MR. BLESSING'S TESTIMONY.
On entering the court-room Mr. Blessing had gone to Joseph, given his
hand a long, significant grasp, and looked in his face with an
expression of triumph, almost of exultation. The action was not lost
upon the spectators or the jury, and even Joseph felt that it was
intended to express the strongest faith in his innocence.
When the name was called there was a movement in the crowd, and a
temporary crush in some quarters, as the people thrust forward their
heads to see and listen. Mr. Blessing, bland, dignified, serene, feeling
that he was the central point of interest, waited until quiet had been
restored, slightly turning his head to either side, as if to summon
special attention to what he should say.
After being sworn, and stating his name, he thus described his
occupation:—
"I hold a position under government; nominally, it is a Deputy
Inspectorship in the Custom-House, yet it possesses a confidential—I
might say, if modesty did not prevent, an advisory—character."
"In other words, a Ward Politician!" said Mr. Spenham.
"I must ask the prosecuting attorney," Mr. Blessing blandly suggested,
"not to define my place according to his own political experiences."
There was a general smile at these words; and a very audible chuckle
from spectators belonging to the opposite party.
"You are the father of the late Mrs. Julia Asten?"
"I am—her unhappy father, whom nothing but the imperious commands of
justice, and the knowledge of her husband's innocence of the crime with
which he stands charged, could have compelled to appear here, and reveal
the painful secrets of a family, which—"
Here Mr. Spenham interrupted him.
"I merely wish to observe," Mr. Blessing continued, with a stately wave
of his hand towards the judge and jury, "that the De Belsains and their
descendants may have been frequently unfortunate, but were never
dishonorable. I act in their spirit when I hold duty to the innocent
living higher than consideration for the unfortunate dead."
Here he drew forth a handkerchief, and held it for a moment to his eyes.
"Did you know of any domestic discords between your daughter and her
husband?"
"I foresaw that such might be, and took occasion to warn my daughter, on
her wedding-day, not to be too sure of her influence. There was too much
disparity of age, character, and experience. It could not be called
crabbed age and rosy youth, but there was difference enough to justify
Shakespeare's doubts. I am aware that the court requires ocular—or
auricular—evidence. The only such I have to offer is my son-in-law's own
account of the discord which preceded my daughter's death."
"Did this discord sufficiently explain to you the cause and manner of
her death?"
"My daughter's nature—I do not mean to digress, but am accustomed to
state my views clearly—my daughter's nature was impulsive. She inherited
my own intellect, but modified by the peculiar character of the feminine
nervous system. Hence she might succumb to a depression which _I_ should
resist. She appeared to be sure of her control over my son-in-law's
nature, and of success in an enterprise, in which—I regret to say—my
son-in-law lost confidence. I assumed, at the time, that her usually
capable mind was unbalanced by the double disappointment, and that she
had rushed, unaneled, to her last account. This, I say, was the
conclusion forced upon me; yet I cannot admit that it was satisfactory.
It seemed to disparage my daughter's intellectual power: it was not the
act which I should have anticipated in any possible emergency."
"Had you no suspicion that her husband might have been instrumental?"
Mr. Spenham asked.
"He? he is simply incapable of that, or _any_ crime!"
"We don't want assertions," said Mr. Spenham, sternly.
"I beg pardon of the court," remarked Mr. Blessing; "it was a
spontaneous expression. The touch of nature cannot always be avoided."
"Go on, sir!"
"I need not describe the shock and sorrow following my daughter's
death," Mr. Blessing continued, again applying his handkerchief. "In
order to dissipate it, I obtained a leave of absence from my post,—the
exigencies of the government fortunately admitting of it,—and made a
journey to the Oil Regions, in the interest of myself and my son-in-law.
While there I received a letter from Mr. Philip Held, the contents of
which—"
"Will you produce the letter?" Mr. Spenham exclaimed.
"It can be produced, if necessary. I will state nothing further, since
I perceive that this would not be admissible evidence. It is enough to
say that I returned to the city without delay, in order to meet Mr.
