THE MISSING MARIAN.
In the meantime, how had the morning broken upon Dell-Delight? How upon
Luckenough? and how at Old Field Cottage?
At Dell-Delight the old man had expired just before the sun arose. The
two physicians that had been summoned the night previous, but had been
delayed by the storm, arrived in the morning only to see the patient
die. Many inquiries were made and much conjecture formed as to the cause
of Thurston Willcoxen's improper and unaccountable absence at such a
juncture. But Melchizedek, poor, faithful fellow, having followed his
master's steps, did not appear, and no one else upon the premises could
give any explanation relative to the movements of their young master. He
had left the bedside of his dying relative at nine o'clock the night
before, and he had not since returned--his saddle-horse was gone from
the stable--that was all that could be ascertained. Dr. Brightwell took
his departure, to answer other pressing calls. But Dr. Weismann, seeing
that there was no responsible person in charge, and having elsewhere no
urgent demands upon his time and attention, kindly volunteered to stay
and superintend affairs at Dell-Delight, until the reappearance of the
young master.
* * * * *
At Old Field Cottage, Edith had sat up late the night before waiting for
Marian; but, seeing that she did not return, had taken it for granted
that she had remained all night with Miss Thornton, and so, without the
least uneasiness at her prolonged absence, had retired to rest. And in
the morning she arose with the same impression on her mind, gayly
looking forward to Marian's return with the visitor, and the certain
happy revelation she had promised.
She had breakfast over early, made the room very tidy, dressed Miriam in
her holiday clothes, put on her own Sunday gown, and sat down to wait
for Marian and the visitor. The morning passed slowly, in momentary
expectation of an arrival.
It was near eleven o'clock when she looked up and saw Colonel Thornton's
carriage approaching the cottage.
"There! I said so! I knew Marian had remained with Miss Thornton, and
that they would bring her home this morning. I suppose Colonel Thornton
and his sister are both with her! And now for the revelation! I wonder
what it is," said Edith, smiling to herself, as she arose and stroked
down her dress, and smoothed her ringlets, preparatory to meeting her
guests.
By this time the carriage had drawn up before the cottage gate. Edith
went out just in time to see the door opened, and Miss Thornton alight.
The lady was alone--that Edith saw at the first glance.
"What can be the meaning of this?" she asked herself, as she went
forward to welcome her visitor.
But Miss Thornton was very pale and tremulous, and she acted altogether
strangely.
"How do you do, Miss Thornton? I am very glad to see you," said Edith,
cordially offering her hand.
But the lady seized it, and drew her forcibly towards the door, saying
in a husky voice:
"Come in--come in!"
Full of surprise, Edith followed her.
"Sit down," she continued, sinking into a chair, and pointing to a
vacant one by her side.
Edith took the seat, and waited in wonder for her further speech.
"Where is Marian?" asked Miss Thornton, in an agitated voice.
"Where? Why, I believed her to be at your house!" answered Edith, in
surprise and vague fear.
"Good heaven!" exclaimed the lady, growing very pale, and trembling in
every limb. Edith started up in alarm.
"Miss Thornton, what do you mean? For mercy's sake, tell me, has
anything happened?"
"I do not know--I am not sure--I trust not--tell me! when did you see
her last? When did she leave home? this morning?"
"No! last evening, about sundown."
"And she has not returned? You have not seen her since?"
"No!"
"Did she tell you where she was going?"
"No!"
"Did she promise to come back? and when?"
"She promised to return before dark! She did not do so! I judged the
storm had detained her, and that she was with you, and I felt easy."
"Oh, God!" cried the lady, in a voice of deep distress,
"Miss Thornton! for Heaven's sake! tell me what has occurred!"
"Oh, Edith!"
"In mercy, explain yourself--Marian! what of Marian?"
"Oh, God, sustain you, Edith! what can I say to you? my own heart is
lacerated!"
