THE DEAD WITNESS.
When Ellen felt the comforting protection of Dan's arms, and heard the
words to which he gave utterance in the nobility of his soul, the
despair by which she had been overwhelmed vanished like snow before
the sun, and left her an unhappy, but not a hopeless woman.
"This, then, was your secret," said Dan to her, as she lay in his
arms; "your marriage with Jo. It is the proof of his faithfulness, my
dear. For me, I needed none. No heart but mine can judge my friend; no
tongue shall malign him unanswered while I am by."
"Good, noble brother," she sobbed, "to comfort me thus in the midst of
your own great grief! I do not doubt him; I love him--love him--love
him! My faithful darling!"
The reproachful looks she cast at Solomon Fewster, no less than the
passionate tenderness of her words, stung him to the soul. In truth he
had received a severe blow. When the Lascar's letter was delivered to
him, and he read the amazing news that Minnie was on board the "Merry
Andrew," he exulted in the triumph that awaited him. "Ellen is mine,"
he thought. "That fool of a whelp has played straight into my hand!"
As such mean souls as Fewster's delight in detecting the meanness of
others, he was rejoiced at the thought that Joshua had been playing
false with Minnie, although, before reading the Lascar's scrawl, he
had no suspicion of it. He walked to Dan's house exultant, and deemed
himself fortunate in being in time to witness the tragic scene in
Basil Kindred's chamber. But when he heard Ellen's declaration that
Joshua was her husband, a groan of despair escaped him, and he became
almost desperate in the sudden and unexpected dashing down of all his
hopes. This feeling lasted but a very little while. His scheming mind
was busy at work calculating the chances for and against him, and rays
of light soon illumined the darkness. "If the Lascar keeps his word,
and Joshua does not return," he thought, "all may yet be well." Even
when Ellen flung at him the words, "I love him--love him--love him!"
he said to himself, "Believing that he will come back to vindicate
himself. We shall see."
Notwithstanding this conflict of thought, his professional instinct
led him to the side of the inanimate form of Basil Kindred. He placed
his ear and hand to the dead man's heart; and then, with heartless
solemnity he lifted the gaunt form in his arms, and laid it on the
bed. Susan's eyes asked him, "Dead?"
"Dead," he answered aloud. "It looks like a sudden stroke."
Dan covered his face; and Ellen shudderingly turned her eyes from
Solomon Fewster.
"It is not my fault," he said, as if Ellen's looks conveyed an
accusation. "Neither this, nor the letter I have received. It would
not have been the act of a friend to keep such a thing to himself:
What would you have thought of me, if you had discovered that I had
received such a letter, and had concealed it?"
"No one accuses you, sir," said Dan sadly. "Indeed how could you be to
blame? These things have come of themselves, and from no fault of
ours. But," and his eyes kindled, and he laid his hand soothingly on
Ellen's head, "we will have no word spoken against Jo. He is dearer to
us absent than present; he is dearer to us now, when Susan's voice
accuses him, and when you come to add your testimony to hers than he
has ever been before."
"I have not come to add my testimony to hers," said Solomon Fewster,
with a well-assumed warmth of manner. "It is no testimony of mine; it
is no accusation of mine. This letter surprised and grieved me almost
as much as it has you."
"May I see the letter, sir?"
"Certainly." He had almost said "with pleasure," but checked himself
in time.
Dan took the letter, which was written an an uneven and dirty piece of
paper, and read aloud:--
"Master,--Joshua Marvel has run away with a young woman that lives in
Daniel Taylor's house--him as trains the birds. They are both of 'em
on board the 'Merry Andrew.' I send this by the pilot, and told him
that you would pay him for putting it into your hands. My faithful
service to you. When I come back, I hope to get what you promised me.
"Aboard the 'Merry Andrew.'"
"There is no name to it," said Dan. "Who sent it?"
"A sailor on the ship," replied Solomon Fewster; "a man who has done
odd jobs for me, and whom I have assisted."
"But how does he know me?"