Philip Held. The requirements of justice were more potent with me than
the suggestions of personal interest. Mr. Held had already, as you
will have noticed from his testimony, identified the fragment of paper
as having emanated from the drug-store of Wallis and Erkers, corner of
Fifth and Persimmon Streets. I accompanied him to that drug-store,
heard the statements of the proprietors, in answer to Mr. Held's
questions,—statements which, I confess, surprised me immeasurably (but
I could not reject the natural deductions to be drawn from them), and
was compelled, although it overwhelmed me with a sense of unmerited
shame, to acknowledge that there was plausibility in Mr. Held's
conjectures. Since they pointed to my elder daughter, Clementina, now
Mrs. Spelter, and at this moment tossing upon the ocean-wave, I saw
that Mr. Held might possess a discernment superior to my own. But for
a lamentable cataclysm, he might have been my son-in-law, and I need
not say that I prefer that refinement of character which comes of good
blood to the possession of millions—"
Here Mr. Blessing was again interrupted, and ordered to confine himself
to the simple statement of the necessary facts.
"I acknowledge the justice of the rebuke," he said. "But the sentiment
of the _mens conscia recti_ will sometimes obtrude through the rigid
formula of Themis. In short, Mr. Philip Held's representations—"
"State those representations at once, and be done with them!" Mr.
Spenham cried.
"I am coming to them presently. The Honorable Court understands, I am
convinced, that a coherent narrative, although moderately prolix, is
preferable to a disjointed narrative, even if the latter were terse as
Tacitus. Mr. Held's representations, I repeat, satisfied me that an
interview with my daughter Clementina was imperative. There was no time
to be lost, for the passage of the nuptial pair had already been taken
in the _Ville de Paris_. I started at once, sending a telegram in
advance, and in the same evening arrived at their palatial residence in
Fifth Avenue. Clementina's nature, I must explain to the Honorable
Court, is very different from that of her sister,—the reappearance, I
suspect, of some lateral strain of blood. She is reticent,
undemonstrative,—in short, frequently inscrutable. I suspected that a
direct question might defeat my object; therefore, when I was alone with
her the next morning,—my son-in-law, Mr. Spelter, being called to a
meeting of Erie of which he is one of the directors,—I said to her: 'My
child, you are perfectly blooming! Your complexion was always admirable,
but now it seems to me incomparable!'"
"This is irrelevant!" cried Mr. Spenham.
"By no means! It is the very _corpus delicti_,—the foot of Hercules,—the
milk (powder would be more appropriate) in the cocoa-nut!" Clementina
smiled in her serene way, and made no reply. 'How do you keep it up
now?' I asked, tapping her cheek; 'you must be careful, here: all
persons are not so discreet as Wallis and Erkers.' She was astounded,
stupefied, I might say, but I saw that I had reached the core of truth.
'Did you suppose I was ignorant of it?' I said, still very friendly and
playfully. 'Then it was Julia who told you!' she exclaimed. 'And if she
did,' I answered, 'what was the harm? I have no doubt that Julia did the
same thing.' 'She was always foolish,' Clementina then said; 'she envied
me my complexion, and she watched me until she found out. I told her
that it would not do for any except blondes, like myself, and _her_
complexion was neither one thing nor the other. And I couldn't see that
it improved much, afterwards.'"
Mr. Pinkerton saw that the jurymen were puzzled, and requested Mr.
Blessing to explain the conversation to them.
"It is my painful duty to obey; yet a father's feelings may be pardoned
if he shrinks from presenting the facts at once in their
naked—unpleasantness. However, since the use of arsenic as a cosmetic is
so general in our city, especially among blondes, as Wallis and Erkers
assure me, my own family is not an isolated case. Julia commenced using
the drug, so Clementina informed me, after her engagement with Mr.
Asten, and only a short time before her marriage. To what extent she
used it, after that event, I have no means of knowing; but, I suspect,
less frequently, unless she feared that the disparity of age between her
and her husband was becoming more apparent. I cannot excuse her
duplicity in giving Miss Henderson's name instead of her own at Mr.
Linthicum's Drug store, since the result might have been so fearfully
fatal; yet I entreat you to believe that there may have been no inimical
_animus_ in the act. I attribute her death entirely to an over-dose of
the drug, voluntarily taken, but taken in a moment of strong
excitement."