"Marian! Marian! oh! what has happened to Marian! Oh! where is Marian?"
"I had hoped to find her here after all! else I had not found courage to
come!"
"Miss Thornton, this is cruel--"
"Ah! poor Edith! what you required to be told is far more cruel. Oh,
Edith! pray Heaven for fortitude?"
"I have fortitude for anything but suspense. Oh, Heaven, Miss Thornton,
relieve this suspense, or I shall suffocate!"
"Edith! Edith!" said the lady, going up and putting her arms around the
fragile form of the young widow, as to shield and support her. "Oh,
Edith! I heard a report this morning--and it may be but a report--I pray
Heaven, that it is no more--"
"Oh, go on! what was it?"
"That, that last evening on the beach during the storm, Marian
Mayfield--" Miss Thornton's voice choked.
"Oh, speak; for mercy speak! What of Marian?"
"That Marian Mayfield had been waylaid, and--"
"Murdered! Oh, God!" cried Edith, as her over-strained nerves relaxed,
and she sank in the arms of Miss Thornton.
A child's wild, frenzied shriek resounded through the house. It was the
voice of Miriam.
* * * * *
At Luckenough that morning, the remains of the unfortunate Dr. Grimshaw
were laid out preparatory to burial. Jacquelina, in a bewildered stupor
of remorse, wandered vaguely from room to room, seeking rest and finding
none. "I have caused a fellow creature's death!" That was the envenomed
thought that corroded her heart's centre. From her bosom, too, peace had
fled. It was near noon when the news of Marian's fate reached
Luckenough, and overwhelmed the family with consternation and grief.
But Jacquelina! the effect of the tragic tale on her was nearly fatal.
She understood the catastrophe, as no one else could! She knew who
struck the fatal blow, and when and why, and under what mistake it was
struck! She felt that another crime, another death lay heavy on her
soul! It was too much! oh! it was too much! No human heart nor brain
could sustain the crushing burden, and the poor lost elf fell into
convulsions that threatened soon to terminate in death. There was no
raving, no talking; in all her frenzy, the fatal secret weighing on her
bosom did not then transpire.
* * * * *
Before the day was out the whole county was in an uproar. Never had any
event of the neighborhood created so high an excitement or so profound a
sympathy. Great horror and amazement filled every bosom. A county
meeting spontaneously convened, and handbills were printed, large
rewards offered, and every means taken to secure the discovery of the
criminal. In the deep, absorbing sympathy for Marian's fate, the sudden
death of Professor Grimshaw, and the reasonably-to-be-expected demise of
old Mr. Cloudesley Willcoxen, passed nearly unnoticed, and were soon
forgotten. Among the most zealous in the pursuit of the unknown murderer
was Thurston Willcoxen; but the ghastly pallor of his countenance, the
wildness of his eyes, and the distraction of his manner, often varied by
fits of deep and sullen despair, excited the surprise and conjecture of
all who looked upon him.
Days passed and still no light was thrown upon the mystery. About a
fortnight after the catastrophe, however, information was brought to the
neighborhood that the corpse of a woman, answering to the description of
Marian, had been washed ashore some miles down the coast, but had been
interred by the fishermen, the day after its discovery. Many gentlemen
hurried down to the spot, and further investigation confirmed the
general opinion that the body was that of the martyred girl.
* * * * *
Three weeks after this, Edith lay upon her deathbed. Her delicate frame
never recovered this last great shock. A few days before her death she
called Miriam to her bedside. The child approached; she was sadly
altered within the last few weeks; incessant weeping had dimmed her
splendid eyes, and paled her brilliant cheeks.
"Sit down upon the bed by me, my daughter," said Edith.
The child climbed up and took the indicated seat. Something of that
long-smothered fire, which had once braved the fury of the British
soldiers, kindled in the dying woman's eyes.
