THE SELBYS.
George Selby was notified at once, of course, that the inquiry into
his child's disappearance had suddenly and unexpectedly revived
itself, after so many years, with the prospect of solving the mystery,
if not of restoring the lost one.
It was an old wound now, that sudden evanishment of the sweetest
blossom which had shone upon their lives. His wife and he, each in
pity to the other, seldom spoke of it, and therefore there appeared a
skinning over or partial healing to have come; but it still bled
inwardly, saddening, and oppressing with unspoken grief. In the
fifteen years of their bereavement his wife had been brought down from
youth and strength and beauty to premature old age. Within the last
twelvemonths a change had come. As she had told him, peace and
resignation had come to her, the sad peace of the mourners who resign
their loved ones, believing it is well with them, though knowing they
shall no more meet on earth; and her health had greatly improved.
"Why, then," thought George, "should he disturb her?--revive the
deadened misery and cause relapse? There would be doubt and anxiety
while the inquiry was in progress, and, alas! there was little that
could be called hope to look for at the conclusion." Therefore he said
nothing to Mary, but he did not fail to present himself at the
examination before the magistrate. It was a horrid idea that their
innocent darling should have been murdered by Indians, though it was
relieved by the consolatory thought that in all those years of
mourning to the parents the child's troubles had long been of the
past; and he said nothing when he went home after the first day's
inquiry.
The next day of examination was one of the most painful George Selby
had ever known. He shrank into an unnoticed corner when the box was
brought into the court-room--shrank from it, but could not tear away
his eyes. And then he listened to Paul's accusation of his Mary's
nephew, and for the first time he divined the motive of the seemingly
wanton and inexplicable crime. Oh! how deeply in his heart he cursed
the detestable money of that domineering old man, who, not satisfied
with having his way in life, must needs strive to impose it after
death, working misery and soul destruction upon his nearest kin. He
shivered and clasped his hands before his eyes when the lid was to be
lifted from the box. He heard the drawing of the nails, the creak and
giving way of each one in its turn, and then there was a stillness;
but after that there came no sigh of horror, the air thrilled with a
movement of disappointment, felt rather than to be heard, and he came
forward and peered into the faces of the crowd. The one additional
horror was to be spared him of being called on to recognize his
child's remains in the presence of curious strangers.
He peered intently at the prisoners, one of whom had virtually
confessed but a moment before. He noted Paul's amazement and
confusion. He noted that the squaw by his side remained calm, save
that there stole a look of mockery into her face, as she surveyed the
court, and he felt sure that that woman was not a murderess. It was
his heart which was on the strain, and enabled him to see and read the
reality untrammelled by judgment's frequent errors, wrong deductions,
and misinterpretations. He could discern that of which the
professional experience of officials took no note, for the heart is
clearer sighted than the head.
With them there was a juridical problem to be solved by pure reason,
an indictment to be made, presentable before a judge and jury--a
proposition that the prisoners at the bar were guilty of a specific
offence, with evidence in proof. "Where is my child?" was the ruling
thought which filled George Selby's mind. The squaw at the bar was the
stealer. So much was proved by the witness under oath, and by the
implied admission of her fellow prisoner. But she had not murdered the
child, though perhaps it had been intended that she should; so much
could be drawn from her tranquillity and the confusion of her
companion. He felt that he must question that squaw forthwith, and
after the prisoners had been formally committed to stand their trial,
he obtained speech of her through the assistance of the police
sergeant, who took care to elicit an assurance that the reward,
advertised fifteen years before in a placard of which he produced a
copy, would still be paid when the baby's fate was discovered.
"Mary," George said to his wife that evening when they met. "I have
news."
"News, George? News of what?"
"The news we have been waiting for all these years. The squaw is found
at last--the right one. She is sister of the one who was taken up at
the time. The two changed clothes. That accounts for the confusion at
the trial. Those who identified her recognized the clothes. Those who
swore to her being in Caughnawaga that day spoke truth, too."
"Oh, George!" with a weary sigh; "Is it all to be gone through again?
The misery and the pain? Yet now I feel so sure my precious one is at
peace, in the arms of God, that I think I can bear it. It is well the
discovery, whatever it may be, did not come earlier to embitter our
grief."
"And yet, my dearest, already something which will shock you has come
to light--the instigator of the wrong is named. His accomplice accuses
him. That wretched fortune of your most misguided brother has been at
the root of all our trouble. That men who find themselves so little
wise in directing their own courses, should strive to perpetuate their
folly, by imposing their will on others after they are dead!"
"You mean that it was Ralph? I have often suspected that; but it
seemed so merciless and inhuman a thing to do, that I have blushed for
shame at my suspicions, even when alone, and cast the thought behind
me. Poor wretch! Look at him now!--shamed and dishonoured--run away to
the States--afraid to show his face in Canada! Martha and the boy are
to be pitied in belonging to him, for they are good; but they do not
know him, and no one will be ruffian enough to enlighten them. Martha
is back at St. Euphrase again. Susan had a letter from her to-day. The
house there is settled on her, it seems, and she wants to give it up
to the creditors, but Ralph says she must not, and that before long he
will be on his feet again, and pay everybody."
"I fear Ralph meant worse than merely to set the child aside, and it
is no thanks to his intentions if he has not innocent blood on his
hands."
"Hush! George. It is right you should tell me the facts, but do not
draw inferences. Judge not."
"My dear, I judge no one; but I have seen the squaw. She tells me she
was ordered to make away--to bury. The very box, which was to have
been used, was produced in court--produced as it had been dug out from
under the kitchen floor, and you may fancy how my heart died within me
at the sight; but when the box was opened, it was found to be empty,
and the squaw has told me that when she came to look at our angel, she
found it was impossible to obey the inhuman command. She buried the
empty box and carried the child away. She speaks of a road with trees,
and a valley with a broad river, and says that she laid the baby upon
the stoop of a house before going down the hill. She says she
recollects the house perfectly. A police sergeant, who seems to have
charge of the case, says he believes it must be near St. Euphrase, and
the sheriff has allowed me to take him and his prisoner there
to-morrow. I have ordered a carriage, and we will endeavour to take
her over the old ground."
"Something will come of it, George, I feel sure. Take me with you,
dearest; it will be maddening to live through the interminable hours
between now and your return. Let me come with you."
"There will not be room, dear. A squaw out of jail would not be
pleasant company in a carriage. They are not over tidy, remember. For
myself, I shall sit with the driver."
"Then I shall take the early train to St. Euphrase, and go to
Judith's. Be sure you come to me as early as ever you can, I shall be
faint with impatience."