NOVEMBER 25TH.
DEAR READER,
Just one year ago to-night the orange wreath and bridal veil were
twined among my curls, and with a loving heart I stood up before the
man of God and took upon myself the vows, which made me Richard's
forever. The orange flowers are faded now, and the bridal veil looks
soiled and worn; but the sunlight of happiness which shone upon, me
when first he called me his wife has grown brighter and brighter as
each day has unfolded to me some new virtue which I knew not that he
possessed when he became my husband.
No shadow, however slight, has ever fallen between us, for though he
has a fiery temper and an indomitable will, they are both under
perfect control, and so much confidence have I in his love for me,
that should I ever in any way come in collision with his temper or
his will, I have faith to believe I could bend the one and subdue the
other. Every comfort and luxury which affection can dictate or money
procure has been gathered around me, until my home seems to me a
second paradise.
The fervid heat of summer has passed, and the hazy light which
betokens the fall of the leaf has come. On the northern hills, they
say, the November snows have already fallen, but we are still basking
in the soft sunlight of a most glorious autumn; and as I write, the
south wind comes in through the open window, whispering to me of the
fading flowers, whose perfume it gathered as it floated along. Just
opposite me, in a willow chair, with her head hurled in a towering
turban of royal purple, sits Juno, a middle-aged woman, nodding to
the breeze, which occasionally brushes past her so fast that she
lazily opens her eyes, and with her long-heeled foot gives a jog to
the _rosewood crib_, wherein lies sleeping a little tiny thing which
was _left_ here five weeks ago to-day. Oh, how odd and funny it
seemed when Richard first laid on my arm a little bundle of cambric
and lace, and whispered in my ear, "Would you like to see our baby?"
She is a great pet, and should this book never reach so far as
Georgia, Mrs. Lansing, I am sure, will like me all the same, for her
words and manner have been very kind since the morning when I said to
Richard, "We will call our baby _Jessie_."
So Jessie was she baptized, Mrs. Lansing's tears falling like rain on
the face of the unconscious child, which she folded to her bosom as
tenderly as if it had indeed been her own lost Jessie come back to
her again. Upon Ada the arrival of the stranger produced a novel
effect, overwhelming her with such a load of modesty that she kept
out of Richard's way nearly two weeks, and never once came to see me
until I was sitting up in my merino morning gown, which she had
embroidered for me herself. Ada has a very nice sense of propriety!
But little more remains for me to say, and that I must say briefly.
I am determined to finish my story, and as my husband for the first
time since my illness has left me alone for an hour or two, I am
improving the opportunity, having first bribed Bertha to bring me my
writing materials, by promising her a dress which she has long
coveted.
The royal purple turban by the window has become somewhat displaced
by the strong west wind, and now wide-awake, begins to grumble at
"Miss Rosy's _impudence_ in 'xertin' herself to write trash which is
of no kind o' count, and which no _human_ will ever read."
I hope her prediction is a false one, for I have lately conceived the
idea of devoting the entire proceeds of this book to the benefit of
"_Rosa Lee_," who, of course, has no part in the $10,000 which her
father has married!
There is a rustling in the crib--the baby is waking, and at my
request Juno brings her to me, saying as she lays her on my lap,
"She's the berry pictur' of t'other Jessie," and as her soft blue
eyes unclose and my hand rests on her curly hair which begins to look
golden in the sunlight, I too, think the same, and with a throbbing
heart I pray the Father to save her from the early death which came
to our lost darling--"Jessie, the angel of the Pines."
ROSE DELAFIELD.
FINIS.
THE CRIMINAL WITNESS.