"Miriam, you are nearly nine years old in time, and much older than that
in thought and feeling. Miriam, your mother has not many days to live;
but in dying, she leaves you a sacred trust to be fulfilled. My child,
do you follow and understand me?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Do not weep; tears are vain and idle. There was an injured queen once
whose tears were turned to sparks of fire. So I would have yours to
turn! She came among us a young stranger girl, without fortune or
position, or any of the usual stepping-stones to social consideration.
Yet see what influence, what power she soon obtained, and what reforms
and improvements she soon effected. The county is rich in the monuments
of her young wisdom and angelic goodness. All are indebted to her; but
none so deeply as you and I. All are bound to seek out and punish her
destroyer; but none so strongly as you and I. Others have pursued the
search for the murderer with great zeal for a while; we must make that
search the one great object of our lives. Upon us devolve the right and
the duty to avenge her death by bringing her destroyer to the scaffold.
Miriam, do you hear--do you hear and understand me?"
"Yes, mamma; yes."
"Child, listen to me! I have a clue to Marian's murderer!"
Miriam started, and attended breathlessly.
"My love, it was no poor waterman or fugitive negro, tempted by want or
cupidity. It was a gentleman, Miriam."
"A gentleman?"
"Yes; one that she must have become acquainted with during her visit to
Washington three years ago. Oh, I remember her unaccountable distress in
the months that followed that visit! His name, or his assumed name,
was--attend, Miriam!--Thomas Truman."
"Thomas Truman!"
"Yes; and while you live, remember that name, until its owner hangs upon
the gallows!"
Miriam shuddered, and hid her pale face in her hands.
"Here," said Edith, taking a small packet of letters from under her
pillow. "Here, Miriam, is a portion of her correspondence with this man,
Thomas Truman--I found it in the secret drawer of her bureau. There are
several notes entreating her to give him a meeting, on the beach, at
Mossy Dell, and at other points. From the tenor of these notes, I am led
to believe that she refused these meetings; and, more than that, from
the style of one in particular I am induced to suppose that she might
have been privately married to that man. Why he should have enticed her
to that spot to destroy her life, I do not know. But this, at least, I
know: that our dearest Marian has been basely assassinated. I see reason
to suppose the assassin to have been her lover, or her husband, and that
his real or assumed name was Thomas Truman. These facts, and this little
packet of notes and letters, are all that I have to offer as testimony.
But by following a slight clue, we are sometimes led to great
discoveries."
"Why didn't you show them to the gentlemen, dear mamma? They might have
found out something by them."
"I showed them to Thurston Willcoxen, who has been so energetic in the
pursuit of the unknown murderer; but Thurston became so violently
agitated that I thought he must have fallen. And he wished very much to
retain those letters, but I would not permit them to be carried out of
my sight. When he became calmer, however, he assured me that there could
be no possible connection between the writer of these notes and the
murderer of the unfortunate girl. I, however, think differently. I think
there is a connection, and even an identity; and I think this packet may
be the means of bringing the criminal to justice; and I leave it--a
sacred trust--in your charge, Miriam. Guard it well; guard it as your
only treasure, until it has served its destined purpose. And now,
Miriam, do you know the nature of a vow?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Do you understand its solemnity--its obligation, its inviolability?"
"I think I do, mamma."
"Do you know that in the performance of your vow, if necessary, no toil,
no privation, no suffering of mind or body, no dearest interest of your
life, no strongest affection of your soul, but must be sacrificed; do
you comprehend all this?"
"Yes, mamma; I knew it before, and I have read of Jeptha and his
daughter."
"Now, Miriam, kneel down, fold your hands, and give them to me between
my own. Look into my eyes. I want you to make a vow to God and to your
dying mother, to avenge the death of Marian. Will you bind your soul by
such an obligation?"
The child was magnetized by the thrilling eyes that gazed deep into her
own. She answered:
"Yes, mamma."
