cloud the young wife’s brow when she thought of her father’s curse, it
was kissed away by her adoring husband. They had enough to provide them
the necessaries, and they cared little for the superfluities of life.
The birth of a charming boy only served to knit their hearts closer to
each other.
The first spring after their marriage Stanhope embarked in business, for
he found his salary insufficient for the wants of a family. And for
three years he seemed to prosper. But then came reverses. The times were
critical; even heavy capitalists could scarcely weather the storm; and,
in a word, Stanhope was compelled to fail, after having sunk all he had
embarked by heavy losses. Had he been a large trader, and becoming
bankrupt, dragged scores into ruin with him, he would have been
universally pitied, and perhaps his creditors would have yielded up to
him from the wreck of millions a sufficiency for the rest of his life;
but as he was only a poor man his case met no commiseration. He
determined, however, to pay every debt. The endeavor exhausted almost
literally his last dollar. He had barely a sufficiency left to transport
his family to the village of ——, having been offered a situation as a
clerk in a store in that obscure hamlet. Before leaving the city,
however, his sweet wife, believing that under such circumstances her
father must relent, had, without informing her husband of her intention,
sought admittance at her parent’s mansion, determining to fling herself
at his feet, and solicit his forgiveness and aid. But she was
repulsed—my pen shakes as I record it—she was repulsed like a common
beggar from her own father’s door.
Let us hurry on. Have we not often seen how misfortune when it once
begins to lower on a man, will sometimes continue its pitiless shower
without intermission, until it has laid its victim in his grave? Well!
every day beheld Stanhope, in despite of his utmost exertions, sinking
lower and lower into distress. His scanty salary barely afforded his
family the coarsest food, and even this was lost within a year, and
directly after the birth of a daughter, by an illness which
incapacitated him from labor, for so long a period that his employer was
forced to discharge him, and procure a substitute. At length he
recovered; but how fearfully was he in debt! A year’s labor at his late
scanty pittance would scarcely discharge his liabilities. Ellen had
foreseen this, and ventured to write to her father, but the letter was
returned unopened. To add to Stanhope’s distress, after various efforts
to procure steady employment, which only resulted in constant
disappointment, his furniture was sold under a distress, and his now
alarmed creditors falling like vultures on what remained, left him with
nothing but the bedding on which they slept, and the clothes which they
wore, with the few other articles protected by the law from an
execution. These, however, he was soon, forced to dispose of to gain
sustenance for his family. In this strait they had found shelter in the
crumbling garret, where they now were,—and though a month had elapsed,
and every thing they had to part with was sold, Stanhope was still
without employment. His wife, after bearing up till nature could endure
no longer, had for several days been lying on a bed of sickness; and
that night they had—oh! God can it be true?—gone dinnerless and
supperless to bed.
Until within a few days Stanhope had breasted the storm with unshrinking
firmness, although, at times, when he looked upon his angelic wife and
little ones, suffering the full horrors of poverty, his resolution had
almost given way. But even he could not withstand the accumulated
miseries which now beat so bitterly upon his unsheltered head. Let it
not be thought that we exaggerate his misfortunes. God forbid! Even in
our boasted city, and at this day, too, when _charity has become
fashionable_, more than a dozen die annually from sheer starvation.
Stanhope saw nothing but this before them. He could not seek employment
in other places, for how would his family subsist in his absence?—nor
could he take them with him, for alas! he had not the money to transport
them. Broken in spirits and maddened with despair, the thoughts which
rushed through his mind as he gazed around the room can be easier
imagined than described. In that moment his whole life passed before him
as in a panorama. He thought of his happy boyhood; of the bright hopes
of his youth; of his first sanguine love for Ellen; of the bitter
disappointment which followed; of the hopes, and fears of their
separation, and the joy of their first meeting afterward; of the tumult
of feelings, all, however extatic, with which he welcomed the houseless
wanderer to his own humble home; of the three bright and happy years
which, like a dream of heaven, followed their union; and finally of the
series of misfortunes, heaped one upon another, and growing daily more
and more intense, which had closed the whole, and brought him down to
abject poverty. Had he been alone in the world he could have borne it
all without a murmur. But to see his darling uncomplaining Ellen, his
little Henry, his innocent babe, starving before his eyes! Oh! it was
too much. Frenzied with agony he started from his seat, placed his hand
to his brow, and gazing a moment wildly around the room, rushed from the
house.
