Fashion and Famine Part 63

"You did see it, madam!" persisted the lawyer, without removing his eyes from the old woman's face, but fascinating her, as it were, with his gaze--"you did see it!"

"I don't know. I--I, perhaps--yes, I think."

"But you did see it; your husband's life depends on the fact. Refresh your memory; his life, remember--his life!"

"Yes--yes. I--I saw!"

It was not a deliberate falsehood; the weak mind was held and moulded by a strong will. For the moment that old woman absolutely believed that she had witnessed the scene, which had been so often impressed upon her fancy. The lawyer saw his power, and a faint smile stole over his lip, half undoing the work his craft had accomplished. The old woman began to shrink slowly back; she met the calm, sorrowful gaze of her husband, and her eyes fell under the reproach it conveyed.

The lawyer saw all this, and without giving her time to retract, went on.

"By remembering this you have saved his life--saved him from the gallows--his name from dishonor--his body from being mangled at the medical college."

The old woman wove her wrinkled fingers together; the kerchief on her bosom quivered with the struggle of her breath.

"I saw it--I saw it all!" she cried, lifting up her clasped hands and dropping them heavily on her lap. "G.o.d forgive me, I saw it all!"

"Wife!" said the old man, in a voice so solemn that it made even the lawyer shrink. "Wife!"

She did not answer; her head dropped upon her bosom; those old hands unlocked and fell apart in her lap, but she muttered still, "G.o.d forgive me, I saw it all!"

It _was_ a falsehood now, and as she uttered it the poor creature shrunk guiltily from her husband's side, and attempted to steal out of the cell.

"One moment," said the lawyer, beginning to kindle up in his unholy work. "Another thing is to be settled, and then you have the proud honor, the glorious reflection that it is to you this good, this innocent man owes his life. How long have you been married?"

The old woman looked at a gold ring on her finger, worn almost to a thread, and answered--

"It is near on forty years."

"Where?"

The old woman looked at her husband, but his eyes were bent sorrowfully downward, giving her neither encouragement or reproach, so she answered with some hesitation--

"We were married Down East, in Maine!"

"So much the better. Is the marriage registered anywhere?"

"I don't know!"

"The witnesses, where are they?"

"All dead!"

The lawyer rubbed his hands with still greater energy.

"Very good, very good indeed; nothing could be better! Just tell me, could you prove the thing yourselves?"

"Prove what?" said Mrs. Warren, half in terror, while the prisoner remained motionless, paralyzed, as it seemed, by the weakness of his wife.

"Prove?--why, that you were ever married. The truth is, madam, you could not have been married to the prisoner--never where the thing is impossible. It spoils you for a witness--do you understand?"

"No," said the old woman--"no, how should I? What does it mean?"

"Mean?--you are not his wife!"

"Not his wife--not his wife! Why, didn't I tell you we had lived together above forty years?"

"Certainly; no objection to that, a beautiful reproof to the slander that there is no constancy in woman. Still you are not his wife--remember that!"

"But I _am_ his wife. Look up, husband, and tell him if I am not your own lawfully married wife."

"Madam," said the lawyer, in a voice that he intended should reach her heart. "In order to save this man's life you must learn to forget as well as to remember. You saw Leicester kill himself, that is settled. I shall place you on the stand to prove the fact--a fact which saves your husband from the gallows. His _wife_ would not be permitted to give this evidence; the laws forbid it--therefore you are not his wife. They cannot prove that you are; probably you could not easily prove it yourself. I a.s.sert, and will maintain it, no marriage ever existed between you and the prisoner."

"But we have lived together forty years; more than forty years!" cried the old woman, and a blush crept slowly over her wrinkled features till it was lost in the soft grey of her hair. "What am I then?"

"What matters a name at your time of life. Besides, the moment he is clear you may prove your marriage before all the courts in America for aught I care; they can't put him on trial a second time."

"And you wish me to deny that we are married--to say that I am not his wife."

The old woman, so weak, so frail, grew absolutely stern as she spoke; the blush fled from her face, leaving it almost sublime. The lawyer even, felt the moral force of that look, and said, half in apology--

"It is the only way to save his life!"

"Then let him die; I could bear it better than to say he is not my husband--I not his wife." She sunk to the floor as she spoke, and bowing her forehead to the old man's knee, sobbed out, "Oh, husband--husband, say that I am right now--did you hear--did you hear?"

The old man sat upright. A holy glow came over his face, and his lips parted with a smile that was heavenly in its sweetness. He raised the feeble woman from his feet, and putting the grey hair gently back from her forehead, kissed it with tender reverence. Then, holding her head to his bosom, he turned to the lawyer. "You may be satisfied, she does not think her husband's poor life worth that price," he said. "Now leave us together."

The lawyer went out rebuked and crest-fallen, muttering to himself as he pa.s.sed from one flight of steps to another, "Well, let the stubborn old fellow hang, it will do him good; the prettiest case I ever laid out spoiled for an old woman's fancy. It was badly managed, I should have taken her alone! I verily believe the old wretch is innocent, but they will hang him high as Haman, if the woman persists."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

THE TRIAL FOR MURDER.

It is a wrong and monstrous thing, That from young hearts where love is deep Justice herself the words should sing That sends a kindred soul to sleep.

The day of trial came at last. Such cases are frequent in New York, and, unless there is something in the position or history of the criminal to excite public attention, they pa.s.s off almost unnoticed. Still there is not a single case that does not sweep with it the very heart-strings of some person or family, linked either to the prisoner or his victim; there is not one that does not wring tears from some eyes and groans from some innocent bosom. We read a brief record of these things; we learn that a murderer has been tried, convicted, sentenced; we shudder and turn away without being half conscious that the history thus briefly recorded embraces persons innocent as ourselves, who must endure more than the tortures of death for the sin that one man is doomed to expiate.

Old Mrs. Warren and her grand-daughter stood at the prison doors early that morning. It was before the hour when visitors could be admitted, but they wandered up and down in sight of the entrance with that feverish unrest to which keen anxiety subjects one. All was busy life about the neighborhood. It was nothing to the mult.i.tude that pa.s.sed up and down the steps, that a fellow being was that morning to be placed on trial for his life. A few remembered it, but with the exception of old Mrs. Gray and her nephew, it pa.s.sed heavily upon the heart of no living being save those two helpless females.

How strange all this seemed to them! With every thought and feeling occupied, they looked upon the indifferent throng with a pang; the smiling faces, the bustle, the cheerfulness, all seemed mocking the heaviness of their own hearts.

The hour came at last, and they entered the prison. Old Mr. Warren received them affectionately as usual; he exhibited no anxiety, and seemed even more cheerful than he had been for some days. The Bible lay open upon the bed, and there was an indentation near the pillow, as if his arms had rested heavily there while reading upon his knees.

He spent more than an hour conversing gently with his wife and grand-daughter, striving to give them consolation rather than hope; for, from the first, he had believed and expressed a belief that the trial would go against him. With no faith in his counsel, and no evidence to sustain his innocence, how could he doubt it? Perhaps this very conviction created that holy composure, which seemed so remarkable in a man just to be placed on a trial of life and death.