The feeling of relief from suspense, not only among Joseph's friends,
but throughout the crowded court-room, was clearly manifested: all
present seemed to breathe a lighter and fresher atmosphere.
Mr. Blessing wiped his forehead and his fat cheeks, and looked benignly
around. "There are a hundred little additional details," he said, "which
will substantiate my evidence; but I have surely said sufficient for the
ends of justice. The heavens will not fall because I have been forced to
carve the emblems of criminal vanity upon the sepulchre of an
unfortunate child,—but the judgment of an earthly tribunal may well be
satisfied. However, I am ready," he added, turning towards Mr. Spenham;
"apply all the engines of technical procedure, and I shall not wince."
The manner of the prosecuting attorney was completely changed. He
answered respectfully and courteously, and his brief cross-examination
was calculated rather to confirm the evidence for the defence than to
invalidate it.
Mr. Pinkerton then rose and stated that he should call no other
witnesses. The fact had been established that Mrs. Asten had been in the
habit of taking arsenic to improve her complexion; also that she had
purchased much more than enough of the drug to cause death, at the store
of Mr. Ziba Linthicum, only a few days before her demise, and under
circumstances which indicated a desire to conceal the purchase. There
were two ways in which the manner of her death might be explained;
either she had ignorantly taken an over-dose, or, having mixed the usual
quantity before descending to the garden to overhear the conversation
between Mr. Asten and Lucy Henderson, had forgotten the fact in the
great excitement which followed, and thoughtlessly added as much more of
the poison. Her last words to her husband, which could not be introduced
as evidence, but might now be repeated, showed that her death was the
result of accident, and not of design. She was thus absolved of the
guilt of suicide, even as her husband of the charge of murder.
Mr. Spenham, somewhat to the surprise of those who were unacquainted
with his true character, also stated that he should call no further
witness for the prosecution. The testimonies of Mr. Augustus Fitzwilliam
Case and Mr. Benjamin Blessing—although the latter was unnecessarily
ostentatious and discursive—were sufficient to convince him that the
prosecution could not make out a case. He had no doubt whatever of Mr.
Joseph Asten's innocence. Lest the expressions which he had been
compelled to use, in the performance of his duty, might be
misunderstood, he wished to say that he had the highest respect for the
characters of Mr. Asten and also of Miss Lucy Henderson. He believed the
latter to be a refined and virtuous lady, an ornament to the community
in which she resided. His language towards her had been professional,—by
no means personal. It was in accordance with the usage of the most
eminent lights of the bar; the ends of justice required the most
searching examination, and the more a character was criminated the more
brightly it would shine forth to the world after the test had been
successfully endured. He was simply the agent of the law, and all
respect of persons was prohibited to him while in the exercise of his
functions.
The judge informed the jurymen that he did not find it necessary to give
them any instructions. If they were already agreed upon their verdict,
even the formality of retiring might be dispensed with.
There was a minute's whispering back and forth among the men, and the
foreman then rose and stated that they were agreed.
The words "Not Guilty!" spoken loudly and emphatically, were the signal
for a stormy burst of applause from the audience. In vain the
court-crier, aided by the constables, endeavored to preserve order.
Joseph's friends gathered around him with their congratulations; while
Mr. Blessing, feeling that some recognition of the popular sentiment was
required, rose and bowed repeatedly to the crowd. Philip led the way to
the open air, and the others followed, but few words were spoken until
they found themselves in the large parlor of the hotel.
Mr. Blessing had exchanged some mysterious whispers with the clerk, on
arriving; and presently two negro waiters entered the room, bearing
wine, ice, and other refreshments. When the glasses had been filled, Mr.
Blessing lifted his with an air which imposed silence on the company,
and thus spake: "'Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.'