Hour after hour passed, and still he returned not. His wife grew
alarmed. She had noticed his wild air as he left the room; she had seen
that his soul was tortured almost to madness; and she now trembled lest
he might in his despair have made away with himself. But no!—it could
not be. Her Stanhope would never do that. Yet it was almost dawn and he
was still absent. She rose painfully from her bed, and staggered to the
door to look out. A light snow covered the ground to the depth of an
inch; and the whole landscape was as silent as death, except when the
wind moaned out a moment in the neighboring forest. For some moments she
gazed vainly through the twilight, but could perceive no one. At length
her straining eyes detected the outlines of a form, and—could it
be?—yes! it was her husband. She rushed into his arms, almost fainting
with joy, as soon as he reached the threshold, murmuring,—
“Thank God, dear James! you are returned—oh! how glad, how glad I am,”
and then burst into tears.
“Thank God! too, Ellen for I have brought you money—I begged it—we
shall not starve, no matter at what cost it was gained,” said her
husband wildly, as he flung a small purse upon the floor. Ellen scarcely
noticed the manner or the tone of the speaker in her joy at his return.
The night passed away rapidly: indeed the day was breaking when Stanhope
returned. She still wept on her husband’s bosom. At length they returned
up stairs, when the contents of the purse were examined. They were not
very valuable; yet they sufficed to ensure that family from starvation,
mind, only _from starvation_, for at least a fortnight. Such a timely
relief seemed indeed providential, and once more they suffered
themselves to hope.
“Did I not tell you God would not utterly forsake us?” said the sweet
wife. “Oh! let us thank him, dear James,” and falling upon her knees,
while her agitated husband followed her example, that angelic being
poured out her gratitude before her maker. Stanhope was deeply affected,
and he sobbed aloud. When, at length they arose, they saw that their
sweet boy, who had awoke in the interval, had also fallen on his little
knees beside them. They clasped him to their arms, and wept afresh. But
they were tears of joy—the first they had shed for weeks. Alas! they
were destined to be but too short lived.
That morning the whole village was thrown into consternation, by the
intelligence that the mail had been robbed, and a passenger murdered,
just before daybreak, and within a mile of the hamlet. After the first
burst of horror had passed, measures were taken to ferret out the
perpetrators of this awful deed. The nearest magistrate entered promptly
upon this duty; witnesses of all kinds were examined; and after a
laborious, though secret investigation of several hours, a warrant was
issued for the apprehension of James Stanhope charged with the double
crime of mail-robbery and murder. Do not start reader! When you shall
have heard the evidence which led to this fearful accusation you will
yourself have painful doubts. And yet _could_ the generous, the noble,
the high-minded Stanhope be a _murderer_? Listen.
It appears that the mail-coach, on that calamitous night, had but three
passengers besides the driver. The snow was falling fast, but evidently
subsiding, when, about a mile from the village, and in sight of the
turnpike-gate light at its hither extremity, three men, emerging from a
hedge by the road side, had stopped the horses, cut the traces, knocked
down the driver, and after rifling the mail-bags, had proceeded to rob
the passengers, who, all this while, guarded by one of the robbers with
a pistol in either hand, had been forced to look upon the perpetration
of this enormous felony in silence. At this point, however, when each
robber was occupied with his man, one of the passengers, thinking he
could overpower his antagonist, attempted to escape. In the scuffle he
was thrown down; oaths ensued; and the robber exclaiming suddenly, “Is
that you, then by G— take this!” was seen at the word to shoot him
through the brain. All this had passed so rapidly that the other robbers
had not even time to interfere; but no sooner was the deed done, than
apparently alarmed lest the report of the pistol should bring up succor,
they sprang into the hedge and disappeared. The two passengers were so
paralysed by the murder of their comrade, that they stood for some
minutes, without making an effort to follow the robbers—and even when
they recovered their presence of mind, they were afraid to make any
pursuit until they had first obtained aid from the village. One of them
therefore mounted a leader, and aroused the inmates at the turnpike
gate, and in the neighboring houses. Before a sufficient force could be
collected, day had broken; but as the snow had ceased falling
immediately after the flight of the robbers, it was not difficult to
trace their retreat. This was done for nearly half a mile to a bye-road,
back of the village, where the footsteps divided—two of the robbers
appearing to have turned off to a stream down which they continued their
way, while the other one struck across to the village. This latter trail
was followed in mute horror; and though at intervals it was almost
obliterated by the drifts, yet its course could still be distinctly
traced, up to the very door of the building in whose garret James
Stanhope lodged.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the magistrate, “if any one left that house last
night, or if any one entered it near daybreak, he is the man.”