"Through the birds, and through my telling him of you, I suppose. He
has been in the street often, and knows who live in the house. He is a
faithful honest fellow, and I dare say thought it his duty to tell me
about Miss Kindred, so that I might acquaint her friends."
"'When I come back, I hope to get what you promised me,'" said Dan,
reading from the letter.
"I promised him money if he brought home some foreign birds," answered
Solomon Fewster readily, "such as parrots and cockatoos, and other
likely birds, for you to train for me."
Meanwhile Susan had covered the dead man's face, and sat moaning on
the floor. To her Dan addressed himself, calling her by name; but it
was not until he had repeated it two or three times that her attention
was aroused. She took her hands from before her eyes, and looked at
him vacantly. There was no sign of intelligence in her face as she
spoke; it seemed as if the light of reason had fled, and as if the
words she uttered belonged to a lesson she had learned and was forced
to repeat.
"I promised him faithfully and sacredly--yes; they are the very words;
he made me say them after him, 'Faithfully and sacredly,'--that I
would never tell unless his tongue was sealed, and the time came when
it was necessary to speak. Is the time come?"
"It is, Susan," said Dan, a new fear at his heart; "it is come."
"Is the time come?" she repeated, turning to the motionless form on
the bed, and waiting for the answer in the awful silence that
followed. "I was the only one he trusted. Not a soul but me was to
come into the room; and they didn't--no I kept my promise faithfully
and sacredly. He said to me, 'If I die, and Joshua Marvel has betrayed
my daughter, give this book to Dan, and tell him it contains the words
of a dying man.'" She rose to her feet, and taking a book which was
lying on the desk, gave it to Dan. "Now you can tell him, when he asks
you, that I obeyed him to the last, faithfully and sacredly."
A listening expression flashed into her face, and she inclined her
body to the door. With feverish haste she ran down stairs and into the
street; but returned presently, muttering, "She is not come; there's
no sign of her;" and resumed her station by the side of the bed.
It is night, and Dan is sitting alone in his bedroom. An unopened book
is before him: it is the book that Susan gave him by Basil Kindred's
desire. He has not read a line in it. Between him and Ellen it has
been tacitly agreed that whatever is written in it shall be read, by
them, and by them alone, at night. Another book is also before him: it
is a Bible, and it is open.
Dan is waiting for Ellen. The grief that reigns in the house, and in
that of Mrs. Marvel, cannot be written here. It is too deep, too
overwhelming for expression. Mrs. Marvel is in the house now. All that
she knows is that Basil Kindred is dead, and that Minnie is gone: she
has no knowledge of the terrible suspicion that hangs like a deadly
cloud over the good name of her beloved son. But the news of the death
and the flight: they could not be concealed, although no one is aware
how they became known: has gone forth into the neighborhood; and
little knots of the neighbors have hung about the house all the
evening and night, discussing the strange events. Even now,
notwithstanding that it is near midnight, a dozen street-doors are
open, each with its assemblage of gossippers, chiefly feminine,
prattling, not at all sorrowfully, about the wonderful news. There is
much head-shaking and raising of hands; but whatever may be the
meaning of this play of heads and hands, it certainly does not express
grief. The neighborhood is rather bare of historical events; and those
that have just occurred are godsends. Given to the neighbors round
about the merit of all the kindliness of heart they deserve, they
really enjoy their gossip, and show their enjoyment of it. A stranger
walking through the street might have reasonably supposed that the
dwellers therein had been making general holiday.
Dan's face is very pale as he sits, with no sign of impatience upon
him, expectant of Ellen's coming. The door opens and Mrs. Marvel
enters. She draws down the blind--the moonlight has been streaming in
upon his face, giving it a more painful pallor than that which rests
on it when the moon is shut out--and sits down by his side in silence
for a while. She draws his head upon her breast, and kisses him; his
arm steals round her neck, and he sheds tears, and kisses her in
return; but few words pass between them.
"Susan?" he asks.
"She is in bed, my dear," she answers.
"Has she said any thing?" he asks anxiously.
"She has not spoken, my dear."