In the spring of '48, I was called to Jackson to attend court, having
been engaged to defend a young man who had been accused of robbing
the mail. I had a long conference with my client, and he
acknowledged to me that on the night when the mail was robbed he had
been with a party of dissipated companions over to Topham, and that
on returning, they met the mail-carrier on horseback coming from
Jackson. Some of his companions were very drunk, and they proposed
to stop the carrier and overhaul his bag. The roads were very muddy
at the time, and the coach could not run. My client assured me that
he not only had no hand in robbing the mail, but that he tried to
dissuade his companions from doing so. But they would not listen to
him. One of them slipped up behind the carrier, and knocked him from
his horse. Then they bound and blindfolded him, and having tied him
to a tree, they took his mail-bag, and made off into a neighboring
field, where they overhauled it, finding some five hundred dollars in
money in the various letters. He went with them, but in no way did
he have any hand in the crime. Those who did do it had fled, and, as
the carrier had recognized him as in the party, he had been arrested.
The mail-bag had been found, as well as the letters. Those letters
from which money had been taken, were kept, by order of the officers,
and duplicates sent to the various persons, to whom they were
directed, announcing the particulars. These letters had been given
me for examination, and I had then returned them to the prosecuting
attorney.
I got through with my private preliminaries about noon, and as the
case would not come up before the next day, I went into the court in
the afternoon, to see what was going on. The first case which came
up was one of theft, and the prisoner was a young girl, not more than
seventeen years of age, named Elizabeth Madworth. She was very
pretty, and bore that mild, innocent look, which we seldom find in a
culprit.
The complaint against her set forth that she had stolen one hundred
dollars from a Mrs. Naseby; and as the case went on, I found that
this Mrs. Naseby was her mistress, she (Mrs. N.) being a wealthy
widow, living in the town. The poor girl declared her innocence in
the wildest terms, and called on God to witness that she would rather
die than steal. But circumstances were hard against her. A hundred
dollars, in bank notes had been stolen from her mistress's room, and
she was the only one who had access there.
At this juncture, while the mistress was upon the witness stand, a
young man came and caught me by the arm.
"They tell me you are a good lawyer?" he whispered.
"I am a lawyer," I answered.
"Then--oh!--save her! You can certainly do it, for she is innocent."
"Has she no counsel?" I asked.
"None that's good for anything--nobody that'll do anything for her.
Oh, save her, and I'll pay you all I've got. I can't pay you much,
but I can raise something."
I reflected for a moment. I cast my eyes toward the prisoner, and
she was at that moment looking at me. She caught my eye, and the
volume of humble, prayerful entreaty I read in those large, tearful
orbs, resolved me in a moment. I arose and went to the girl, and
asked her if she wished me to defend her. She said yes. Then I
informed the court that I was ready to enter into the case, and I was
admitted at once.
I asked for a moment's cessation, that I might speak with my client.
I went and sat down by her side, and asked her to state candidly the
whole case. She told me she had lived with Mrs. Naseby nearly two
years, and that during all that time she had never had any trouble
before. About two weeks ago, she said, her mistress lost a hundred
dollars.
"She missed it from her drawer," the girl told me, "and she asked me
about it, but I knew nothing of it. The next thing I knew, Nancy
Luther told Mrs. Naseby that she saw me take the money from her
drawer--that she watched me through the keyhole. Then they went to
my trunk, and they found twenty-five dollars of the missing money
there. But, oh, sir, I never took it--and somebody else put that
money there!"
I then asked her if she suspected any one.
"I don't know," she said, "who could have done it but Nancy. She has
never liked me, because she thought I was treated better than she
was. She is the cook, and I was the chamber-maid."
She pointed Nancy Luther out to me. She was a stout, bold-faced
girl, somewhere about five-and-twenty years old, with a low forehead,
small gray eyes, a pug nose and thick lips.
"Oh, sir, can you help me?" my client asked, in a fearful whisper.
"Nancy Luther, did you say that girl's name was?" I asked, for a new
light had broken in upon me.
"Yes, sir."
"Is there any other girl of that name about here?"
"No, sir."
"Then rest easy. I'll try hard to save you."
I left the courtroom, and went to the prosecuting attorney and asked
him for the letters I had handed him--the ones that had been stolen
from the mail-bag. He gave them to me, and, having selected one, I
returned the rest, and told him I would see that he had the one I
kept before night. I then returned to the courtroom, and the case
went on.