This was soon settled. The landlord of poor Stanhope, who occupied the
lower stories, deposed, that being kept awake nearly all night, by a
violent tooth-ache, he had heard some one descend the stairs after
midnight, and, from the heavy step, supposed it to be Mr. Stanhope. Just
before daylight he heard another person come down stairs, when his
curiosity being excited, he arose and peeped through the bowed shutters.
He saw Mrs. Stanhope standing at the front door, as if looking for some
one. In a few minutes her husband returned. He thought even then that
there was something wild in his tenant’s appearance; and his attention
was particularly called to it by seeing Stanhope place, or rather fling,
a small purse into his wife’s hands, exclaiming, “Here is money, we
shall not starve, no matter how it was got,” or words to that effect.
They then went up stairs, and he retired, wondering, to bed. As soon as
he heard of the catastrophe of the night, he determined on acquainting
the magistrate with his suspicions.
“It does seem, gentlemen,” said the justice, taking his spectacles from
his eyes, and looking around at the astonished listeners, when the
witness had concluded his testimony “as if the finger of God had pointed
us directly to the perpetrator of this enormous felony and murder. James
Stanhope was always a beggar, and no honest man need be so in this
highly-favored country.”—The magistrate forgot that but a week before
he had refused to engage his victim as a common day-laborer, because he
said Stanhope’s late sickness had left him too weak to work with any
profit to his employer.—“Let three or four of you get ready to
accompany me, for the murderer may prove desperate. I’ll take my
father’s pistols he wore at Princeton.”
Meanwhile, the coroner, having been sent for by express, had arrived and
impanelled a jury, in the language of the law, “_super visum corporis_.”
The murdered man was identified as a passenger, and his name, on
searching his pockets, discovered to be _Mr. Howard_. A verdict, that
the deceased came to his death by the hands of a person or persons
unknown, was given in, and the jury adjourned. Could it be that the
deceased was Ellen’s parent? Alas! subsequent investigations proved it
to be too true, and the village was in a few days thunder-struck with
the intelligence that Stanhope had murdered his own father-in-law. But
we anticipate.
Meanwhile, the victim of these investigations, exhausted by his last
night’s watching, was lying in his crazy garret, in a calm deep sleep.
His wife sat beside him, leaning her head on her hands, and gazing into
her husband’s face, as his features smiled in slumber; while now and
then, as her little boy would steal up to her for a kiss or a caress,
she would drop a tear of mingled happiness and love upon his face.
Sweet, noble woman! As she looked upon that calm, chiselled face, and
thought of all her husband had suffered for her sake, how her heart
swelled with emotions of tenderness toward him. His pale, high brow was
partly shaded by the dark locks which curled around it. On every line of
its broad surface could be seen the traces of care. Ellen stooped and
kissed it. At that moment the door was suddenly opened, and a crowd of
men broke rudely into the apartment. The noise awakened the sleeper, and
he started half up and gazed around him, while the frightened little
fellow ran and clung to his mother’s side, peeping tremblingly at the
strangers. Ellen sprang to her feet equally alarmed, gazing with an ashy
cheek on the intruders.