He gives a soft sigh of relief. She knows that he is waiting for
Ellen, and she will not linger. She kisses him again in her motherly
way, and bids him goodnight; and soon after Ellen enters the room.
A great change has taken place in Ellen. All the girlishness has gone
out of her face, and in its stead is an expression of quiet
trustfulness in which there is much sadness, but no doubt. It is as
though she is prepared to defend and believe in her husband's honor,
though all the world condemn him. She closes the door gently, and
draws a chair next to Dan. Then those two faithful souls, to each of
whom the bitterest of trials has come, look into each other's eyes,
and are comforted by what they see. They exchange no words of
sympathy; none are needed from one to the other. They make no effort
to conceal their sorrow; it must be borne, and they must suffer. But
for Joshua's sake, and for Minnie's, they must be brave and hopeful.
Does Ellen acknowledge this, and in her heart of hearts is she
disposed to be generous to the unhappy girl who has brought this great
misery upon them? Yes--she feels nothing but pity for Minnie. The
influences which actuate mental feeling are so delicate and various,
that it is difficult even to the most profound of pathognomists to
dissect the commonest of motives, and rightly account for it. We all
pride ourselves, in a greater or less degree, upon our knowledge of
character, and believe that we know full well what prompted So-and-so
to do such-and-such a thing. But in truth, in nothing do we show more
ignorance than in arrogating to ourselves the power of divining
character and motive. Strive as we may be just and calm and
reasonable--strive as we may to banish for the time the small feelings
of uncharitableness which we are conscious of harboring, and which
necessarily warp our judgment--we must from very necessity argue in a
certain measure from our own point of view. Otherwise we should be
infallible, and juries would never return a wrong verdict, and judges
would never commit an error of judgment. Otherwise rogues would have
their due; and some of them would not, as they do now, live in fine
houses, and eat and drink of the best. It is impossible to put
yourself in another man's place.
Most women in Ellen's situation would have thought of Minnie with
inexorable animosity. Not so Ellen. The knowledge that Dan loves
Minnie would alone have been sufficient to disarm harsh or bitter
feeling. But that influence is not necessary. She has the firmest
faith in Joshua's honesty and virtue, and firmly believes that when he
returns home, please God, all will be explained. In the mean time, her
duty is clear. Joshua's good name is at stake. In face of all adverse
circumstance and sentiment, she must uphold it, and defend it if
necessary.
Thus it is that as she and Dan sit looking sadly at each other, Dan is
comforted by what he sees, and she is no less so. Their mutual faith
in the purity of the absent dear ones is inexpressibly consoling to
them. Unconsciously each gives to the other strength to bear the
bitterness of the shock. But when their eyes turn to the book which
they are to read to-night, they hesitate and tremble, What may not
those dumb pages reveal! The place, the time, and all its surrounding
circumstances are solemn and mournful. The presence of Death; the
silence that strikes greater terror than brazen tongue of accusation;
the gloom of the mean apartment, in the corners of which lurk fears
made awful by the black shadow which inwraps them--these things and
their influence impress with a deeper sadness those two young hearts.
What wonder that they hesitate and tremble as they look upon the book
in which the words of their dead friend are recorded? Joshua is on the
sea, and each moment adds to the distance that separates him from his
friends; Minnie is gone also; Basil, alas, is dead; and all that
remains to light the mystery is the dumb witness that lies before
them. But hesitation soon yields to indomitable faith.
"Ellen," says Dan, laying his hand upon the book, "perhaps the worst
of this day's trials is here. Are you prepared for it?"
"Yes, Dan," answers Ellen with a steady light in her eyes.
"Susan's words were very dreadful," continues Dan; "but she does not
know Jo as we know him. Come, we will read what is here written. And
if it accuses your dear husband and my dear friend, our hearts will
defend him. His memory will be dearer to us because he is unjustly
accused; and we will wait hopefully and patiently for his return,
please God, and never, never waver."
And drawing Ellen closer to him, Dan opened the book, and in a subdued
voice read what follows.