There may be occasions when silence is golden, but to-day we are content
with the baser metal. A man in whom we all confide, whom we all love,
has been rescued from the labyrinth of circumstances; he comes to us as
a new Theseus, saved from the Minotaur of the Law! Although Mr. Held,
with the assistance of his fair sister, was the Ariadne who found the
clew, it has been my happy lot to assist in unrolling it; and now we all
stand together, like our classic models on the free soil of Crete, to
chant a pæan of deliverance. While I propose the health and happiness
and good-fortune of Joseph Asten, I beg him to believe that my words
come _ab imo pectore,_—from my inmost heart: if any veil of mistrust,
engendered by circumstances which I will not now recall, still hangs
between him and myself, I entreat him to rend that veil, even as David
rent his garments, and believe in my sincerity, if he cannot in my
discretion!"
Philip was the only one, besides Joseph, who understood the last
allusion. He caught hold of Mr. Blessing's hand and exclaimed: "Spoken
like a man!"
Joseph stepped instantly forward. "I have again been unjust," he said,
"and I thank you for making me feel it. You have done me an infinite
service, sacrificing your own feelings, bearing no malice against me for
my hasty and unpardonable words, and showing a confidence in my
character which—after what has passed between us—puts me to shame. I am
both penitent and grateful: henceforth I shall know you and esteem you!"
Mr. Blessing took the offered hand, held it a moment, and then
stammered, while the tears started from his eyes: "Enough! Bury the past
a thousand fathoms deep! I can still say: _foi de Belsain!_"
"One more toast!" cried Philip. "Happiness and worldly fortune to the
man whom misfortunes have bent but cannot break,—who has been often
deceived, but who never purposely deceived in turn,—whose sentiment of
honor has been to-day so nobly manifested,—Benjamin Blessing!"
While the happy company were pouring out but not exhausting their
feelings, Lucy Henderson stole forth upon the upper balcony of the
hotel. There was a secret trouble in her heart, which grew from minute
to minute. She leaned upon the railing, and looked down the dusty
street, passing in review the events of the two pregnant days, and
striving to guess in what manner they would affect her coming life. She
felt that she had done her simple duty: she had spoken no word which she
was not ready to repeat; yet in her words there seemed to be the seeds
of change.
After a while the hostler brought a light carriage from the stable, and
Elwood Withers stepped into the street below her. He was about to take
the reins, when he looked up, saw her, and remained standing. She
noticed the intensely wistful expression of his face.
"Are you going, Elwood,—and alone?" she asked.
"Yes," he said eagerly; and waited.
"Then I will go with you,—that is, if you will take me." She tried to
speak lightly and playfully.
In a few minutes they were out of town, passing between the tawny fields
and under the russet woods. A sweet west wind fanned them with nutty and
spicy odors, and made a crisp, cheerful music among the fallen leaves.
"What a delicious change!" said Lucy, "after that stifling, dreadful
room."
"Ay, Lucy—and think how Joseph will feel it! And how near, by the chance
of a hair, we came of missing the truth!"
"Elwood!" she exclaimed, "while I was giving my testimony, and I found
your eyes fixed on me, were you thinking of the counsel you gave me,
three weeks ago, when we met at the tunnel?"
"I was!"
"I knew it, and I obeyed. Do you now say that I did right?"
"Not for that reason," he answered. "It was your own heart that told you
what to do. I did not mean to bend or influence you in any way: I have
no right."
"You have the right of a friend," she whispered.
"Yes," said he, "I sometimes take more upon myself than I ought. But
it's hard, in my case, to hit a very fine line."
"O, you are now unjust to yourself, Elwood. You are both strong and
generous."
"I am not strong! I am this minute spoiling my good luck. It _was_ a
luck from Heaven to me, Lucy, when you offered to ride home with me, and
it _is_, now—if I could only swallow the words that are rising into my
mouth!"
She whispered again: "Why should you swallow them?"
"You are cruel! when you have forbidden me to speak, and I have promised
to obey!"
"After all you have heard?" she asked.
"All the more for what I have heard."
She took his hand, and cried, in a trembling voice: "_I_ have been
cruel, in remaining blind to your nature. I resisted what would have
been—what will be, if you do not turn away—my one happiness in this
life! Do not speak—let _me_ break the prohibition! Elwood, dear, true,
noble heart,—Elwood, I love you!"
"Lucy!"
And she lay upon his bosom.
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