“There he is—seize him, seize him,” said the magistrate.
Three of the officers rushed forward, but Ellen instinctively interposed
between them and her husband. One of the men attempted to thrust her
aside. Quick as lightning the indignant husband felled the wretch to the
floor.
“He resists the law,” shouted the magistrate, “down with him—shoot him
if he don’t instantly surrender.”
“The law!—what authority have you produced for this insulting entrance
on my privacy?” said Stanhope, placing himself before his wife and
child, and frowning sternly on the intruders.
“_I_ have authority,” said the magistrate, advancing, “you are my
prisoner!”
“Your prisoner!—for what?” said the astonished husband.
“For the robbery of the mail, and the murder of a passenger.”
One long piercing shriek rang through that apartment as the wife of his
bosom fell fainting to the floor. The next moment, despite his
entreaties, despite his struggles when he found his prayers
unsuccessful, despite even the petitions of his little son which might
have moved a heart of stone, he was torn from his senseless wife, and
borne in triumph to the village jail. When, through the humane
attentions of a poor neighbor, Ellen revived, it was only to learn that
her husband had been rent from her to await—perhaps the scaffold.
A few days brought the intelligence that Mr. Howard had died intestate,
and that consequently his daughter was now his sole heir. His untimely
fate had frustrated his design of disinheriting his only child. But oh!
at what a cost had Ellen purchased his fortune. Could wealth bring any
joy to that almost heart-broken wife? Willingly would she have
surrendered it to have been as they were the day before, poor but
unsuspected. Not that for a moment she doubted her husband’s
innocence—no! she felt that the bosom on which she had so often leaned
could never have been that of a murderer—but she saw that the evidence,
so circumstantially adduced against him, was almost unanswerable. Alas!
the public sentiment sufficiently forewarned her of her husband’s fate.
No one even whispered the possibility of his innocence. One universal
cry of indignation attested the horror with which the crime, and he as
its reputed author, were regarded.
But how did Stanhope deport himself in these trying circumstances? From
the first he had asserted his innocence, and accounted for the tracks
leading to his house, by stating that he had met three men, whom he
supplicated, in his agony, for aid,—and that one of them had hurriedly
thrown him the purse which he brought home. Every one shook their heads
at this story. Yet the general incredulity did not produce any show of
weakness in Stanhope. His character seemed to rise in majesty as his
fortunes grew darker, and he prepared himself to breast the storm with
fortitude at least, if not with resignation. Yet the sight of his sweet
wife, almost unnerved him at times; and his greatest consolation was in
reflecting that, if he should perish ignominiously, she would not be
left a penniless outcast. And oh! how bitterly, and with what scalding
tears did that wife weep upon his bosom.
Meantime, however, another examination of Stanhope’s case was to take
place, preparatory to fully committing him for trial at the next oyer
and terminer. It was at this stage of the transaction that I was called
in as counsel for the accused. We had known each other in society, in
our younger days, and nothing ever more startled me than the news of his
arrest. I could not believe him guilty of such an appalling crime. And
yet I had fearful doubts. Could it be, that, stung to madness by
approaching starvation, and recognising the author of his miseries in
Mr. Howard, he had yielded to a momentary hallucination, and become a
murderer?
Never shall I forget my first interview with him in my new capacity of
his counsel. It was in a damp, narrow cell, little better than a
dungeon. I had not seen Stanhope for years. When we last met it had been
in a gay ball-room, where my poor client was “the admired of all
observers.” Now how changed. His face no longer wore the hue of health;
care had ploughed his brow across with many a furrow; and his wan cheek
told of the long hours of agony through which he had passed. Yet his
mien was collected, even lofty. I felt an innate conviction of his
innocence, and hastened to assure him that I came not only as a
professional adviser, but as a friend. He grasped my hand eagerly, but
could not for a moment speak. At length he said with a faint smile in
reply,
“We meet under far different circumstances than when we met last.”
“Yes!—but we shall soon, I hope, acquit you,” said I, expressing what I
scarcely believed. “There is some extraordinary mistake in this matter.”
