrupt
and true remarks at the bedside of her dying child. These were the
only two persons present she knew, save and except Mr. Swartz, who
stood near by, ready to give his evidence against her. But from him
she expected nothing; nor did she intend to ask one word of favor or
mercy. There was no disposition within her to sue for mercy, nor did
she purpose denying or palliating her having taken the money.
After the usual delay, Mrs. Wentworth was placed in the prisoners'
stand and the charges preferred against her. In his usual style Mr.
Swartz proceeded to narrate his business connection with the accused,
and stated that he had done everything he possibly could for her, but
that, not satisfied with receiving his bounty, she had stolen his
money. His story was given in a conclusive and plausible manner, and
on his clerk certifying to what his employer had said, the chances for
the accused appeared very dim. What added more to the evidence against
her, was the conduct of Mr. Elder, who, rising from his seat briefly
stated that, from his intercourse with her, he believed Mrs. Wentworth
to be an unprincipled and dishonest woman.
"On what ground do you make that assertion, Mr. Elder?" enquired the
Judge.
"As I stated before, in my intercourse with her," he replied.
"And may I ask of what nature your intercourse was?" asked the Judge.
"It would delay the court were I to state what business transactions
have taken place between this woman and myself," answered Mr. Elder.
"When I arose, it was simply to state my belief in her dishonesty."
"You should have appeared on the witness' box, if you desired to give
evidence against the accused," remarked the Judge. "As it stands, your
assertions cannot be taken as evidence against her. If you desire to
appear as a witness for the accuser, say so, and I will then be
prepared to hear what you may have to say."
"I have no such desire," replied Mr. Elder, seating himself.
"And now my good woman," said the Judge, turning to Mrs. Wentworth,
who had remained a silent listener to all that had been said against
her, "let me know what you may have to say against the charges brought
against you. By your appearance and general demeanor you have seen
better days, and it is a source of regret that I should see any one
bearing evidence of once living in a different sphere from the one you
now occupy, brought before me on a charge of robbery. Let me now know
what you have to say on this charge."
"I can say nothing," she replied.
"Well, then, do you plead guilty, or not guilty?" asked the Judge.
"Not Guilty!" thundered Harry, in an excited manner. He had been
unavoidably delayed from accompanying Mrs. Wentworth to the Court
House, and had just arrived. "Not guilty! I repeat, and, as counsel
for the accused, I beg leave to make a few remarks."
"Certainly, Lieutenant Shackleford," answered the Judge, who knew
Harry well.
The remarks of Harry, and his excited manner, awoke the waning
interest in the case, and the crowd clustered closer round the
railings.
"Your honor, and gentlemen of the Jury," began Harry, as soon as he
had become calm enough to speak: "It is now nearly two years since I
appeared in a civil capacity before a court of justice, and I had
thought that while this war lasted my services would have been solely
on the battle-fields of my country, and not in the halls where law is
dispensed. But the case which I have appeared to defend, is so unlike
those you ordinarily have before your honorable body, that I have, for
a while, thrown off the armor of the soldier, and once more appear as
the lawyer. You will pardon my apparent digression from the subject at
issue, but as I see many looks of surprise at my seemingly strange
conduct, I deem it but justice to myself that I should explain my
motive for so acting.
"It is now nearly two years ago that a soldier in a happy and
comfortable home in New Orleans bade adieu to a fond wife and two
promising children. As the tear-drop trickled down the cheek of his
lovely and blooming wife, he whispered a word of comfort and solace to
her, and bade her be cheerful, for the dark cloud which covered the
political horizon of his country would soon be dispelled by the bright
sunshine of liberty. But the tear that fell on her cheek was not of
regret; for she felt that in leaving her he obeyed the call of his
country, and was but performing a duty he owed to his native South.
The tear was brushed away, and she smiled in his face at the glowing
words of hope and comfort he spoke to her. They were full of promise,
and as each syllable fell on her ear, they awoke an echo in her heart,
until the love of the wife paled before the enthusiastic patriotism of
the Southern woman, and the dangers of the battle-field became hidden
before the vision of the honor and glory which awaited the patriot
hero. Then she bade him adieu with a smile, and they departed, full of
love and hope.--Oh! gentlemen, let me take a glance back at the home
and household war had then severed. Before our treacherous enemy had
proclaimed war against us, this soldier's home was a model of earthly
joy and felicity. It is true, there was no wealth to be found there,
but there was a bright and more glorious gift than wealth can command;
there was happiness, and this, combined with the love borne by this
soldier for his wife, served to make them pass their years of wedded
life in comfortable union. Years pass over their heads, and two
children are sent to bless them, and they were cherished as priceless
gifts. When the call to arms resounded through the South, this
husband, like thousands of others, ceased his civil pursuits, and
enlisted under the banner of his country. None but the purest and
loftiest motives of patriotism, and a sense of duty, prompted him to
the step; and though he knew that in so doing he would leave his wife
deprived of her natural protector, and subject to privations, he
thought, and with every right, that those who remained at home would
shield a soldier's wife from danger, and he trusted on the means at
his disposal to keep her from penury and destitution. After making
preparation for his wife and children, he bade them adieu, as I have
described already, and departed for Virginia, whose soil had already
been invaded by the vandals of the North.
"And now, gentlemen, lest you should think by my intimating that this
soldier was not wealthy, I meant he was also poor in society, I will
state that he and his wife held as high a position in the social
circle of New Orleans as the most favored of fortune. His wife, this
unfortunate lady, who now stands before you charged with theft, is the
daughter of one who was once wealthy, but on whom adversity fell
shortly before her marriage. Think not that the haggard and care-worn
features before you were always such. There was a time, not long
distant, when the bloom of youth and beauty could be seen in that
sunken cheek and that sharpened face; but adversity has reduced one of
God's fairest works to the wretched and unfortunate condition she is
now in. Pardon my digression, for the tale I have to tell cannot be
briefly recited; it is necessary that I shall speak in full, and
though I may tire you by my lengthy remarks, you must hear them with
patience, for they are necessary in this defence, and are equally
needed to hold up to the scorn and contempt of every patriotic spirit
in the land, two men who have disgraced their sex and entailed misery,
aye, and degradation, on an unfortunate woman."
"If his honor, the judge, will permit me," interrupted Mr. Elder, "I
should like to decline serving as a juryman on this case."
"Silence!" exclaimed Harry, before the judge could reply. "You are
already sworn in, and I desire that you shall remain where you are."
"I cannot possibly excuse you, Mr. Elder," remarked the judge, in a
tone of surprise, "the case has progressed too far already for any
excuse. Continue, Lieutenant Shackleford," he continued, speaking to
Harry.