Mrs. Naseby resumed her testimony. She said she entrusted her room
to the prisoner's care, and that no one else had access there save
herself. Then she described about missing the money, and closed by
telling how she found twenty-five dollars of it in the prisoner's
trunk. She could swear it was the identical money she had lost, it
being in two tens and one five-dollar bill.
"Mrs. Naseby," said I, "when you first missed your money, had you any
reason to believe that the prisoner had it?"
"No, sir," she answered.
"Had you ever before detected her in any dishonesty?"
"No, sir."
"Should you have thought of searching her trunk, had not Nancy Luther
advised you and informed you?"
"No, sir."
Mrs. Naseby then left the stand, and Nancy Luther took. her place.
She came up with a bold look, and upon me she cast a defiant glance,
as much as to say "Trap me, if you can." She gave her evidence as
follows:
She said that on the night when the money was stolen she saw the
prisoner going up-stairs, and from the sly manner in which she went
up, she suspected all was not right. So she followed her up.
"Elizabeth went into Mrs. Naseby's room, and shut the door after her.
I stooped down and looked through the keyhole, and saw her at the
mistress's drawer. I saw her take out the money and put it in her
pocket. Then she stooped down and picked up the lamp, and as I saw
that she was coming out, I hurried away." Then she went on and told
how she had informed her mistress of this, and how she proposed to
search the girl's trunk.
I called Mrs. Naseby back to the stand.
"You say that no one save yourself and the prisoner had access to
your room," I said. "Now, could Nancy Luther have entered that room,
if she wished?"
"Certainly, sir. I meant no one else had any right there."
I saw that Mrs. N., though naturally a hard woman, was somewhat moved
by poor Elizabeth's misery.
"Could your cook have known, by any means in your knowledge, where
your money was?"
"Yes, sir; for she has often come up to my room when I was there, and
I have given her money with which to buy provisions of marketmen who
happened along with their wagons."
"One more question: Have you known of the prisoner's having used any
money since this was stolen?"
"No, sir."
I now called Nancy Luther back, and she began to tremble a little,
though her look was as bold and defiant.
"Miss Luther," I said, "why did you not inform your mistress at once
of what you had seen without waiting for her to ask you about the
lost money?"
"Because I could not make up my mind at once to expose the poor young
girl," she answered, promptly.
"You say you looked through the keyhole and saw her take the money?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did she place the lamp, while she did so?"
"On the bureau."
"In your testimony, you said she stooped down when she picked it up.
What did you mean by that?"
The girl hesitated, and finally said she didn't mean anything, only
that she picked up the lamp.
"Very well," said I. "How long have you been with Mrs. Naseby?"
"Not quite a year, sir."
"How much does she pay you a week?"
"A dollar and three-quarters."
"Have you taken up any of your pay since you have been there?"
"Yes, sir."
"How much?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Why don't you know?"
"How should I? I've taken it at different times, just as I wanted
it, and have kept no account."
"Now, if you had had any wish to harm the prisoner, couldn't you have
raised twenty-five dollars to put in her trunk?"
"No, sir," she replied, with virtuous indignation.
"Then you have not laid up any money since you have been there?"
"No, sir--only what Mrs. Naseby may owe me."
"Then you didn't have twenty-five dollars when you came there?"
"No, sir; and what's more, the money found in the girl's trunk was
the very money that Mrs. Naseby lost. You might have known that, if
you'd only remember what you hear."
"Will you tell me if you belong to this State?" I asked next.
"I do, sir."
"In what town?"
She hesitated, and for an instant the bold look forsook her. But she
finally answered:
"I belong in Somers, Montgomery County."
I next turned to Mrs. Naseby.
"Do you ever take a receipt from your girls when you pay them?" I
asked.
"Always," she answered.
"Can you send and get one of them for me?"