“Oh! can you indeed save us?” said his wife, eagerly advancing—I had
only noticed that a female was in the back-ground of the cell, and never
having seen Stanhope’s bride, I did not know her until she spoke—“God
in heaven bless you, if you can!” and after a vain effort at composure,
the sweet being burst into tears, and fell upon her husband’s bosom.
Stanhope did not speak; he bent over her and folded her to his heart;
and I thought I saw a tear-drop fall sparkling upon her dark raven hair.
My own eyes were scarcely dry.
But why protract these painful scenes? Suffice it to say that I retired
from that solitary cell, more than ever convinced of my client’s
innocence, and full of admiration at the generous devotion of that
sweet, angelic wife.
The examination of Stanhope took place on the next morning—and it was
only then that I became fully aware of the terrible evidence against
him. Indeed the chain of testimony was so thoroughly welded together in
every link, that, for a moment, I not only despaired, but almost
recanted my belief in the prisoner’s innocence. I am sure that I was the
only one present who did not believe him guilty.
The evidence against him was much the same as that given on the morning
after the murder. Many additional facts, however, were elicited, which
materially strengthened the case for the prosecution. A purse which was
found on Stanhope’s person at the time of his arrest was identified, by
a passenger, as having been seen in Mr. Howard’s hands on the evening of
the murder, when he paid for a bottle of wine which they drank together.
Mr. Howard’s house-keeper also knew the purse. Neither of the passengers
could recognise the murderer’s countenance; but both concurred in making
oath that the figure of the murderer was similar to that of Stanhope.
Here was a mass of testimony which was sufficient, if unanswered, to
condemn any man; and when the personal interest which Stanhope had in
Mr. Howard’s death was taken into consideration, was not his situation
really alarming? And what had he to oppose to this? Nothing, positively
nothing, except his oft repeated explanation, and his continued
asseverations of innocence.
Meanwhile I spared no effort to elucidate the mystery which seemed to
hang over this catastrophe. Believing, as I did, in Stanhope’s
innocence, I longed for some clue which might lead to the detection of
the real murderer. But in vain. As a last resort I wrote a letter to the
most eminent counsel at the —— bar, earnestly urging him to join me in
the case. He replied favorably.
“Speak to me freely, D——,” said Stanhope to me, the day before his
trial, “for my wife is absent now, and I can hear the worst. Am I
without hope? God knows it is hard enough to part with all you love; it
is hard for an innocent man to die a felon’s death; it is hard to leave
behind you a stain on your children’s name,—but yet, if it is to be,
let me not be deceived. As you would, in my situation, wish to be done
by, so do by me. Tell me frankly—tell me all.”
I hesitated; I evaded his question.
“It is enough, D——,” said he, with a quivering lip, “God help my wife
and little ones,” and, overcome by his emotion, he buried his face in
his hands. It was the first time I had seen him give way to his
feelings. But it was soon past. He looked up, “This is weakness,—it is
over now. My enemies shall not, at least, triumph in beholding my
agony.”
This stoicism was even more affecting than his agitation. My eyes
involuntarily filled with tears, and I pressed his hand in silence.
“God bless you,” said he, with renewed emotion, “except my poor family
you are my only friend.”
The morning of the trial dawned without a cloud. Never had such an
excitement pervaded the village. The atrocity of the deed; the standing
of the parties; the high talent arrayed on the part of the prosecution;
and a rumor which had got afloat that the prisoner intended to confess
his guilt, had awakened such an intense interest, that, long before the
hour of trial, the court-room was crowded to overflowing. The whole town
seemed alive. From every lane and street, from every house and hovel,
they poured along, rich and poor, old and young, crowding and jostling
each other, until the court-room was densely packed with the spectators,
and farther admittance was impossible. The windows were blocked up with
the multitude; the bar, and even the bench were full of people; and
hundreds of eager faces, peered one above another in the back-ground,
until they terminated in the gallery above. The hall without was noisy
with the populace, and crowds, unable to obtain an entrance, waited
breathlessly in the yard to learn, by the murmurs from within, the
fluctuations of the trial.