"You vow in the sight of God and all his holy angels, that, as you hope
for salvation, you will devote your life with all your faculties of mind
and body, to the discovery and punishment of Marian's murderer; and also
that you will live a maiden until you become and avenger."
"I vow."
"Swear that no afterthoughts shall tempt you to falter; that happen what
may in the changing years, you will not hesitate; that though your
interests and affections should intervene, you will not suffer them to
retard you in your purpose; that no effort, no sacrifice, no privation,
no suffering of mind or body shall be spared, if needful, to the
accomplishment of your vow."
"I swear."
"You will do it! You are certain to discover the murderer, and clear up
the mystery."
The mental excitement that had carried Edith through this scene
subsided, and left her very weak, so that when Thurston Willcoxen soon
after called to see her, she was unable to receive him.
The next morning, however, Thurston repeated his visit, and was brought
to the bedside of the invalid.
Thurston was frightfully changed, the sufferings of the last month
seemed to have made him old--his countenance was worn, his voice hollow,
and his manner abstracted and uncertain.
"Edith," he asked, as he took the chair near her head, "do you feel
stronger this morning?"
"Yes--I always do in the forenoon"
"Do you feel well enough to talk of Miriam and her future?"
"Oh, yes."
"What do you propose to do with her?"
"I shall leave her to Aunt Henrietta--she will never let the child
want."
"But Mrs. Waugh is quite an old lady now. Jacquelina is insane, the
commodore and Mrs. L'Oiseau scarcely competent to take care of
themselves--and Luckenough a sad, unpromising home for a little girl."
"I know it--oh! I know it; why do you speak of it, since I can do no
otherwise?"
"To point out how you may do otherwise, dear Edith. It would have been
cruel to mention it else."
She looked up at him with surprise and inquiry.
"Edith, you have known me from my boyhood. You know what I am. Will you
leave your orphan daughter to me? You look at me in wonder; but listen,
dear Edith, and then decide. Marian--dear martyred saint! loved that
child as her own. And I loved Marian--loved her as I had never dreamed
it possible for heart to love--I cannot speak of this! it deprives me of
reason," he said, suddenly covering his eyes with his hands, while a
spasm agitated his worn face. In a few minutes he resumed.
"Look at me, Edith! the death of Marian has brought me to what you see!
My youth has melted away like a morning mist. I have not an object in
life except to carry out purposes which were dear to her benevolent
heart, and which her sudden death has left incomplete. I have not an
affection in the world except that which comes through her. I should
love this child dearly, and cherish her devotedly for Marian's sake. I
shall never change my bachelor life--but I should like to legally adopt
little Miriam. I should give her the best educational advantages, and
make her the co-heir with my young brother, Paul Douglass, of all I
possess. Say, Edith, can you trust your child to me?" He spoke
earnestly, fervently, taking her hand and pressing it, and gazing
pleadingly into her eyes.
"So you loved Marian--I even judged so when I saw you labor hardest of
all for the apprehension of the criminal. Oh, many loved her as much as
you! Colonel Thornton, Dr. Weismann, Judge Gordon, Mr. Barnwell, all
adored her! Ah! she was worthy of it."
"No more of that, dear Edith, it will overcome us both; but tell me if
you will give me your little girl?"
"Dear Thurston, your proposal is as strange and unusual as it is
generous. I thank you most sincerely, but you must give me time to look
at it and think of it. You are sincere, you are in earnest, you mean all
you say. I see that in your face; but I must reflect and take counsel
upon such an important step. Go now, dear Thurston, and return to me at
this hour to-morrow morning."
Thurston pressed her hand and departed.
The same day Edith had a visit from Mrs. Waugh, Miss Thornton and other
friends. And after consulting with them upon the proposal that had been
made her, she decided to leave Miriam in the joint guardianship of Mrs.
Waugh and Thurston Willcoxen.
And this decision was made known to Thurston when he called the next
morning.
A few days after this Edith passed to the world of spirits. And Thurston
took the orphan child to his own heart and home.