She said she would willingly go, if the court said so. The court did
say so, and she went. Her dwelling was not far off, and she soon
returned, and handed me four receipts, which I took and examined.
They were all signed in a strange, straggling hand, by the witness.
"Now, Nancy Luther," said I, turning to the witness, "please tell the
court, and the jury, and tell me, too, where you got the seventy-five
dollars you sent in a letter to your sister in Somers?"
The witness started as though a volcano had burst at her feet. She
turned pale as death, and every limb shook violently. I waited until
the people could have an opportunity to see her emotion, and then I
repeated the question.
"I--never--sent--any," she fairly gasped.
"You did!" I thundered, for I was excited now.
"I--I--didn't," she faintly uttered, grasping the rail by her side
for support.
"May it please your honor, and gentlemen of the jury," I said, as
soon as I had looked the witness out of countenance, "I came here to
defend a youth who had been arrested for helping to rob the mail, and
in the course of my preliminary examinations, I had access to the
letters which had been torn open and rifled of money. When I entered
upon this case, and I heard the name of this witness pronounced, I
went out and got the letter which I now hold, for I remembered to
have seen one bearing the signature of Nancy Luther. This letter was
taken from the mail-bag, and it contained seventy-five dollars, and
by looking at the post-mark, you will observe that it was mailed on
the very next day after the hundred dollars were taken from Mrs.
Naseby's drawer. I will read it to you, if you please."
The court nodded assent, and I read the following, which was without
date, save that made by the postmaster upon the outside. I give it
here verbatim:
"SISTER DORCAS: I cend yu heer sevente fiv dolers, which i want yu to
kepe for me till i cum hum. I can't kepe it heer coz ime afrade it
will git stole, don't speke wun word tu a livin sole bout this coz I
don't want nobodi tu kno i hav got enny mony. yu wont now wil yu. i
am first rate heer, only that gude fur nuthin snipe of liz madwurth
is heer yit--but i hop tu git red ov her now. yu no i rote yu bout
her. give my luv to awl inquiren friends, this is from your sister
til deth NANCY LUTHER."
"Now, your honor," I said, as I handed him the letter, and also the
receipts, "you will see that the letter is directed to 'Dorcas
Luther, Somers, Montgomery County.' And you will also observe that
one hand wrote that letter and signed those receipts. The jury will
also observe. And now I will only add: It is plain to see how the
hundred dollars were disposed of. Seventy-five were put into that
letter and sent off for safe-keeping, while the remaining twenty-five
were placed in the prisoner's trunk for the purpose of covering the
real criminal."
The case was given to the jury immediately following their
examination of the letter. Without leaving their seats, they
returned a verdict of--"Not Guilty."
The youth, who had first asked me to defend the prisoner, caught me
by the hand, but he could not speak plainly. He simply looked at me
through his tears for a moment, and then rushed to the fair prisoner.
He seemed to forget where he was, for he flung his arms about her,
and as she laid her head upon his bosom, she wept aloud.
I will not attempt to describe the scene that followed; but if Nancy
Luther had not been immediately arrested for theft, she would have
been obliged to seek the protection of the officers, or the excited
people would surely have maimed her, if they had done no more. On
the next morning, I received a note, very handsomely written, in
which I was told that "the within" was but a slight token of the
gratitude due me for my effort in behalf of a poor, defenseless, but
much loved, maiden. It was signed "Several Citizens," and contained
one hundred dollars. Shortly afterward, the youth came to pay me all
the money he could raise. I simply showed him the note I had
received, and asked him if he would keep his hard earnings for his
wife, when he got one. He owned that he intended to make Lizzie
Madworth his wife very soon. I will only add that on the following
day I succeeded in clearing my next client from conviction of robbing
the mail; and I will not deny that I made a considerable handle of
the fortunate discovery of the letter which had saved an innocent
girl, on the day before, in my appeal to the jury; and if I made them
feel that the finger of Omnipotence was in the work, I did it because
I sincerely believe my client was innocent of all crime; and I am
sure they thought so too.